N.J. Lindquist's Blog, page 9
October 15, 2018
LoveChild 7: My Adoption Is Complete
“My life has been shaped by the decision two people made over 24 years ago. They decided to adopt a child. They got me, and I got a chance at the kind of life all children deserve.”
Karen Fowler, Reflections on Motherhood
The wait was almost over...
As I mentioned last week, I’m sure waiting for my adoption to be finalized produced a lot of anxiety, especially for my mother. Of course, I was unaware of this at the time. But from what I learned later about Mom, I'm certain she‘d have done everything in her power to make sure the social worker who visited never found a reason to complain. Our home would have been as tidy as Mom could make it. She would be the perfect mother. I would be the model child.
However, based on my knowledge of her over the years, Mom would have been anxious the whole time, worrying that something would occur to make them take me away in spite of all her efforts.
Meanwhile, Dad worked long hours in the butcher shop to make sure he had enough money to look after Mom and me. I’m sure that he, too, was anxious, although he would never admit it. Instead, he’d have told Mom she had no reason to worry.
The legal system does its thing.
On the 10th of February, less than a year after I had been given to my parents, they were asked to fill out the official Application for Adoption.
Some weeks after that, a social worker named Miss A. L. Peach made her last visit to see how we were doing, and then filled out her final report, recommending that the adoption proceed.
In a letter from the Department of Social Welfare for the Province of Saskatchewan dated April 20, 1949, the Director of the Child Welfare Branch, Miss A. H. Dales, noted the positive report from Miss Peach and said that as far as they were concerned, Nancy’s legal adoption
could be completed and
they were very pleased to note what excellent progress she has made, and that she is a happy, well-adjusted little girl.
After that, my parents just had a few forms to fill out and have notarized, and then a short wait for the official papers.
I'm baptized.
Mom with me at 16 months.
On May 22, 1949, at the age of one year and four and a half months, I was baptized at St. Andrews United Church in Indian Head, where my parents had been members since April 6th of 1941.
Mom and Dad had waited until they were certain the adoption would go through before committing to the baptism.
This picture of my mother and me was likely taken that Sunday. I'm the right age, and it could have been this warm at the end of May.
By the way, in most of the pictures of Mom and me, she's holding my hand. Possibly because that's the only way she could ensure that my white dress, white socks, white shoes,and the rest of me stayed clean.
Mom kept my certificate of baptism.
The next stage of my life begins.
A couple of weeks after my baptism, on June 3, 1949, my adoption became official.
In a letter from the Department of Social Services for the Province of Saskatchewan, Miss A. H. Dales, Supervisor of Adoptions, wrote:
The Adoption Order has now been granted in connection with the above mentioned little girl. And we are enclosing herewith the original copy of same for your future reference.
The Adoption Order herein cancels entirely our guardianship over this little girl, and she is now as your own natural child.
With our very best wishes....
Me with my dad - I was now legally his daughter
My parents sent $1.00 to get my revised birth certificate, which said I (Nancy Jane Shaw) was born on January 4th, 1948. The three of us were a forever family. I can only imagine the relief my parents felt at that point.
And so the nine months I’d spent in another woman’s stomach and the nearly three months I’d spent in Regina under the care of the Department of Social Services receded into the back of everyone’s minds. After all, the philosophy of the time was that children were a blank slate, so there was no reason for any concern that my past might have an affect on me.
The word “adopted” was rarely, if ever, used by my parents; certainly not in my presence.
A Related Thought
The words "she is now as your own natural child" in the Adoption Order reminded me that over the years, I’ve often heard friends and family (not usually the parents themselves) refer to a child as “their adopted” son/daughter. And while it's true in the sense that the child was adopted as opposed to having been naturally born to the parents, it is usually neither necessary or kind. The whole process of adoption means that you are no longer who you were; you have a new identity, and it is your legal (real) identity.
Continuing to use the word “adopted” to refer to a child who has been legally adopted strikes me as devaluing not only the child but the entire process of adoption. When a child is adopted, that child legally becomes his or her parents’ natural child, entitled to anything and everything due a natural child. No asterisks or explanations needed.
Can you relate?
Some "forever families" begin when the child is conceived; others begin at a later date. And some children never really feel part of a family that wants them, which is very sad. When you think back on your story, how do you feel? Were you wanted? chosen? an "accident"? a gift? a burden?
How has your parents' response to your birth affected you?
Conversely, if you have children, do they know their stories of becoming part of your family, and how you feel about them? (Even accidents and burdens can turn out to be amazing gifts!)
LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post LoveChild 7: My Adoption Is Complete appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
October 8, 2018
LoveChild 6: My First Year Is a Happy One
"A baby is a little bit of heaven on earth.”
Author Unknown
Me at six/seven months.
As you can see, I'm bundled up in my carriage with a sweater, hat, and blanket because I might get cold. It's either June or July.
Me at eight/nine months.Mom is in a short sleeved dress and I'm wearing a warm coat and hat. It's August or September.
