It's Great to be Great

Yesterday, I received some very exciting news! I am going to be great-grandmother! Me! Incredible!

The first time I met my granddaughter, she was four years old. It was the same day I was reunited with her mother after 23 long years. My first phone call to the woman who had adopted my angel revealed that I had not only a beautiful daughter, but a darling, precocious granddaughter as well.

And, now that granddaughter is pregnant, and in February of next year I will meet my fourth generation. And, you know what's really lovely? This four-generation photograph will have TWO great-grandmothers. A-Mom (adoptive mom) and B-Mom (birth mom) will sit proudly with our daughter, granddaughter and great grandchild, beaming from ear-to-ear at the wonder of our miracle family!

There is no doubt about it! It's great to be great!

Three Generations September 2017

The Home for Unwed Mothers

This bit of history, in and of itself, needs to be recognized and demands to be told. Young people today are incredulous to learn that birth control was not readily available to unmarried women, and most especially to minors. Eyebrows are raised over wide, open eyes when I share that my first child was born in a "home for unwed mothers." Listeners are aghast to learn that between WWII and 1973, a million and a half women surrendered children to adoption, caving into to family and social pressures. These young mothers were told they were unfit to raise their own children. They were told they must never speak the truth about where they had been. Their adoptions were closed, and they would never again have contact with their lost children. 

In 1970-1971, I spent five months at the Salvation Army Booth Memorial Hospital. There I bonded with dozens of pregnant women, mostly teenagers, who like me, had been banished from their homes, and were sent away to hide their sins and their shame.

There are varied and sundry stories about these homes. Many are terrifying, and at the very least, most are profoundly sad. I did not want to go away. I was filled with fear over leaving the only home I had ever known. I did not want to leave behind the boy that I loved....the father of my unborn child. But, the choice was not mine to make.

For me, the home became my respite from the storm that my home life had become. My parents were furious with me. My boyfriend rejected the idea of marriage. I could confide in no one, and discussing the changes that were happening to my body and in my mind was forbidden. 

My recently published memoir, Choiceless: A Birthmother's Story of Love, Loss and Reunion includes a retelling of what it was like for me.

Salvation Army Booth Memorial Hospital, Wauwatosa, WI

This Birthmother's Story

The book is now available, and I am both overjoyed and humbled by the reader responses. 

"What a beautiful heartfelt story! So well done! A piece of American history, a heart wrenching tale of deep love and bravery, and a wonderful read. Thank you for your courage in writing it!"

"I'm kind of sad that I finished it."

I welcome you to share your own stories of surrendering, adopting or reuniting with a child. Here we can touch each others' lives and hearts. Here in this adoption triangle.

You Will Be Moved

I started in earnest to write this memoir five years ago. Life happened in spades. Dreams were lost, and new adventures were discovered. After a major relationship dissolution, I relocated to a new state. And, yet I persisted in getting my story onto the page.

Writing wasn't always easy. My mentor encouraged me and prodded me, and at times she more than merely suggested that I must write. Ah, but the glorious moments when writing salved my soul. Not before it turned me inside out and brought me to tears and out-loud sobbing. Still, in the end, it healed a broken heart, and mirrored my life back to me in a deeply meaningful way.

The book will soon be available. I bare my soul, and I tell my secrets. I share so that you can nod your heads in understanding. I share so that your eyes will pop open widely as skeletons creep out of closets. You may be shocked. You may be angry. You may be sad. Of one thing I am certain.....

You will be moved. Please join me.

Cover design/photography by Summer Fawn Harris

'A' Mom

My daughter has two moms: 'A' Mom and 'B' Mom. 'Pat' is 'A' Mom, as in 'adoptive.' I am 'B' Mom, as in the 'birth' variety. Even though the lettered titles don't really signify rank, to my mind, it is as it should be. 'Pat' is my daughter's mother, and I am the woman who gave her life.

Pat, you are my hero. As I have repeatedly told you, I will always be grateful to you beyond my ability to express in mere words. It is an honor and a privilege to know you. While mine is a debt that can never be repaid, I will always speak well of you, and I will honor you all of the days of my life through my love for our daughter and our granddaughter.

Happy Mother's Day, Pat! You are forever the 'A' Mom: Number One!

Mother's Day in the Adoption Triangle

As Mother's Day approaches, I am reminded of that May Sunday in 1971. It was just two short months after my daughter's birth.

I'm sure I at the very least bought my mother a card. Two of my brothers and my sister came to visit with flowers and gifts. My niece and nephews were there.

It was a typical Mother's Day celebration, and none of the adults showed any sign of awareness, that maybe....just maybe I might be experiencing a measure of sadness. I dared not speak of my grief to my parents and risk ruining my mother's special day. Perhaps I called one of my friends from the 'home.' We would have comforted each other. We would have cried.

