Today, I turn 31.

And all those years ago, I was born to a woman at the Colorado Research Hospital (now University Hospital) in Denver. She was 19. I don't know if she went in with my biological father. It says in my records that he supported her throughout the pregnancy and decision-making, going to counseling. But if not, I'd like to think, though, that she went in with her mom or a good friend to support her.

By all accounts, the delivery was normal and I was a healthy, full-term baby. I had reddish hair and weighed about 5 lbs.



I'd like to think they let her hold me just once. I'd like to think the nurse was kind and let her say hello to this little person she'd carefully carried around for nine months. I'd like to think she got to count my fingers and toes before they took me to the nursery down the hall.

I'd like her to know that I spent the next month and twelve days in a wonderful foster home. The woman that took care of me was older - more the grandmotherly type, I heard. And having now had a newborn son that cried for the first three months of his life, I can only believe this woman to be a saint. Getting up for all those middle of the night feedings? Every two hours to feed, rock, hold and love this little vulnerable person? Complete and total sainthood.

I'd like her to know that my parents tried for seven years to have a baby. They tried to do it on their own, and failed. They tried to go through adoption agencies, but were told all children would be coming in from Vietnam or other countries in a state of war, but then they heard those children were being taken back to their original countries by their parents once the war ended. And my parents couldn't do this. They couldn't face having to give the baby they'd prayed for back. So they waited.

When their case worker told them if they'd give up being on the foreign adoption list (and they were so very close to having a baby from Peru this way), she could guarantee an American born baby for them. My parents reluctantly agreed, knowing it would be one. more. year.

After my parents took some time and talked and prayed together, they signed the papework. Then case worker then took out a picture of me from under her desk calendar and said, "This is your baby girl. She is in the next room. If you go into the room and it's not a good fit, it's okay. You can leave with no questions asked."

My mom said later that they would have taken me with three heads on my shoulders. She also said my dad reached his hand into the crib and I grabbed a hold of his finger and smiled at him first. She said, "How very like you - you never did want to let go of him".



I want my birthmother to know that I grew up on a farm and ranch, around a mess of animals and people that loved me. I shadowed my dad, my mom, and the hired helpers that worked for us. When Chuck kissed me on my cheek on my third birthday, I ran into my mom's room and said, "Chuck kissed me, and I think I liked it!!".

I learned compassion from my dad when a baby calf was struggling to survive without its mom. I learned faith when I watched my baby brother fall from a swimming pool slide when he was three, and spent days in a coma. I learned humor when a girl in my class made fun of me for being 'different' (adopted). I learned humility when I wasn't chosen for a scholarship I thought I'd earned. I learned strength when my dad died at the age of 49.

And I've learned to love many times over. I loved my little sweet dog that hung out with my on the front steps of my house many miles from any town. I loved my mom, my dad, and even my brother, whose primary purpose on this Earth was to put boogers in my hair and trash the dolls in my room.

I fell in love with my would-be husband the night he listened to my life stories and secrets of which I were ashamed, and said he'd love me despite those flaws. And has.



I learned, though, what true love was the very second I laid eyes on the baby I had almost three years ago. I realized at that very moment - the moment they put him in my arms - what sort of love you had had for me; to give me away and hope and trust someone else would take good care of me, and raise me right. And they did. They weren't perfect, but none of us are.

But thank you - truly - for what you did. Thank you for giving me life. I don't know if you think of me today, but I can't imagine you couldn't. Wherever you are and whatever you do, I hope life has been, is, and will continue to be full of many blessings and good to you.

Thank you for my birthday.




"All men and women are born, live suffer and die; what distinguishes us one from another is our dreams, whether they be dreams about worldly or unworldly things, and what we do to make them come about... We do not choose to be born. We do not choose our parents. We do not choose our historical epoch, the country of our birth, or the immediate circumstances of our upbringing. We do not, most of us, choose to die; nor do we choose the time and conditions of our death. But within this realm of choicelessness, we do choose how we live."

Joseph Epstein

Labels: adoption, birthday