Many years later, Mom told me that the reason I'm cold most of the time is probably because she was so intent on not letting me get chilled when I was a baby that she may have overdone it.
My internal thermostat was warped early on. That's my excuse and I have proof.
Me at ten months. 
As you can see from my healthy appearance and excited face, I was a happy baby. I raced through all the milestones at top speed—at least according to Dr. Spock’s book, The Common Book of Baby and Child Care, which had come out in 1946, and which Mom used as her reference book.
According to Mom's notes, I was not only walking at 10 months, but climbing on chairs (as in this picture) and beginning to run.
Plus I already had eight teeth.
I also had quite a few words in my vocabulary, although not all of them were clear: "Bob" or "daddy," "Na na" for Nancy, "Ma" for Mom, "doddy" for dolly, "tatters" for potatoes, "Bobo" for Bozo, "mew mew" for Fluffy, "aisins" for raisins, "awa" for water, etc.
Me at one year.On January 4, 1949, I celebrated my first birthday.
In this picture, I'm sitting on a table in our living room. Again, my body language is that of an excited, content baby. As for my wild-looking hairdo—more about that later.
The photo on the wall in the background is of my parents, taken when they were newlyweds. I still have it.
I also still have the table I was sitting on. It’s had many uses over the years. Right now it’s in our bedroom, holding my stacks of to-be-read books.
According to Mom's notes in my Baby Book, for my birthday, one grandmother sent me a card and a hankie, and the other sent me a card. Mom and Dad gave me a gold bracelet (a thin golden band that fit into itself, but had a short chain to keep it from falling off). I have no idea how often I wore it.
Giftwise, I’d done better at Christmas, which always falls 10 days before my birthday. (No, that isn't a particularly great thing.) Various relatives and a few family friends sent me new dresses, a pink housecoat, a snow suit, two scarves, a plastic bib, wool stockings, a doll, a drum, and a ball. Mom and Dad gave me a sweater, a doll, and a pull toy.
The toy situation back then.In case you’re wondering, Fisher Price and most of the other large toy makers didn’t exist in those days. Nope, no Lego either. Not even Matchbox cars. And there were no toy stores either, at least not where we lived.
In fact, I'd be willing to bet that many children today have more toys by the time they're two than I had in my entire life.
Indian Head, like most small towns back then (and many today), had a lot of businesses connected with farming, plus a grocery store, drug store, a hardware store, and a general store, sort of like today’s “dollar” stores, and a dry goods store, that had clothes, shoes, bedding, towels, etc. Most of these stores were quite small, and choices were few. A few of the stores would carry a small selection of toys, but the toy section might be one small shelf, which would be expanded a bit for Christmas.
Many people ordered what they needed from the Eaton’s or Simpson’s catalogues. Not that my parents had a lot of money for things that weren't necessary.
But I had a good imagination, so I made do with what I had, even if it was only a pot and a spoon.
Waiting
I appear to have been perfectly happy with my life, but my parents were actually feeling some stress during my first year. Even though my birth certificate had my new name on it, the adoption process hadn't been finalized. A social worker was still making home visits, and the final decision about whether I would remain with my new parents had yet to be made.
I honestly can't imagine what it would be like to look after a baby for a year as if it were your own, and then be told you couldn't keep her after all.
As I turned one, Mom and Dad anxiously counted the days until the final decision would be made.
Can you relate?
Did you have a lot of toys when you were younger? Or did you have to make your own fun?
What items or pictures do you have from your first year, and what can you learn from them?
LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post LoveChild 6: My First Year Is a Happy One appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
October 1, 2018
Lovechild 5: German Shepherd, Meet Baby
“My idea of absolute happiness is to be in bed on a rainy day with my blankie, my cat, and my dog.”
Anne Lamott
Besides Mom and Dad, there were two other very important members of my new family.
The first was a cat named Fluffy.
She was a Persian, with long, white hair.
Sadly, I have no pictures of her, but I'm quite sure she looked exactly like the cat in this picture.
Fluffy roamed the village, since keeping pets on a leash or in a yard wasn’t the norm in those days.
I don’t know how old she was when I was born or how long my parents had her, but I do remember her quite clearly. Her fur was very soft.
The other member of the family was a German Shepherd named Bozo.I think Bozo was the closest Mom and Dad came to having a child before they got me.
The word “bozo” means “incompetent.” I don’t know who named him, but that image certainly didn’t fit this elegant, intelligent German Shepherd.
Bozo obeyed many spoken commands, did tricks, climbed ladders, and even carried out errands.
For example, each morning, Dad would walk to his butcher shop with Bozo at his side or a few feet ahead.
Then Bozo would wait patiently out front while Dad went in and selected some meat to have for lunch that day—two pork chops, a round steak, half a pound of hamburger, a small roasting chicken, sausages, smoked haddock (Finnan haddie), etc.
Dad would wrap the meat in wax paper and then brown butcher’s paper, tie it with a string, and then attach the package of fresh meat to Bozo’s collar with more string. He’d tell Bozo to take the meat home, and off Bozo would go, straight as an arrow, never trying to get at the meat. Of course, Dad would sometimes slip a nice bone into the package, too, which Mom would give Bozo after she untied the package.