Still, on that day and every Mother's Day since, I have thought of the woman who was raising my little girl, and I uttered a heartfelt "thank you." Two little words that come nowhere near the expression of my gratitude. I have never been able to adequately do so, no matter the number of words I choose.

For more than two decades I have known this lovely lady. Every year on Mother's Day, one of us picks up the phone and we wish each other the best of days. I thank her for the loving care she gave to our girl, and she thanks me for the girl herself. 

Dave

I had very few visitors at the home. The story was that I graduated from high school and "went away to study dental assisting." Seemingly, no thought was given as to what would happen when I returned home with no certification and no potential positions in the dental field. But, that would be months down the road, and the top priority was for me to hide--my condition unseen and unknown.

My brother unexpectedly returned to Wisconsin after a year in California. On that first day, as the late afternoon morphed into the cold, February evening, he wondered aloud when I might be arriving home from work. "Ruby isn't living here right now," was Mom's solemn reply. "Well, where is she?" he innocently asked. And, so it was that he learned I was pregnant and living in Chicago at a home for unwed mothers. "I want to see her!" he insisted. Because my mom could rarely refuse Dave's charm, I received word my parents would be making an unscheduled visit in a couple of days. 

I was over-the-moon excited to see Dave's warm, handsome smile! For months I had seen less than a handful of people from the "outside." Dave and I had always been close. He knew my boyfriend and he knew my heart. We were friends.

When I saw him last September, I asked him if he recalled that visit. He was gravely ill and struggled to understand--to remember. He did not. Nevertheless, I was able to tell him how much it meant to me. His visit just weeks before my daughter was born had revitalized me. Knowing he was home again and would be there for me when I returned, had given me something to look forward to. As I shared my feelings with him on that Missouri autumn day, we both cried. 

It was our last conversation. He left us in November.

May 6th will be the 71st anniversary of his birth. There will be smiles and tears as social media explodes with memories of him. Of the hundreds of stories I could share, this is the best example of the love that he and I shared. 

Forever in my heart, the rest of the way. Dave.

David & Me in May, 2010

Daddy's Little Girl

My dad never tired of telling me what his first words were when he and my mom discovered they were pregnant.....again! "I should have slammed it in the window sill!" he exclaimed. My mom attempted to comfort him, "Honey, maybe we'll have a little girl," to which he responded, "We can't make girls!"

So, my mom prayed for a brown-eyed baby girl with curly hair like her daddy's. (Well done, Mom!) And so it was that I came to be, in lieu of a very ugly, VERY painful window sill massacre!

I was Daddy's little girl. My mom said I sang before I could talk. From toddler years to high school, I sang for my parents and their families and friends near and far. I played the accordion, and at my dad's request, played Alley Cat so many times I could recall it from memory after 40 years of accordion abstinence!

When Daddy's girl fell from grace at the age of 17, his heart was broken. Not only had I crossed the clearly defined racial boundaries that forbade dating outside of our race, but I became pregnant. I will never forget the cold winds of change as I became invisible to him. There were no requests for music, and our teasing banter came to an abrupt halt. His eyes rarely met mine, and when they did, the sadness I saw there was unbearable for me. He could not understand how I could have brought so much shame upon the family, and I could not understand why there was any shame at all. We came to an impasse that only time would mend.....my Daddy and me.

The Choice to Write

Forty-eight years ago, in a Midwestern city in southeast Wisconsin, a teenage girl's life began a forever ripple of change. I know I felt it, I was that girl!

Having just graduated from high school, I learned I was pregnant. I was seventeen years old and fully convinced I was ready to marry and to raise the family that was already started. My boyfriend felt otherwise. As the summer of 1970 unfolded, my dreams plummeted from the lofty peak I had envisioned to a deep valley of lonely desperation. The drop was not a sudden one; it was a painful skid down a rocky slope. By the time I reached the bottom, I was battered and beaten.

Such was the painful beginning of a story that has spanned nearly five decades and four generations of souls.

My soon-to-be-published memoir, Choiceless is an intimate account of a teenage pregnancy at a time in history when unmarried, pregnant girls disappeared for weeks or months at a time in a veil of secrecy and shame. Where did they go? How did they feel? What became of them? What became of their children?

At the Apex of the Adoption Triangle

Whenever I share my experience as a birth mother, whether in earnest or in simple passing, I hear yet another story that tugs at my heartstrings and sparks my interest.

Birth parents may be remorseful or content with their decision to relinquish their parental rights. Adoptive parents may choose to adopt from a position of benevolence or desperation. But, there is always a child who made neither a decision nor a choice.

That child is at the apex of the adoption triangle.