By Linda
FMF recently received a request to discuss our relationships with our children’s adoptive mothers and my hand shot in the air to volunteer for this slam dunk assignment. The simple answer is I have no relationship with my daughter’s adoptive mother. Period. Zip. Nada. Niente. Rien.
I tried. Oh, how I tried. My daughter was raised 40 minutes from me; her mother, divorced since my daughter was in high school, now lives in a desirable empty nesters/suddenly single complex just six miles from me. As I commented in a recent post, I strongly encouraged my daughter to tell her parents that she had found me. I was in the black hole of adoption for 23 years; I didn’t want anyone to be left out. Supposedly her mother’s response to the news was “I always knew you would search. I just wish you had asked me for help.” No help was needed--I left my daughter a trail of neon-colored breadcrumbs; I was just a phone call away.
I was eager to meet the woman who raised my daughter. I naively, foolishly believed I’d be welcomed into the fold; my daughter’s mother would see where those chubby chipmunk cheeks came from, how she earned her title of class flirt (like mother, like daughter). That was the case with her easy going father, but no, she had no interest. She seemed to forget that her daughter had a mother before her, and preferred to believe she was a gift from Santa (the paraphrased text in the formal announcement of my daughter’s arrival). And she was terrified of me.
Several months ago an adoptive father posted a comment for advice about his teenage daughter’s desire to search, and Jane explained the reunion was between his daughter and her mother, not her adoptive parents. I didn’t see it that way when I reunited, but it’s sound advice. In my attempt to create one big happy family, I ended up being the one left out.
When my daughter announced her engagement she said she wanted me to attend her wedding, but she needed to discuss it with her mother. Supposedly the woman’s response was something along the line of “Well, of course, I wouldn’t have you if it weren’t for her.” But I doubt Kay said anything of the sort; I think my daughter was being diplomatic. I suggested that my husband and I meet her mother before the wedding--coffee at Starbucks, anything--there would be enough stress that day, and again my request was denied. Apparently her mother hosted a shower for her here (my daughter lives in the South) and I wasn’t invited; another missed opportunity.
On the eve of the wedding my husband, niece, and I drove ten hours to the hotel where the reception was being held. We were sitting in the vast lobby when the wedding party trickled in from the rehearsal dinner. I walked up to my daughter; she gave me a big showy hug, and immediately walked me over to her mother. “Kay, this is Linda. Linda, this is Kay.” I was David; she was Goliath. Kay is a tall, slender, attractive, classically elegant woman. I’m an artsy, in-your-face, 5’2” free-spirited pear. We limply shook hands and in her soft, breathy voice she discussed her very elderly father’s solo flight from Florida. The wide smile never left her face; I realized the woman was on autopilot. I stood there thinking, “Oh my God, she’s channeling Jackie Kennedy Onassis, and her children are Caroline and John-John!” And then, out of nowhere, my daughter said, “Why don’t you two hug?” I looked to my husband; his face read, “Don’t look at me.” I looked at my daughter with eyes that said, “You’ve got to be @#$%^&* kidding me!” And I looked at Kay, who was as surprised and uncomfortable as I was. There were twenty, thirty people around us…she bent down and we gave one another an air hug that lasted all of one second, and then my husband and I went straight to the bar.
The only other contact we had that weekend was when my husband shared an elevator with Kay and they didn’t speak except for hello. During the reception cocktail hour, the mother of the bride was walking out to the terrace; I was walking in. I instinctively grabbed her and squeezed her tight and told her congratulations.
About a year later I was shopping at my supermarket on a weekday afternoon, which was unusual for me. For some unexplained reason I was drawn to a tall woman wearing flat shoes, a khaki skirt, and a homespun blazer; she reminded me of Miss Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies. I walked up to her and said, “Kay?” She looked at me blankly for a few seconds, gave me a fake hug, and we exchanged pleasantries. According to my estranged sister, who had analyzed the event with my daughter (who at the time hadn’t spoken to me in over a year), Kay thought I was a former classmate; she didn’t realize it was me until I inquired about her grandson. Again, according to my estranged sister (who was surprised I didn’t tell her about the encounter; I explained she had ceased being my confidante long ago and besides, it was a non-event) my daughter claimed her mother had “a right to privacy when she shopped.” I just laughed it off, what else could I do? My reunion failed for several reasons, and I admit I made my share of mistakes, but protecting and remaining loyal to the mother who raised my daughter was near the top of the list.
It’s now more than nine years since that long-awaited phone call, and I’ve spent less than 15 minutes with my daughter’s adoptive mother. I know that’s the rule rather than the exception for triad relationships. The only truly successful birthmother-adoptive mother relationship I can think of is Carol Schaefer; who wrote candidly about her relationship with her son’s mother in The Other Mother. Soon after my reunion Carol and I were attending the same meeting and I asked her for guidance. She took a deep breath, placed her hands on the table, and said, “It takes years.”
I’m still optimistic that the meeting and sustainability of the My Two Moms dynamic will continue to improve in contemporary adoptions. I’ve read a few blogs where adoptive mothers sincerely consider their children’s birthmothers members of the family, the ultimate Lifetime movie plot. Several years ago I knew a Christian couple who were adoptive parents of toddler twins. The birthmother had frequent personal contact with her daughters’ parents, but only received photos of her daughters. It was an open adoption, but complicated, at least to me. I’ve wondered if they’ve maintained their warm relationship, or if it became too much to bear.
I’m not complaining or seeking pity. I’m simply sharing my experience, which is just one of thousands of similar stories, some better, and some far worse. My daughter’s mother wasn't/isn't a horror story and by all accounts is an A+ mom. But I can’t help but wonder: why can’t we all just get along?