How many dogs could be trusted to carry the meat home every day?
The big question was, "How would Bozo react to a baby?"Until I arrived, Bozo hadn’t had a rival in the household. He was fine with Fluffy, who went her own way and didn't challenge the chain of command. But my parents and their friends were concerned that Bozo would become jealous of me, and bite me.
Adding to the problem was Bozo's age. Since the average expected age for a German Shepherd is 10 to 12 years, and Bozo was nearly 10, he was already elderly in dog years And, of course, everyone knew the popular adage that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
Friends and family felt that the kindest thing my parents could do for all of us was to put him down before something bad happened.
My parents were torn. They were overjoyed to finally have the baby they’d longed for; but Bozo had been a big part of their family for more than nine years and they didn’t want to get rid of him. However, they most definitely didn't they want anything bad to happen to their precious baby.
When I first arrived, it was easy. Babies sleep a lot. Mom and Dad just made sure Bozo was outside when I was awake, and they never left him alone with me.
At the same time, they knew they had to let Bozo be around me partly so he'd get used to me, and partly so they could see his reactions. But they were very cautious—as you can see from the hand firmly clasping his collar in this picture.
As the weeks passed, Mom became more worried. I wasn’t sleeping as much, and I was starting to sit up and turn over. By the end of July, when I was nearly seven months old, I was awake most of the day, with only a short nap after lunch.
And I was beginning to crawl.
Mom's hand is on Bozo's collar, and his ears are back, but I'm not afraid.
Bozo had had the run of the house for years, it wasn’t fair to him to make him stay outside all the time. But if they let him inside when I was awake, once I was crawling it would be impossible for someone to always be there to keep Bozo away from me.
They couldn't put off their decision for much longer.
Crunch time came one afternoon in late July.The house had no air-conditioning, and on hot days there was often a bit of a breeze in the shade on the porch. As was her custom, after lunch that day, Mom put me outside on the porch in my carriage to sleep while she cleaned up. Normally, she’d have taken Bozo into the house, but that day, she was distracted, and Bozo wasn’t in sight, so she forgot to take him in.
While washing the dishes a short time later, Mom was startled to hear Bozo bark and then begin to growl menacingly.
Terrified, she dashed across the kitchen and flung open the screen door.
The carriage was only a few steps from the door, and her eyes went to it first. She quickly realized that her baby was sound asleep, unharmed.
Her eyes moved to Bozo, who was standing in front of my carriage, eyes fixed—not on the sleeping baby, but on a family friend whose foot was on the bottom of the three steps that led up to the porch.
The man made as if to climb up the next step and Bozo barked again, his hackles bristling in full guard dog stance.
The man took his foot down and Bozo became calm and just stood watching him.
Mom had never known Bozo to bark like this at anyone before. She spoke sharply to him.
Her friend, who had been to the house many times and knew Bozo, laughed. “No, don’t you see? He’s fine until I try to come up on the porch. He’s protecting the baby.”
Mom told Bozo to stop barking, that everything was okay. After that, he didn't bark when her friend came onto the porch and approached my carriage to look at me.
A few days later, the same thing happened when some friends came over while Mom and Bozo were both outside with me in the carriage. Mom realized that until she said it was okay, Bozo was going to make sure that no one set foot on the porch when I was in my carriage.
So Mom began leaving Bozo outside with me every day. He’d lie down between the carriage and the steps, and Mom was able to get her housework done in peace. Townspeople learned to call out to Mom and wait for her to come outside before they attempted to step onto the porch.
It took a bit longer to convince Mom and Dad that Bozo and I could be on the floor or the grass together, but eventually they realized there was no danger—Bozo had accepted me as a member of the family.
Apparently some old dogs can learn new tricks.
My best friend
Another indoor picture which is hard to see.
Bozo must have been very tolerant, because as you may be able to make out from this picture, my few "toys" included a pot and a spoon. And I didn’t spend my time pretending I was stirring soup, either. I was actually very noisy, using the pot as a drum most of the time.
As I grew older, Bozo became my closest friend.
Until his death at the advanced age of 18, he was the only living being with whom I shared my deepest thoughts.
Memories:
For most of my life, I’ve told everyone I have a terrible memory. It's true. I really couldn’t remember more than a couple of things from before I was 6 or 7. But the more I worked on this book, examined the pictures we had, and read the few letters, the more memories came back to me. Sometimes they opened doors to a lot of other memories; other times they were like a single frame from a movie, where you see just one scene.
One of those scenes is of Bozo sleeping on his side on the faded brown linoleum underneath a grey and chrome kitchen table surrounded by chrome chairs with red upholstery. Bozo's legs are stretched straight out in front. In the space between his front legs and stomach is a large blob of white cat fluff, nestled as close as possible. Both cat and dog are sound sleep.
If you asked me to describe a picture of contentment and safety, that might be it.
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LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post Lovechild 5: German Shepherd, Meet Baby appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
September 24, 2018
Lovechild 4: My New Home
"There may be no secrets in small towns, but there are no strangers either."
