Pass the Parcel

This month, the highly acclaimed big, round birthday transpired for the eighth time. My beautiful son made it a very special occasion for me, but it hasn’t always been the most celebrated event

Towards the end of World War II, my ‘biological mother’, Betty had seemingly celebrated the event so intimately, that at age 16, she inadvertently became pregnant. The passionate conception was indisputably the rather more joyful phase of the entire proceedings, so when her condition became evident some weeks later, much was the wailing and hand-wringing. There was no such thing as legal abortion at that time, apart from emphatic reasons to kill baby, before birth. So, the subject of my budding existence was temporarily parked in a silent chamber of Betty’s family secrets. In the meantime, the expanding Betty was shunted off to a mother-and-baby home to avoid disgrace in the neighbourhood, and await her liberation there. The strategy was to dispose of me as soon as I ‘saw’ the light of day, to someone more appropriate, and dispense with the duty, the burden and the memory. So, the truth is, that on the day I was born I was the most unloved inconvenience, not the gurgling bundle of joy, gifted to overjoyed parents. There were no joyous 9-month-long preparations for this new little life – I resided and grew in a disgruntled body, in the surrounding atmosphere of total denial and discontent..

Upon my birth, I was promptly taken to another area in the home, and simply picked up periodically to feed and change. As was the practice, Betty never even looked at me, let alone picked me up. I know this as a fact, because at age 51 I was finally handed my adoption documents by John, who had kept them until that point. Armed with the necessary info, I went to London and traced my mother, through the “births, deaths and marriages records”. Fortunately, she still lived in Birmingham, and I also found two half-brothers. I cautiously contacted my ‘mother’ Betty, who was very shocked at the fact that she had been found, under a law of which she had no previous awareness. We did meet, despite her initial reluctance. She told me that indeed, she had never seen me and she had not even thought of giving me a name. In the meantime, people were making pivotal decisions as to whom I should be reassigned, as the legitimately responsible person for my wellbeing. Betty, was relieved of the nine-month intrusion into her life and she returned light-heartedly to her previous life, whatever that was

Elsie couldn’t have children and although she never befriended the other women in the Church, who were nearly all mothers, she was envious of them for the attention they enjoyed with their offspring. And so it was that her long-suffering husband, Frank suggested she could adopt the missing elements in her life, to make her discontented life contented again. She warmed to the idea, and having first adopted John, she wanted to acquire the standard two-child family, so she agreed to a second adoption. Frank must have realised that she had the least maternal attributes, but speculated possibly, that little children could unearth the missing feature and give her fulfilment. This suggestion was acceptable only on the condition that upon completion of the family components, they would immediately move from Birmingham back to London, where no one need know that these children were not her own biological offspring. This was not what Frank had planned, but he acquiesced and the wheels of total contentment were set into motion.

Elsie didn’t want a daughter. She had registered to adopt this baby while it was still underway, as a chum for her first adopted child, John, mysteriously assuming it would be another little boy. John was her ‘raison d’être’; blond-haired, blued-eyed and already the pride of her life. It somehow never occurred to her, that this forthcoming family member could be female, and at that time, the gender could not be established pre-birth.

Considering her animosity towards females of all varieties, it must have horrified her, when my gender was disclosed to her. By default, she regarded all females as rivals. This may have been justified, since she didn’t go out to work and had all day to please herself, but she had no hobbies, no friends and didn’t talk to the neighbours and by choice, never went out. Thus, most women had more stimulus than she had. Privately, her second condition of adoption was that this baby should financially burden the family as little as possible. John was the focus of her attention and this new daughter was rather more regarded as an accessory. Thus, within weeks of the adoption, the family moved to the suburbs of London, and I was transported in the drawer of a cupboard, because there was no baby carrier

While John enjoyed a big birthday bash every year, with all his friends, I was never allowed a birthday party. It seemed like a continuation of the attitude towards my birth, by Betty. Elsie claimed that one doesn’t hold birthday parties in January; John’s birthday was mid-July! I didn’t dare argue with this vindictive woman, with that bizarre logic. At that time, the age of consent was 21, so I spent the next 21 birthdays in a frugal world of banal non-existence, as an outsider in an unwelcome world. Unfortunately, Frank was a lovely man, but spineless.

There is a disparity in the way the fate of unborn, unwanted babies is handled. Several people influence the final outcome, but the baby itself has no rights or say in decisions that affect it. I’m not aware of the vetting procedure these days, but the criteria for accepting potential adoptive parents when I was born was simply, financial stability and membership of some kind of religion. The aptitude of future parents to provide a loving and wholesome life for the child they adopt can sometimes be masked by simple good acting. Similarly, the motive for adopting can be difficult to establish beyond reasonable doubt. When people adopt a dog from an animal sanctuary, they are at liberty to return the dog to the shelter, if he proves difficult to maintain. When I was informed at age 12 that I was not Elsie’s flesh and blood, my instant glee was replaced by the hope, that maybe someone else could come and collect me and make me feel loved and welcome. Considering her aversion towards me, at that age, it seemed more than logical to my naïve mind.

All people are born equal – but some are born more equal than others

Photo: 1950 archive