Today is Mother’s Day and I’m going to set politics aside…Just for today.

There was never a day in my life that I can remember, and I can remember things that happened when I was 2 years old, that I didn’t know I was adopted. I grew up knowing it and, trust me, adoption ran rampant through my family.

I was adopted. My brother was adopted. My sister was adopted, cousins and more…Adopted. My mother, the one who adopted me was adopted herself.

Now then, my sister is my real sister and she was adopted my mother’s sister. Aunt Clara May and Uncle Horace had 2 boys of their own and wanted a girl. My mother and father had already adopted 1 boy and wanted another.

So, there wasn’t a day that I didn’t know I was adopted and not a single day that I didn’t know that my sister, whose parents were my aunt and uncle, was my real sister.

This arrangement, of course, made my sisters 2 brothers my cousins and it also made my brother and sister cousins to each other and it wasn’t until I was 6 or 7 years old that I realized…Not everybody’s family was set up in this manner. To us…It seemed normal.

I remember, in the 2^nd grade, a class assignment to go home and over the weekend, draw up our family tree. The idea being that we would learn where we came from and how we were related to others in our family and how far back we could trace our genealogy.

I asked my parents if they knew my genealogy. If they knew anything about my birth parents. Did they know what nationality I was.

Nope. They had no records. No idea. Nothing. That’s what they told me and I believed them of course.

On Monday, while we learned that this classmate was of German ancestry and that of Swedish…That this and that classmate was related to this and that person, some famous, some not and many going back hundreds of years, I sat quietly.

After class, my teacher, Mrs. Heitbrink, asked me why I hadn’t done the family tree. I told here about being adopted and instead of being upset, Mrs. Heitbrink said I should go home and do my adoptive tree and she thought the class would really like to hear about it.

This is when I found out that my father never knew his grandfather’s first name and given my explanation above regarding what seemed normal to me as a family set up…Well…Let’s just say, on Tuesday, I presented my family shrub.

That should have been the end of it but it wasn’t. I wanted to know about who I was and from where my sister and I came. To that end, I continued to ask questions. Over the years, I met many people who were adopted and many if not most of them, had knowledge, through adoption records, who THEY were and from where THEY came.

My own brother, on his 13^th birthday, was given a letter and a bible that came from HIS birth mother. As I was only a year younger, I just KNEW that when I turned 13, I would have something like that too.

My 13^th birthday, was the biggest letdown of my life. Nothing. No letter, no Bible…nothing. Not even a mention but, that didn’t stop me from asking questions.

I would ask and query my parents often and always with the exact same response. “No…We don’t have any of that. We don’t have any papers that show names. We have no idea what nationality you might be.”

When I was 38 years old, my wife and I were at my parents’ house and sitting on the coffee table was my mother’s birth certificate. It had her birth name on it. Remember, she, too, was adopted. I looked at it and said to them, “Boy, I sure wish I had something like this.” My father asked, “Why?”

I said that there was so much I wanted to know like what my nationality was to which my father replied, “I think you’re Irish.” I gave him a rather funny look. “Irish? Really? I don’t look Irish. Why would you think I’m Irish?”

That when my father, who had for 38 years, told me he had never seen anything with any such information on it told me, “Well, your birth name sounded Irish.”

He knew he had messed up…Let the cat out of the bag…And I was…Furious.

The next day, he called me to the house and he showed me a document that had my birth name on it…And my birth mother’s name on it. I refolded it and put it in my shirt pocket at which point my father asked, “What are you doing?”

I said he had had it for 38 years and now it was mine.

His response…”It’s not yours to keep.”

Needless to say, I kept it and what followed were questions from me regarding why I was never shown this before, what else is there and what else did they know. Their response was to lie, tell lies to cover up the lies, dodge, weave and try to get out of it. I told them that I would use that single document and I would find the woman whose name was on it.

Friends, putting a child up for adoption or adopting a child are two of the most selfless acts on earth. People who do either are heroes.

If you adopt and, at some point, that child asks about their origins…Tell them. If they are old enough to ask…They are old enough to know…The TRUTH. Do not lie to them…Do not cover up the truth.

What happened that day pretty much ended my relationship with my adoptive parents and that, too, could have been avoided with a simple apology for keeping the truth hidden and an honest explanation for doing so. As close as they ever got to that was my father telling me, “I’m sorry you feel the way you feel about this,” and that didn’t come until 2 years after I got my hands on that document.

I spent 3 years…searching…researching…digging and found nothing. That’s when, because of it all, I contacted a woman in California who did birth searches and asked her to be a guest on our radio show. I thought others might find here interesting. We chatted for a couple weeks about her appearance and she finally asked if this was something in which I had a personal interest.

Yes.

She told me to email to her whatever information had. It wasn’t much. My name at birth. My birth mother’s name. My date of birth and what hospital in which I was born. That was all I had but she wanted it anyway. She told me this could take months. As I had already waited 41 years…what was a few more months?

24 hours later…an email from her stating that she was 99% sure she had found my birth mother. She had her address and her phone number.

HOLY CATS!!!!!

My mother-in-law, also an adoptee, placed the call.

“I don’t know if you can help but, I’m trying to assist my son-in-law. We are looking for his birth mother. Did you by chance put a little boy up for adoption in 1960 along with his sister?”

There was a slight pause and I was holding my breath. From the other end came this reply:

“That would make your son-in-law my son.”

We talked for an hour that night through the tears. I learned my birth father’s name and about my past. 6 months later, after a ton of emails, we planned to meet and, on the day before I was to fly to Phoenix, she emailed me again.

“Ya know, through all of this, we have never exchanged photos! How will I recognize you at the airport?”

I told her I had it all taken care of and would see her tomorrow.

I got off the plane with my wife and I was carrying a huge bright pink poster board upon which was written… “Okay…Which One of You is My Mom?”

That was 11 years ago.

Today, we are as close as a family could possibly be. We enjoy the same things, have the same off kilter sense of humor and get together as often as possible. I have brothers, cousins, in laws  and an extended family I am lucky to have.

I’m a combination of Irish, Scottish and English and have traced my birth name back to the 1100’s in Argyllshire Scotland. I had relatives who fought in the Civil War and some who were related to Henry VIII.

Last year, my sister, mom and I got together in Phoenix and it was GREAT. We did what families do. We had a blast!!!

Today is Mother’s Day and I am PROUD of my mom for making the hardest decision any mom could make. I’m proud that she never stopped wondering if my sister and I were okay. I’m honored that she took that call 11 years ago and that she and her husband, Carl, who I think of as my dad, and their family accepted me into their family.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom…You are my hero!

Love you!!!