R. A. Mathis
My new parents lived in Indian Head, a pretty prairie town about 40 minutes east of Regina, Saskatchewan. Surrounded by flat wheat fields, the town was visible from a distance because of a dozen tall, white elevators filled with grain and waiting for the railway cars that travelled the all-important track that came from Brandon, Manitoba and went westward through Alberta.
Indian Head's main street was a wide road with mostly wood, but a few brick, one and two-story business on both sides. Clusters of wood homes went back a few streets and held the roughly 1500 residents.
I know everyone sees the pictures of treeless prairies, and thinks that's it, but Indian Head
(click to see pictures) has always had both trees and flower gardens.
Plus, it's only an short drive north to the Qu’Appelle Valley, where the prairies drop off into the valley of the lovely Lake Katepwa recreational area. My parents had friends with cottages on Lake Katepwa.
(Lake Katepwa on the left)
(Going down into the Qu'Appelle Valley)
My memories of Indian Head, which includes occasional visits in later years, is of a small but pretty place, with kind people, most of whom were connected in some way to the farming community.
My parents weren't from this area, but had moved to Indian Head for my dad to take a job in a butcher shop at least seven years earlier. They became members of St. Andrews United Church on April 6, 1941. By the time I arrived, Dad had a small butcher shop and Mom was a homemaker.
During their time in Indian Head, they had made quite a few friends, some of whom remained close long after we'd moved away. In fact, several of them came to my wedding, and I still have their presents.
Our houseI know my parents rented a small house while I was a baby, but I have no pictures of it, except in the background.
For example, the picture of my dad holding me, which I cropped for my previous post in order to focus on the people, actually shows the back of our house and some of the back yard (as well as Mom's shadow as she was taking the picture).
The other picture, of me, shows a bit more of both the house and yard. And the bottom picture shows Mom with me at the side of the house. (Looks like the same ladder, right?)
(Pretty sure this was our house. )
(Looks like the same house, with Mom and me.)
The main reason I'm not positive the pictures above are of our house is that I also have pictures of the front of a house which I'm pretty sure was Mom and Dad's. It might, however, have been one they lived in earlier. One thing I do know for sure is that there was a porch with steps at the front of our house, and the house in this picture has one.
And yes, that's a German shepherd on the porch. Mom and Dad got him shortly after they were married, so when I came along, he was already nearly ten years old. I'll tell you more about him next time.
The first serious parenting challengeAs you can see by this picture, taken when I was around five months old, as well as the earlier ones, I look like a contented, well-fed baby—which is kind of amazing.
According to Mom, who told me about it numerous times, I had major problems keeping down my food for the first few months after they got me, and did a lot of projectile vomiting. This was, of course, a big concern for my inexperienced parents.
They tried various things their friends who had children recommended, and took me to doctors in Indian Head and Regina, but nothing seemed help.
The problem was finally solved by a doctor who suggested giving me buttermilk instead of the formula that was popular then (likely made with either regular milk or evaporated milk, plus corn syrup).
Buttermilk was the liquid left behind after the local creamery churned butter out of cream. The buttermilk came in a glass bottle from a small local creamery, I remember the glass bottles and even the ice box (from before we had an electric refrigerator), which was kept cold with a block of ice that was inserted into a small compartment in the vertical chest. I know what you’re thinking—I must have lived in the dark ages. Well, not quite, but close.
Ice was harvested in the winter and kept in ice houses and taken around to put in iceboxes (an early form of refrigerator). I can actually remember the ice man coming, and the tongs that were used to carry the block of ice and put it into the chest. (See the movie Frozen.)
I associate the ice with sawdust, which was used as insulation to keep the blocks of ice cold in the summer while they were taken to the houses.
Why so few pictures?
In case you’re wondering, back in those days, Mom had a small Kodak box camera (my guess is a Brownie Target Six-16) that took so-so pictures at the best of times. (Or my parents weren't the best picture-takers.)
All the pictures were black and white, and the film had to be developed when it was full, so you might not find out for weeks or months whether or not your picture had turned out. Most of the pictures I have were taken outside on sunny days.
The picture here is one of only a handful taken inside our house in Indian Head. Most of the inside pictures are too dark, but this one isn’t bad, and you can see Mom giving me a bath in a basin that barely fit me, on the kitchen table.