FMF recently received a request to discuss our relationships with our children’s adoptive mothers and my hand shot in the air to volunteer for this slam dunk assignment. The simple answer is I have no relationship with my daughter’s adoptive mother. Period. Zip. Nada. Niente. Rien.
I tried. Oh, how I tried. My daughter was raised 40 minutes from me; her mother, divorced since my daughter was in high school, now lives in a desirable empty nesters/suddenly single complex just six miles from me. As I commented in a recent post, I strongly encouraged my daughter to tell her parents that she had found me. I was in the black hole of adoption for 23 years; I didn’t want anyone to be left out. Supposedly her mother’s response to the news was “I always knew you would search. I just wish you had asked me for help.” No help was needed--I left my daughter a trail of neon-colored breadcrumbs; I was just a phone call away.
I was eager to meet the woman who raised my daughter. I naively, foolishly believed I’d be welcomed into the fold; my daughter’s mother would see where those chubby chipmunk cheeks came from, how she earned her title of class flirt (like mother, like daughter). That was the case with her easy going father, but no, she had no interest. She seemed to forget that her daughter had a mother before her, and preferred to believe she was a gift from Santa (the paraphrased text in the formal announcement of my daughter’s arrival). And she was terrified of me.
Several months ago an adoptive father posted a comment for advice about his teenage daughter’s desire to search, and Jane explained the reunion was between his daughter and her mother, not her adoptive parents. I didn’t see it that way when I reunited, but it’s sound advice. In my attempt to create one big happy family, I ended up being the one left out.
When my daughter announced her engagement she said she wanted me to attend her wedding, but she needed to discuss it with her mother. Supposedly the woman’s response was something along the line of “Well, of course, I wouldn’t have you if it weren’t for her.” But I doubt Kay said anything of the sort; I think my daughter was being diplomatic. I suggested that my husband and I meet her mother before the wedding--coffee at Starbucks, anything--there would be enough stress that day, and again my request was denied. Apparently her mother hosted a shower for her here (my daughter lives in the South) and I wasn’t invited; another missed opportunity.
On the eve of the wedding my husband, niece, and I drove ten hours to the hotel where the reception was being held. We were sitting in the vast lobby when the wedding party trickled in from the rehearsal dinner. I walked up to my daughter; she gave me a big showy hug, and immediately walked me over to her mother. “Kay, this is Linda. Linda, this is Kay.” I was David; she was Goliath. Kay is a tall, slender, attractive, classically elegant woman. I’m an artsy, in-your-face, 5’2” free-spirited pear. We limply shook hands and in her soft, breathy voice she discussed her very elderly father’s solo flight from Florida. The wide smile never left her face; I realized the woman was on autopilot. I stood there thinking, “Oh my God, she’s channeling Jackie Kennedy Onassis, and her children are Caroline and John-John!” And then, out of nowhere, my daughter said, “Why don’t you two hug?” I looked to my husband; his face read, “Don’t look at me.” I looked at my daughter with eyes that said, “You’ve got to be @#$%^&* kidding me!” And I looked at Kay, who was as surprised and uncomfortable as I was. There were twenty, thirty people around us…she bent down and we gave one another an air hug that lasted all of one second, and then my husband and I went straight to the bar.
The only other contact we had that weekend was when my husband shared an elevator with Kay and they didn’t speak except for hello. During the reception cocktail hour, the mother of the bride was walking out to the terrace; I was walking in. I instinctively grabbed her and squeezed her tight and told her congratulations.
About a year later I was shopping at my supermarket on a weekday afternoon, which was unusual for me. For some unexplained reason I was drawn to a tall woman wearing flat shoes, a khaki skirt, and a homespun blazer; she reminded me of Miss Hathaway on the Beverly Hillbillies. I walked up to her and said, “Kay?” She looked at me blankly for a few seconds, gave me a fake hug, and we exchanged pleasantries. According to my estranged sister, who had analyzed the event with my daughter (who at the time hadn’t spoken to me in over a year), Kay thought I was a former classmate; she didn’t realize it was me until I inquired about her grandson. Again, according to my estranged sister (who was surprised I didn’t tell her about the encounter; I explained she had ceased being my confidante long ago and besides, it was a non-event) my daughter claimed her mother had “a right to privacy when she shopped.” I just laughed it off, what else could I do? My reunion failed for several reasons, and I admit I made my share of mistakes, but protecting and remaining loyal to the mother who raised my daughter was near the top of the list.
It’s now more than nine years since that long-awaited phone call, and I’ve spent less than 15 minutes with my daughter’s adoptive mother. I know that’s the rule rather than the exception for triad relationships. The only truly successful birthmother-adoptive mother relationship I can think of is Carol Schaefer; who wrote candidly about her relationship with her son’s mother in The Other Mother. Soon after my reunion Carol and I were attending the same meeting and I asked her for guidance. She took a deep breath, placed her hands on the table, and said, “It takes years.”
I’m still optimistic that the meeting and sustainability of the My Two Moms dynamic will continue to improve in contemporary adoptions. I’ve read a few blogs where adoptive mothers sincerely consider their children’s birthmothers members of the family, the ultimate Lifetime movie plot. Several years ago I knew a Christian couple who were adoptive parents of toddler twins. The birthmother had frequent personal contact with her daughters’ parents, but only received photos of her daughters. It was an open adoption, but complicated, at least to me. I’ve wondered if they’ve maintained their warm relationship, or if it became too much to bear.
I’m not complaining or seeking pity. I’m simply sharing my experience, which is just one of thousands of similar stories, some better, and some far worse. My daughter’s mother wasn't/isn't a horror story and by all accounts is an A+ mom. But I can’t help but wonder: why can’t we all just get along?
