Given that being adopted or giving up a child for adoption was the most natural (or is that normal ?) thing in my childhood family, it was not until I finally learned my original grandparents stories that led to both of my parents ending up adopted in the 1930s, that I truly realized the minor miracle of my own life that I was not also given up for adoption.

I was conceived when my mother was a junior in high school. My father had only just started his university studies in a nearby city but in another nearby state. I don’t really know how I came to be there in my mom’s womb but I guess it happened either just before my dad went away to college or during some brief visit home.

One of the joys of my discoveries was a letter a friend of my mom and dad who sent a letter to my dad when my mom died. He was also a good friend of my mom’s adoptive older brother. In it, he described taking her to a party and that after meeting my dad, the two of them left the party, leaving him bereft of a date.

My parents were married for over 50 years after their hastily arranged marriage to confer upon me legitimacy. Still considering they both had adoptive parents who must have believed in the value of babies given up for adoption to other people to raise – it will always amaze me that I was not given up as well (both of my own sisters ended up giving up babies to adoption).

The author, Barbara Bisantz Raymond, of the book The Baby Thief (about Georgia Tann who was involved in my mother’s adoption) found this blog. In a phone conversation with her, she said, “I’ve never met anyone with so much adoption in their family tree.” It’s true, there is a lot of that. Even so, I had a wonderful childhood with good enough parents and siblings. Therefore, I will always be grateful I didn’t end up with that fate of being adopted as well. The unhappy ending stories I’ve absorbed about adoption go very far towards making me exceedingly grateful for my own good fortune.