I love my parents unconditionally. Both sets of parents.
It wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I quite realized that.
I was adopted at a very young age. Growing up, I always thought of my adoptive parents as simply “mom and dad”. Blood ties or not, they were, and will always be, my parents. And I was simply their daughter. We share an unconditional love that could never be invalidated or negated because I wasn’t their biological child.
But when I had munchkins of my own, I began to think more and more about my birth mother. Some of this probably has to do with the fact that Bobo is the spitting image of me when I was little… my own personal mini-me. I still do a double take any time someone mentions how much she resembles me; it’s unfamiliar territory for me to actually look like my family members.
|Yeah, I see some similarities.|
And thus, the physical similarities between my daughter and I have led to more reflection. Which leads to more questions about my birth mother.
Am I the spitting image of her?
Where is she now?
Did she have other children?
Has she led a happy life?
Does she still think of me?
Did I give her the same god-awful heartburn during pregnancy that my own kids gave me?
I have no answers, and probably will not ever. But still I wonder… without any sense of bitterness, emptiness or what if’s.
I only have questions. And gratitude.
Because she gave me life, and then had the courage to give me up for adoption. Because she sent me to live with a family that’s given me more love than I could ever know what to do with. Because she wanted a better life for her daughter, even though it would be a life she would never witness firsthand.
All I know is… for that, I love her unconditionally.