After the formula problem, our first year went pretty well.The Common Book of Baby and Child Care, by Dr. Benjamin Spock, came out in 1946, so that's what Mom used to guide her. According to her written notes in the Baby Book, I easily hit the milestones Dr. Spock wrote about, and more:
*Discovered my hands at 3 months
*Laughed out loud on May 13th (4 months)
*Tried to raise myself up at 4 months
*Got my first tooth on June 7th (5 months)
*Tried to whistle at 5 1/2 months
*Sat up by myself on July 1st (6 months)
*Said "da da," clapped my hands, and waved goodbye before 7 months
*Began crawling at 7 1/2 months
*Also shook my head and said "na na" when I didn't want to do something
*Crawled all over and "walked" on my hands at feet by the end of September (8 months)
(Me at 6 month)
*Had quite a few words by then, too, including "Bob", "Ma," "Bobo" (for the dog), and "eggie" (when asked what I wanted for breakfast)
*Stood up at 8 1/2 months
*Walked while holding onto chairs or tables a week later
*Took my first steps on my own on Nov. 15 (10 1/2 months)
I should mention here that I was mostly with Mom. She looked after me during the weekdays and on Saturday while Dad was working. I saw him a bit in the morning and at lunch and was in bed by seven, so not much in the evenings. He'd get one afternoon off during the week and then Sunday, but being a butcher meant long hours and hard work. So for most of our days, it was Mom and me. But things went on pretty well for the first year. Well, except for one other challenge, which was pretty significant. I'll tell you about it next week.
Can you relate?
Do you have pictures or other information about your first home?
What challenges did you have as a baby? (Or maybe as a parent with a small baby?)
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LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post Lovechild 4: My New Home appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
Lovechild 4: My First Year
"There may be no secrets in small towns, but there are no strangers either."
R. A. Mathis
My new parents lived in Indian Head, a pretty prairie town about 40 minutes east of Regina, Saskatchewan. Surrounded by flat wheat fields, the town was visible from a distance because of a dozen tall, white elevators filled with grain and waiting for the railway cars that travelled the all-important track that came from Brandon, Manitoba and went westward through Alberta.
Indian Head's main street was a wide road with mostly wood, but a few brick, one and two-story business on both sides. Clusters of wood homes went back a few streets and held the roughly 1500 residents.
I know everyone sees the pictures of treeless prairies, and thinks that's it, but Indian Head
(click to see pictures) has always had both trees and flower gardens.
Plus, it's only an short drive north to the Qu’Appelle Valley, where the prairies drop off into the valley of the lovely Lake Katepwa recreational area. My parents had friends with cottages on Lake Katepwa.
(Lake Katepwa on the left)
(Going down into the Qu'Appelle Valley)
My memories of Indian Head, which includes occasional visits in later years, is of a small but pretty place, with kind people, most of whom were connected in some way to the farming community.
My parents weren't from this area, but had moved to Indian Head for my dad to take a job in a butcher shop at least seven years earlier. They became members of St. Andrews United Church on April 6, 1941. By the time I arrived, Dad had a small butcher shop and Mom was a homemaker.
During their time in Indian Head, they had made quite a few friends, some of whom remained close long after we'd moved away. In fact, several of them came to my wedding, and I still have their presents.
Our houseI know my parents rented a small house while I was a baby, but I have no pictures of it, except in the background.
For example, the picture of my dad holding me, which I cropped for my previous post in order to focus on the people, actually shows the back of our house and some of the back yard (as well as Mom's shadow as she was taking the picture).
The other picture, of me, shows a bit more of both the house and house. And the bottom picture shows Mom with me at the side of the house. (Looks like the same ladder, right?)
(Pretty sure this was our house. )
(Looks like the same house, with Mom and me.)
The main reason I'm not positive the pictures above are of our house is that I also have pictures of the front of a house which I'm pretty sure was Mom and Dad's. It might, however, have been one they lived in earlier. One thing I do know for sure is that there was a porch with steps at the front of our house, and the house in this picture has one.
And yes, that's a German shepherd on the porch. Mom and Dad got him shortly after they were married, so when I came along, he was already nearly ten years old. I'll tell you more about him next time.
The first serious parenting challengeAs you can see by this picture, taken when I was around five months old, as well as the earlier ones, I look like a contented, well-fed baby—which is kind of amazing.
According to Mom, who told me about it numerous times, I had major problems keeping down my food for the first few months after they got me, and did a lot of projectile vomiting. This was, of course, a big concern for my inexperienced parents.
They tried various things their friends who had children recommended, and took me to doctors in Indian Head and Regina, but nothing seemed help.
The problem was finally solved by a doctor who suggested giving me buttermilk instead of the formula that was popular then (likely made with either regular milk or evaporated milk, plus corn syrup).
Buttermilk was the liquid left behind after the local creamery churned butter out of cream. The buttermilk came in a glass bottle from a small local creamery, I remember the glass bottles and even the ice box (from before we had an electric refrigerator), which was kept cold with a block of ice that was inserted into a small compartment in the vertical chest. I know what you’re thinking—I must have lived in the dark ages. Well, not quite, but close.
Ice was harvested in the winter and kept in ice houses and taken around to put in iceboxes (an early form of refrigerator). I can actually remember the ice man coming, and the tongs that were used to carry the block of ice and put it into the chest. (See the movie Frozen.)
I associate the ice with sawdust, which was used as insulation to keep the blocks of ice cold in the summer while they were taken to the houses.
Why so few pictures?In case you’re wondering, back in those days, Mom had a small Kodak box camera (my guess is a Brownie Target Six-16) that took so-so pictures at the best of times. (Or my parents weren't the best picture-takers.)
