My Two Moms

Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women and nonbinary writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find in this column, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.

As usual, in May, I waited until just shy of the last minute to find the perfect symbol of affection to celebrate Mother’s Day. I compared the cornucopia of traditional brightly colored bouquets online. And as usual, the writer’s block that only plagues me when I have to write a card reared its ugly head. But this Mother’s Day was different — it was the first time I could embrace the abundant richness of having two mothers and sending flowers to them both. 

One has received some token of Mother’s Day greetings from me for nearly half a century. For the other, this would be the first time she received that sentiment from me. 

I was born in July 1976, three days shy of being a bona fide bicentennial baby. My adoption was predetermined, but my mom — the one who raised me — was worried that if I were born on July 4, my birth mother would change her mind. Her worry wasn’t unfounded. With the hype surrounding the bicentennial, a birth on July 4 could sway a young woman who was on the fence about her decision. And my mom had lived almost a decade of disappointment. My birth was finally the opportunity she had waited so long for, to fulfill her dream of becoming a mother.

Changing her mind was not in the cards for my birth mother. She was young — a freshman in college — when she realized she was pregnant. Having dated through high school, my birth mother and father were very much in love, but too young for a baby. With guidance from her parents, my birth mother made a decision that, while difficult, was made out of love. Four days after I was born, on her 19th birthday, she signed the papers to release me to the couple who would raise me. 

I’ve always known I was adopted, just like I’ve known I have elbows and hair. I believe it was the best decision for all involved. It gave my birth mother a chance to live her life and me a life full of infinite possibility. From day one, my world was filled with the opportunity to be anything I wanted. Dancing, gymnastics, 4H, Girl Scouts, synchronized swimming — my parents signed me and my adopted sister up for every activity. My mom would go on to be a trendsetter in her family as, one by one, many of her cousins and relations adopted children of their own.

I made the decision early on that should I learn who my birth mother was, I would give her space. However, my adoption was closed, meaning that all records were sealed and any information about health risks was unavailable. Learning of a friend’s cancer diagnosis was the catalyst for finally reaching out to my birth mother. 

Most adoptees know this can be tricky water to navigate. You need a good support system and the knowledge that not every reunion is a fairy tale. By talking to friends and relatives of adoptees and those who chose to release children for adoption, I found there to be a Technicolor array of stories. Some of the journeys to adoption include young love, while others include instances of rape and abuse. These reunions can bring relief and end curiosity just as easily as they can cause heartbreak.

I was nervous as I dialed her number. The phone rang a few times, and then, she answered. I went through a practiced speech: “Hi, my name is Janet Kurtz, and I was born in July 1976.” 

“I know,” she said cheerfully, “I was there.” I laughed. It was a good line and something I would say. That afternoon I learned about her high school sweetheart. I told her about how growing up, we celebrated my birthday and always held space to quietly and thoughtfully celebrate the day my parents brought me home — her birthday. Over the three hours that we spoke, I could not help thinking about how much this conversation felt like I was talking to another version of myself — that I was speaking to the personification of the better part of my nature.  

Since then, we have shared stories, she has answered countless questions, and we’ve exchanged photos through texts. I learned that I have a half-sister who also lives in Nashville, and even more surprisingly, I already knew her. The three of us share a love of reading and cooking.

My mom was thrilled for me to reach out to my birth mom. She believes there is always enough love to go around. She is so thankful every day to my birth parents — two strangers who were so in love. Though she hasn’t met my birth mom yet, she relays book recommendations, family questions and good wishes. Through this connection, the beauty of our unique family is blended, and Mother’s Day will never be the same for us.