Yesterday a new friend at work asked me about being adopted
because she reads da blog here. I found this old daily write and
will add/subtract a word or two before publishing. This is from
2004, and after I wrote this piece the blogmaid tracked down
the book from E-bay (e-Bay?). How sweet is that?
My favorite book as a little girl was "The Chosen Baby". My parents used
to read it to me and then when I could read I still loved that book best.
It told me how I was so special because I was selected, whereas other
poor parents had to take whatever child popped out. My brother was
also adopted, but he never seemed interested in The Book.
Adopted children live in a fantasy world, I think, of finding their Real
Parents and living happily ever after. Mine lived in a villa in rural
France and spoke English, of course. They didn't give me away,
because I was way too lovable, but someone stole me out of that
regal nursery and took me to Baltimore, Md Then my adopted
aunt took me on a train to (of all places) Pasadena, Ca. This fantasy
nourished me throughout childhood. I understand that children with
Real Parents also harbor these make-believe parents, but mine
were more possible because I was a Chosen Baby.
After mother died, I did try to search for my birth parents. It was
before the internet, so the search came to a dead end. I did discover
that my mother's name was Catherine Carter, and for some reason,
that was enough for me. Doesn't sound very French, does it?
I wish I had some medical knowledge, but other than that I sort of like
the idea that I was adopted. There is a certain mystery. Today the
process is all very open and civilized with couples taking care of the
birth mother and staying in contact throughout life. No French villas,
no dramatic homecomings for little girls who had been abducted
when they were a week old
