"It's a boy".
"Lovely!" And off they would trot to pick up said baby.
I was born and retrieved from Foxton. Two years later, Mum flew to Dunedin and picked up boy number two, with Dad seeing him for the first time at Wellington Airport. A year later boy number three, born in Palmerston North, joined the family. My first clear memory as a three-year-old is of Dad, my brother and I sitting in the car at Palmerston North hospital and Mum walking down the steps with a bundle in her arms.
We were lucky because we always knew we were adopted. I cannot remember a "special moment" when we were told. It was always part of our lives. My hands go up in horror when I hear of adults who have just found out they were adopted.
There was always a certain stigma around adoption, even until the 70s and 80s. It could even be described as mythical because so little was known about it. Near the farm my parents owned was a place called Marycrest, a home for 'naughty girls'. It was always the girls that 'got into trouble'. The naughty boys just seemed to roll through life untarnished, at most a clip around the ear for being careless.
Mum and Dad had no information about my birthmother and she had none about who adopted me. My birthmother was not allowed to see me after I was born. For two weeks she lay in her bed in the maternity home, listening to me crying through the wall.
The night before I left, the matron brought me to her and she held me for 10 minutes. She wouldn't touch me again for nearly 30 years.
I never imagined that I would meet my birthmother. But a law change in 1985 changed all that.
Next time I will share my experience in the search for the woman who gave birth to me.