All the pictures were black and white, and the film had to be developed when it was full, so you might not find out for weeks or months whether or not your picture had turned out. Most of the pictures I have were taken outside on sunny days.
The picture here is one of only a handful taken inside our house in Indian Head. Most of the inside pictures are too dark, but this one isn’t bad, and you can see Mom giving me a bath in a basin that barely fit me, on the kitchen table.
After the formula problem, our first year went pretty well.The Common Book of Baby and Child Care, by Dr. Benjamin Spock, came out in 1946, so that's what Mom used to guide her. According to her written notes in the Baby Book, I easily hit the milestones Dr. Spock wrote about, and more:
*Discovered my hands at 3 months
*Laughed out loud on May 13th (4 months)
*Tried to raise myself up at 4 months
*Got my first tooth on June 7th (5 months)
*Tried to whistle at 5 1/2 months
*Sat up by myself on July 1st (6 months)
*Said "da da," clapped my hands, and waved goodbye before 7 months
*Began crawling at 7 1/2 months
*Also shook my head and said "na na" when I didn't want to do something
*Crawled all over and "walked" on my hands at feet by the end of September (8 months)
(Me at 6 month)
*Had quite a few words by then, too, including "Bob", "Ma," "Bobo" (for the dog), and "eggie" (when asked what I wanted for breakfast)
*Stood up at 8 1/2 months
*Walked while holding onto chairs or tables a week later
*Took my first steps on my own on Nov. 15 (10 1/2 months)
I should mention here that I was mostly with Mom. She looked after me during the weekdays and on Saturday while Dad was working. I saw him a bit in the morning and at lunch and was in bed by seven, so not much in the evenings. He'd get one afternoon off during the week and then Sunday, but being a butcher meant long hours and hard work. So for most of our days, it was Mom and me. But things went on pretty well for the first year. Well, except for one other challenge, which was pretty significant. I'll tell you about it next week.
Can you relate?
Do you have pictures or other information about your first home?
What challenges did you have as a baby? (Or maybe as a parent with a small baby?)
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LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post Lovechild 4: My First Year appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
September 17, 2018
LoveChild 3: I Meet My New Parents
“Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.”
Anthony Brand
On the stairway leading to our second floor, I have two photos of each of my four sons. The smaller pictures were taken at the hospital the day each one was born. Below each birth picture is the corresponding high school graduation picture.
I have my own high school graduation picture; but there’s no corresponding newborn baby photo.
Of course, it's a lot easier to take pictures today than it was when I was born.
(My sons, at birth and high school graduation)
In the earliest black and white pictures my parents had of me, I’m almost three months old.That’s because, to all intent and purpose, my life began, not early in the early morning hours of Sunday, January 4th, 1948, when I was born, but in late March, on the day a childless couple in their late thirties took me from the arms of a social worker in the city of Regina, Saskatchewan, and drove 40 miles east along the Trans-Canada highway to the small house they were renting in the small town of Indian Head.
At the age of two months and three weeks old, I was transported by the Department of Social Welfare for the Province of Saskatchewan out of one world into a completely different one. My new mother, Olive Margaret (MacDonald) Shaw.This, as far as I know, is the earliest picture of me. It's kind of blurry and therefore hard to make out my face, but I think I look content. Definitely not upset.
Named after her father’s only sister, Olive Margaret, Mom chose to use her middle name. A couple of her brothers and some of her friends shortened it to Maggie, but Dad always called her Margaret.
Mom was five foot two, one hundred and ten pounds, and had brown eyes and dark brown, very fine, hair that had to have frequent perms to give it some body.
She was known for wearing the latest clothes, make-up, and hair styles in spite of her small budget. When outside the house, she always wore high heels.
(Mom and me. Not quite 3 months.)
(Dad and me.)
My new father, Robert Alexander Shaw.While his mother and several of his siblings always called him Robert, to everyone else, he was
simply Bob.
Bob was six feet tall, with dark brown hair. He had small feet for such a tall man, wearing only size eight shoes, and he was always fairly thin, so in spite of his height, he wasn’t an overly imposing figure.
He was 26 years old when he married, and 36 when I came into his life. Margaret was 11 months older Bob.
They had hoped to start a family shortly after their marriage, but it didn’t happen, and when Margaret had to have a hysterectomy in her early thirties, they were devastated.
After much thought, they applied to adopt a baby girl. When I arrived, just before their tenth wedding anniversary, they were thrilled.
Judging from the way I'm smiling in this picture, I was thrilled, too.
My name:I have no idea where “Nancy” came from, except my mother chose it. Mom told me years later that my dad wanted to call me “Deidre.” Nothing against any Deidres out there, but while I’ve never been crazy about Nancy, I have trouble pronouncing “Deidre” and I’m so glad Mom won that one. My second name, “Jane,” was for my dad’s mother, whose given name was Mary Jane.
According to the small “Baby Book,” a gift from friends of my parents, I weighed seven pounds, four ounces when I was born. I had fair hair and dark blue eyes (which soon turned hazel).
