Mother's Day Reflections on Adoption

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Mother's day always fills me with mixed emotions. While I am happy and blessed to be able to celebrate being a mom to two amazing young women-once little girls, I struggle with knowing that their birth mothers don't get to know them and watch them grow. My heart hurts for them. 

My gratitude and admiration for the women who birthed my girls runs deep and endless. Each of those women has a unique story and reason for not being able to keep and raise her baby girl. The story is less important than the sacrifice and generous gift they indirectly gave to me, healthy babies, motherhood.

I dedicate this poem to them and to my girls:

The Legacy of an Adopted Child

Once there were two women
Who never knew each other;
One you do not remember,
The other you call Mother.

Two different lives
Shaped to make yours one;
One became your guiding star,
The other became your sun.

The first one gave you life,
And the second taught you to live it;
The first gave you a need for love,
The second was there to give it.

One gave you a nationality,
The other gave you a name;
One gave you talent,
The other gave you aim.

One gave you emotions,
The other calmed your fears;
One saw your first sweet smile,
The other dried your tears.

You were born from caring courage,
Nurtured with help from above;
You are the blending, my darling,
Of two different kinds of love.

~ Anonymous ~

It is my goal to support others who have considered adoption as a way to grow or start their family. I know it can be scary and daunting to start and pursue the process. By sharing my story, I hope others will feel less lost, and inspired to push through their fears and all the red tape. Their are children waiting for you and all the love, support, and guidance you can offer.

An excerpt from my forthcoming memoir on our journey with adoption          

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          Living my life on a whim meant that many unforeseen things happened, but that one day in particular provided the most astonishing change. It was a sunny late November day, crisp but warm for that time of year. Bare trees, that had just recently shed their fire red and orange leaves, framed the brilliant blue sky. This type of perfectly bright and clear day can only be found in autumn. I was sick that day so I left work early. Though I just wanted to go home, I forced myself to make a side trip. I needed to drop off the final paperwork at the agency.
          The smiling case worker who I had thrust the packet of paperwork, looked at me with concern. Because they had just denied us the child we had convinced ourselves to be "our" child, my relationship with the agency was tenuous. I was tired and angry. Seeing her was pushing me over the edge. I strode off not looking forward to the long drive home, dreaming of bed.
          Once at home, I sat slumped on the back stoop with my head in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Each magnificent drag filled my head with menthol infused smoke which vaporized the congestion so I could finally breathe. My head felt heavy in my hand and it thrummed with pain and pressure. Each swallow felt as if shards of glass sliced open the delicate tissue in my throat. Bed was on my brain, glorious sleep was what I yearned for when the phone rang.
          No one interesting ever called the house phone in the middle of the day, just telemarketers. The last thing I wanted was to be talked into buying something I did not need nor want. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to answer the phone even if just to stop the ringing which made my head vibrate and throb even more.
          The person on the other ended chirped a hello. She sounded happy and healthy and that irritated me more than the ringing. I could barely focus on her words. Was I dreaming? She was sorry to have missed me because she wanted to show me "her" photograph. Confusion enveloped me. Who was this and what was she talking about?
          The caller shouted, wrongly thinking that I was having trouble hearing her, “They told me you went home sick, I am glad I caught you!” Her shouting into my aching and bleary head perplexed and annoyed me. I must not have hidden it because she said with an apologetic tone, “It’s me, Jackie.” Jackie was our adoption case worker.
          Though still confused, the fog began to clear. Jackie said something else that I could not comprehend so I asked her to repeat it. She did.  Still uncertain with the meaning of her words, I asked her to repeat herself again. With a laugh, she obliged. That time the significance of her words shined through as she enunciated, “We have a three-month-old, healthy, baby girl and she’s yours.” I immediately started to shake as my eyes filled with tears. I thought, “How could this be?” 
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That baby girl, and her sister to follow a few years later, made me a mother. They were born to another but they call me "mom." I work hard each and every day living up to that title, provide-ing them with a happy and fulfilling childhood while trying to nurture them into independent and competent women (at least, that's my goal). The job is never easy. It has equal amounts of tears and laughter, but I would never trade it for anything in the world. 

It is all worth it. The reward comes when I hear the word "mom" even if is 982 times a day.