If I had the opportunity to invite someone to accompany me on a lengthy road trip, I would invite DeAnna, my birthmother. I want to talk to her face to face, not just through letters or information filtered through the adoption agency. I want to know what it was like to be pregnant and scared and to make an adoption plan. I want her to know what it was like for me. I want her to see who I am becoming. I want to get to know her and my birthfather and myself; to discuss a little bit more about what makes me, me.
I was born on January 19, 1990, a birth date that I share with my birthmother and her twin sister. My story however, begins some nine months earlier when DeAnna was a high school senior, like me, and found herself pregnant and uncertain about the future. I know that the next few months were spent trying “to work things out” with Adolph, my birthfather. It didn’t work out, at least not the way DeAnna probably hoped. She eventually ended up here in Texas with her dad and stepmother. At some point she realized that she wasn’t ready to be a parent and she made an adoption plan for me. She worked with an agency and chose a family for me. My parents adopted me on January 21, 1990 when I was just two days old...
If I could go on a road trip with DeAnna, I could tell her how much it meant to me to know that she chose my family, that I wasn’t just a number; not just the next one up. I would tell her that my parents were always honest with me about my adoption. They shared all of her pictures and letters with me. I would tell her that my parents openly admired her courage and strength. My mom told me that there was a time when she felt like she needed to be the perfect mom, to prove to DeAnna that she made the right choice. I guess in a similar way, I want to fill DeAnna in on the details of my life. I want to tell her about the milestones, the successes, the failures and the disappointments, all of the things that she missed. Maybe I want her to know that in spite of it all she made a good decision. I want her to know that it was worth all the pain she experienced to give me life. A part of me wants her to be proud of me, just as my parents are proud of me....
end of part 1.
That's so nice, and so honest!
This kind of makes me wonder about your username "son of disaster" and whether it relates to this topic.
Anyway, I'll have to stay tuned to get the rest of the story.
My username has nothing to do with this, lol and the reason behind my name will rename a secret ;-).
Stay tuned though. I had to cut it down to multiple blogs because of the sheer length.
I know how you feel, sort of, maybe. I'm only lucky enough to have one letter sent to me in seventeen years, when she gave birth to a baby boy eight years ago. My mom cried when she handed the letter to me, and I still wish I knew more about her than two or three paragraphs.
I lost the letter, I was to young to know what it meant, and I never wrote back for lack of address. She never wrote to me again, and I'm not sure if it's because she thinks I am angry at her or if she doesn't want to have anything to do with me. I'm still trying to find her and when I turn eighteen I'm taking a roadtrip to see her.
I want her to see I tried hard in school, and that I understand why she had to give me up, I want her to know that I love her so much even though I have never even met her. I'm always afraid to ask my mom now about her, but one day I'll find out for myself, but even thats scary....