I assume I was a healthy baby because when Bob and Margaret took me home to Indian Head, at two months and three weeks old, I weighed 10 pounds, eight ounces.
A week later, at three months, I weighed 12 pounds. At four months, 16; five months, 16; and nine months, just short of 21 pounds.
Historical Information:The baby book also has a long list of gifts we received from Mom and Dad’s family and friends: diapers (cloth in those days); several dresses (white, pale pink, or pale blue); a pink plastic cup, plate, and bowl set (I still have the plate); a silver cup; a hot water bottle with pink bunnies etched onto it; an electric bottle heater; crib blankets; two knitted sweaters; a brush; a dollar; a piggy bank; a jacket; and assorted booties, mitts, bonnets, bibs, etc.
There
were also several “soakers,” which apparently were wool covers for diapers invented in the 1940s to keep the moisture in. There
was also one “plastic” diaper, which I assume was a plastic outer-lining.
If, like me, you’re surprised by the hot water bottle, I discovered several similar ones on eBay, and my memory kicked it. Ah, yes. Mom put it in my bed to warm the sheets on cold winter nights before I got in. Mom also gave it to me whenever I had a stomach ache. There
was one more use, but I’ll wait to talk about that.
Can you relate?
Do you have pictures from when you were born? If so, what do they say to you?
Do you have pictures of you with your parents or other caregivers when they were young, or other mementos like my baby book? What can you learn from them?
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LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post LoveChild 3: I Meet My New Parents appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
September 10, 2018
LoveChild 2: My Son Challenges Me
“Any transition serious enough to alter your definition of self will require not just small adjustments in your way of living and thinking but a full-on metamorphosis.”
Martha Beck, O Magazine, “Growing Wings,” January 2004
Have you ever been in a room filled with adults when someone walks in with a newborn baby?
Most of the people will be propelled as if by magnetic attraction to gather around said infant, cooing and making faces and congratulating the new parents. Well, I’m not one of them. Now teenagers—that’s a different story. But I digress…
To be honest, when I was in my twenties, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to have kids. We never actually tried to get pregnant; we just didn’t try not to, if that makes sense. So I was kind of surprised when, after first thinking I had food poisoning from some bouillabaisse I ate at a restaurant in Vancouver the night before we drove home to Regina (not a pleasant journey), I discovered I was actually pregnant. (No, even though it wasn’t at fault, I’ve never been able to eat bouillabaisse since.)
I reacted to the news about my pregnancy in an, “Oh, so that’s where we’re going,” sort of way.And since the morning sickness only lasted a short while and was controllable if I drank tea and ate toast in the mornings, I kind of liked being pregnant. It was neat seeing and feeling a brand new person come into being inside my body. But it was very abstract, too. I had no idea what to expect when said being arrived and began to cry in the middle of the night. The truth was, I had zero experience looking after babies.
Then my first son was born and I discovered, to my astonishment (as well as everyone else’s), that I took to being a mother like a duck to water. (No pun on my title intended).
(Should you want to read more about my first son's birth, I wrote a blog about that here.)
Years passed, and we still had three younger sons at home when our oldest son married.
Atthe age of 48, I wasn’t anxious to become a grandmother. I didn’t even own an apron, and I rarely baked cookies.
Not that I wasn’t opposed to the idea of one day having grandchildren; I just hadn’t been thinking or dreaming about it happening any time soon.
But just as I’d become a mother for the first time, without much planning or preparation, one day I became a grandmother for the first time.On the morning of September 17, 1996, I dropped my eldest son and his wife off at the hospital and drove home (five minutes away) to wait for his call and do a bit of praying.
Some hours later, I went to the hospital to see our first grandchild, a beautiful little girl. I carried the ginormous stuffed Tigger Les and I had bought when we were at Disney World in Orlando that spring, shortly after finding out about the upcoming baby.
For some reason, I’d decided Tigger was the perfect gift for the baby, ignoring the fact that she’d be at least six years old before she could carry him.
(Granddaughter and her mom with Tigger, who still hangs out in her room)
Baby and parents were doing well, so I visited for a short while and left, intending to return later in the day with our younger sons. (Unfortunately, Les was in Atlanta for business meetings that week.)
To my surprise, our son followed me into the hallway.I looked at him in surprise, wondering if there
was a problem he didn’t want to talk about in front of his wife.
His piercing blue eyes stared into my hazel ones. “The doctor asked if there are any family medical problems.”
(Our oldest son with his first child)
I shook my head. “Not really. Your dad and I are healthy. And your dad’s family is generally healthy. Some of them have a tendency toward hypoglycemia, but I don’t think
there’s anything else.”
“Didn’t Dad have a brother with some kind of illness?”
I explained that his younger brother, Keith, had
had cerebral palsy, but that it
was likely caused by a lack of oxygen when he was born.
Our easy-going son wasn't finished. “What about your parents?” he asked me.
