I don’t know how many times I have said, “I’m adopted” throughout my lifetime, but I know why I have said it. As a child I said it to kids teasing me so it was typically followed up with, “my parents chose me while yours didn’t have any choice – they’re stuck with you!” As an adult I have said it to doctors inquiring about medical history or to friends in discussions about family.
I have always known I was adopted. I don’t know when I was told or how I was told, but the important thing is that I was told and it was never kept a secret from me. As the product of a closed adoption through the Children’s Aid Society, I was only told my birth parents were young and weren’t ready to raise a child. Other than dreaming that my birth parents were Bette Midler and Rod Stewart (not that I look anything like them, thankfully), as a child I didn’t think much about what it meant to be adopted.
My childhood wasn’t any different than anybody else’s childhood. I had two wonderful parents, a big brother, a dog, a nice house with a yard and friends. I was in girl guides, liked playing soccer, was an avid reader and loved the outdoors. Yet for some reason as my closest friends began to blossom into adulthood and some began to look increasingly like their parents, I began to wonder who I looked like and what my birth parents were like.
It didn’t take long before my curiosity developed into research. I started by applying for my adoption order. I thought maybe knowing my birth name would satisfy my curiosity. What I received was a legal document with my first name at birth, which was the same but spelled differently and the first letter of my birth surname followed by numbers. I wanted to know more.
