I’ve spent a good portion of my life trapped by stories. There are stories I’ve told myself, and stories that others have told and cast upon me. My defining stories seem to be about all the things I’m not instead of all the things I am. Maybe those are the only stories I can hear? Adoptees often feel like they have no right to exist, no right to take up space in the world. We shrink back from ourselves in order to keep the peace and to keep others content. Most of us learned early on that when you don’t match the family around you, you do what it takes to adapt and survive in the wilderness. For me, many of those stories involved my adoptive mother. I’ve recently realized how much time I’ve spent trying to be “not her”, including making sure to not outshine her. To be clear, it is only as an adult looking back in retrospect that I see how long this was a theme in my life. It was two-fold, and mostly came to fruition as I entered adulthood.
My adoptive mother is a self-proclaimed expert in small animal care, particularly regarding cats and dogs as family pets. Without fail, as she passed by our dog’s dishes near the back entry of our home, she would examine the dishes looking for something wrong. Perhaps the dog didn’t have what she’d deemed an appropriate amount of food or water available, or the dishes weren’t clean enough to pass her inspection. The dog’s collar would be checked for tightness, her body inspected for sores or skin conditions, and a passive aggressive dialogue from my mother to the dog included comments about neglect and a lack of quality care. Funny—that dog has been in our home for 11 years now, and she was not a puppy when we got her from the shelter.
My adoptive mother is also a good caretaker when it comes to houseplants. I’ve always liked houseplants and blooming things, but it was well known that if a plant came into our house or into our garden, it likely wouldn’t live long. The advice, both requested and unsolicited, focused on my mother’s sole expertise and her methods were sure-fire for her, and should therefore be for others as well. I remember standing near the kitchen sink one evening, lamenting over the limp aloe vera plant on the counter, and muttered something about another plant succumbing to my poor skills. My husband said, “maybe it’s time to tell yourself a new story.” That moment was pivotal, not just for my houseplants, but for my life. I stopped following my mother’s regimented houseplant care routine and instead began to monitor my plants as I passed by them each day. I did what I thought they needed based on my own thoughts and decisions instead of following my mother’s prescribed methods. I now have 5 living and thriving houseplants, the aloe vera has been split are shared with others, and my outdoor patio blooms with brilliant colors each year.
One area my adoptive mother is not an expert in is pie baking, and she readily admits her own shortcomings when it comes to pies. She would make a pecan pie for Thanksgiving, but it was never a homemade crust. She would buy the pre-packaged ones from the store. She deemed those acceptable because they were fail-proof. The annual pecan pie was the only variety I ever saw in my home. My grandmother made pumpkin, cherry, apple, and my personal favorite, a rhubarb pie, when we would visit for the holidays. I didn’t understand how my grandma could make such good pies and my mother couldn’t. My mother-in-law is a pie goddess! That woman makes all kinds of pies, and they never disappoint. She doesn’t even have a recipe she follows for her apple pie! Her crusts are, of course, homemade. Since my husband grew up with pies as a staple in his childhood home, I spent years believing not only could I not l measure-up to the high bar his mom had achieved, I simply could not successfully make a pie because my mother never could either. I tried, using those tried and true pre-packaged crusts my mother had used, but I never liked the way they tasted. My crusts would be soggy or burned, and the fillings didn’t seem to be what I expected when they were finished. I did come to find some measure of success with one particular peach pie recipe. It even became a bit of a family favorite for a few people. The first time we visited my birth mom in her home, we had apple pie. Yes, homemade crust and all. She doesn’t really have a recipe for her apple pie, either.
My husband’s words reemerged in my head. Maybe I could tell a new story about my ability to make a pie? I sheepishly asked my mom for her crust recipe. She assured me how easy it was and told me there was no reason I couldn’t successfully make it. The first time I decided to make the attempt, I was so nervous, I called her on Skype so she could walk me through the steps. I have to admit I was embarrassed by how easy the process was. I was still skeptical I could fill the crusts and have a successful product when I was done. Since that initial endeavor, I have made several pies that received thumbs-up reviews from my family. I even came up with my own cherry pie recipe after I’d gone and picked fresh sour cherries in the summer. My family has started to make requests for pies, and I have indulged those requests. My pies are far from perfection when it comes to appearance, but I am learning how to improve on that, too, every time I make a new pie.
Thank God for new stories. I really am capable of being more than what someone else defined and restricted me to be. Who I am and what I do doesn’t have to be perfection by someone else’s definition. It is all acceptable, and I am enough.
We are rewriting our stories! Proud of you!