Are you my mother?

One of my favorite books growing up was “Are you my mother?” It’s about a little bird that gets left alone in his nest while his mother is out searching for food. He leaves the nest to find his mother and along his journey asks everyone he meets if they are his mother.

I never made the connection to being adopted with this book until the ripe old age of 8. It was show and tell at school and like any child I of course brought my favorite book. The day went off without a hitch, until the bus ride home. One of the bullies on the bus caught eye of my book and did me the courtesy of making the adoption connection. He taunted the name of the book at me over and over. The words echoing my own thoughts of every woman I had ever met; even my young aunt.

And then finally he said it, “Your mother didn’t even love you, that’s why she gave you up!” My deepest darkest fear, which I dare not even think to myself, was thrown at me like a ton of bricks. The climax of the horrid display was a shower of spit in my face. This was the first time I ever felt ‘different’ for being adopted. Humiliated and terrified, I stormed off the bus pausing only to turn and scream at the top of my lungs at the bus driver who had done nothing. Tears streaming down my face I ran down the hill of our front yard and burst through the front door.

My mother sat at the kitchen table, in her usual dinner spot, just at the end of the front hallway. I ran to her arms and cried for who knows how long; sitting on her lap surrounded by her love. I’m not even sure if I told her what had just happened. But I do remember, as if it were yesterday, the way her arms felt around my body. They were my mother’s arms. I don’t think I ever read that book again. I was later called in to the Vice Principal’s office and reprimanded for yelling at the bus driver. The bully got off scott free. Even though I was the one who got punished, I was also the one who got to know the unconditional, unquestioning love of my mother.


I’ve often lain awake in bed, and for no apparent reason thought about my birth mother. I still haven’t really started looking for her. But I’ve always wanted to meet her; to shake her hand, hug her and say “Thank you, for everything you did for me. You made the right choice. I have fantastic parents, a great life filled with love.” I wonder what my curiosity with finding her is. Perhaps I’ll never understand this restlessness, this unfinished feeling.

She was 17 when I was born. The youngest of 4 or 5 kids; she was the only girl; the daughter of a military man. There are so many questions. What was it like for her? Did she have a choice in giving me up? Logic says no. Did she want to keep me? My heart hopes yes. What did her parents think when they saw me for the first time? Did they ever see me; hold me? Does she lay awake in bed thinking of me?

I wonder what horrible things she had to go through to bring me into this world. Did her friends abandon her? How many whispers did she have to endure? I hope some day I can meet her and help to heal some of her wounds. I’ve never understood why my sister doesn’t want to find her birth parents. I think there is just too much hurt for her. Perhaps she doesn’t think she owes them anything or can’t see the amazing gift she was given. The woman that gave me life, grew me inside of her; shared her body with me and then with no pain killers gave birth to me deserves to hear “Thank you”. She deserves to hear, “its ok, I’m ok” from me. Finding my birth mother is also for my parents. So they know how grateful I am to be their daughter.