A First Mother remembers: My Adopted Daughter's first Christmas gifts

Jane

Christmas has played a role in my relationship with my surrendered daughter Megan since the beginning. When she was born in November, 1966, I could not bear to sever our bonds completely. I left the hospital without signing adoption papers and she went into foster care. A social worker told me she had the perfect family for my daughter but they wanted a child less than a month old.
As the one month deadline approached and prospects for raising my daughter did not magically present themselves, I called the social worker and told her I would sign the papers. I added “I know this sounds silly but I’m worried the baby will not have any Christmas presents.”

On Christmas Day that year I fantasized about the loving couple who had my baby after many sorrowful years of childlessness. I tried to find joy in giving this gift to this couple, so much more deserving of this precious child than I. (After our reunion I learned that Megan’s adoptive parents did not contact the social services office until January and that they already had three children when they adopted Megan. Apparently the social worker made no effort to give Megan a home for the holidays.)

I know now that adoption is not a gift but a tribute to ignorance and want.

Shortly before Christmas in 1997, Megan now thirty-one years old, emailed that she wanted to send me a gift, something she had made. Megan and I had connected a few weeks earlier but we had not met. Other than a short conversation with my husband-to-be 29 years earlier, I had not discussed Megan’s existence with anyone. She lived near Chicago and I lived in Oregon.  We planned to meet the following month.

I agonized over how to respond to her email. I was touched by Megan's offer and did not want to offend her. At the same time, I did not want to explain this gift to family members who knew nothing about. I was also curious about what she could have made. No one in my family was artistic. I envisioned a potholder; the kind children make at summer camp, elastic bands stretched across a frame.

I wrote back “I would love to have something you made.” When the package arrived, I put it in the closet.

A day or two after Christmas, I opened the box. Not a pot holder but two jars of fruit jelly and a jar of jalapeño jelly. I could not leave them in the closet since having jelly in my closet next to old purses, shoe boxes, and other paraphernalia accumulated in the 20 years we had lived in the house would be hard to explain. I placed the jelly in a kitchen cabinet next to jars of homemade jam my mother-in-law had given us, hiding them in plain sight. Tentative steps out of the closet.

Just before I was to leave for Chicago, I asked two of my raised daughters, Lucy and Julie, who were home for Christmas, to come into the kitchen to talk to me. (My oldest daughter Amy lived in Washington DC). (Telling my family about my daughter--and then going public)  I explained that they had a sister. They were incredulous. Seeking to convince them that I was not delusional and that Megan did in fact exist, I held up a jar of jelly as proof. “Of course you have a sister,” I shouted. “Where do you think this jelly came from?”

The jelly, of course, has long since been eaten. The real gift Megan gave me that year—the gift of knowledge--endures forever.

Lorraine and I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a peaceful and joyous New Year.