I tilted my head, puzzled. “Well, Grandma had a heart attack when she was in her 70s, and Grandpa died of lung cancer, but he started smoking when he was 9 or 10 and kept going until well into his 40s, so that was likely the cause.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean your real parents.”My stomach flipped. Over the years, any time a doctor had asked about my medical history, I’d just repeated the phrase, “I’m adopted and I don’t have any information.” Every one of them had scribbled something on their info sheet; not one had ever questioned my statement.
Over the years, Les and I had talked a few times about trying to find out more, but I’d never seriously considered it, and although Les had
been surprised by my lack of interest, neither he nor anyone else had ever pushed me to find out. The truth was, I’d never had any desire to find out more about my birth parents, and I had no intention of doing anything now. Besides, I knew my mother would be upset if she thought I was looking for them.
Now, I said, “You know I was adopted. I don't have any information about my birth parents.”
My six-foot son stood his ground. “Yeah, I know. But is there a way to find out?”
I’d assumed the conversation was over and I was ready to move on, but at his words, I shrugged. “No idea. I’ve never worried about it.”
And then it hit me. Why had it never once occurred to me that my adoption was just as much a part of my sons’ identities as it was mine?It would be part of my grandchildren’s identities too. And on and on, ad infinitum.
I reached up to smooth my hair, a nervous habit I try to restrain. “I’ve never tried to find out,” I said. “And you know Grandma. She’d have a fit.”
“She wouldn’t have to know.”
It
was true. My mother was slipping into dementia.
“I guess we might be able to keep her from knowing,” I said. “Unless she asks me outright.” My mother had a scary ability to always know when I wasn’t revealing the entire truth, so I’d rarely been able to keep things from her.
“So will you try to find out?”I took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can find out anything.”
“But you’ll try?”
He wasn’t going to let this go. “I guess so.”
“It would be good to know—just in case there is something.”
I nodded, then turned and walked out of the hospital.
Ihad come in carrying my favourite Pooh character, a grinning Tigger; I left burdened down with an invisible load, feeling like a dismal Eeyore.
While some adopted children long to know their roots, I’d honestly never been concerned. I
was happy with the life I had; why rock the boat? What were the chances it would be a good thing for me to find out who I really was? Might it not actually be better for everyone if I continued to ignore that little question?
Figuratively speaking, I’d always kept the whole adoption thing in a little box hidden on a shelf in the back of my brain. Only on a couple of occasions had I taken that box down and raised the lid a crack before putting the box firmly back on the shelf, right at the back. Now, my oldest son was asking me to bring the box out into the open and remove the lid. But who knew what I’d find if I opened that box? My mother could be a drug addict who would want to move in with me. There could be all sorts of relatives I really didn’t want to know. Easier to skip it, ignore it. I didn’t need the possible complications.
Plus, there
was another reason I was content to leave things as they were. I truly believed God had placed me where I was for a purpose. Every time I’d considered doing something to find my birth parents, he’d told me not to worry, that everything was okay. And I’d never doubted that.
Did I owe it to my sons and my newborn granddaughter to try to discover the truth about who I was? I shook my head. What was I thinking? Now that I'd realized this wasn’t only about me, whether I liked it or not, the decision had been made. I
had to do what I could to find out. I
quickly prayed, “Lord, if you want me to do this, please guide me. I only want to do the right thing.”
Of course, I followed through on my promise to try to find out more. And I'm writing this book—well, blogging it for now—because what I learned made me look at my entire life in a new way.
A Random Thought
(While the "good" side looks amazing, the back is a mass of threads and cut ends of material. But we never see that side.)
I’ve often heard people say our lives are like a quilt, where God sees the beautiful, finished side while we only see the underside with all the fraying edges and dangling threads.
I believe God metaphorically picked me up and held me so I could catch a glimpse of my life as he sees it. He did that partly so I would know that my trust in him was justified, and partly so I could share my story with others who have also wondered whether they are ugly ducklings or swans.
Can you relate?
Have there ever been something in your life that you thought was only about you until at some point you realized it also involved or affected other people?
Does my quilt illustration resonate with you in some way?
LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Find links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post LoveChild 2: My Son Challenges Me appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
September 3, 2018
LoveChild 1: The Ugly Duckling and Me
“It matters nothing if one is born in a duck-yard,
if one has only lain in a swan’s egg.”
Hans Christian Anderson, “The Ugly Duckling”
When I was nine years old, I read two books for the first time.
Both were titled Fairy Tales. One was by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm; the other by Hans Christian Anderson.
I should perhaps mention that the stories in these books weren't necessarily written for children. Many of them were in fact quite gruesome. Definitely not the sanitized versions for children that we've become used to. More akin to horror stories.
Yes, as you can see from the picture, I still have both books. The dust covers are long gone, though.
No, baby swans (cygnets) aren't ugly.
Of the many stories in these books, the one that resonated the most with me, and which I read many, many times, was “The Ugly Duckling.”Unlike the duckling, I didn’t stand out because I was physically different from everyone else. My differences were hidden from sight. But that didn’t make them any less real.
Outwardly, I expect everything seemed fine. In fact, I'm sure there were many who, consciously or unconsciously, thought I was the personification of the spoiled only child.
Inside, however, I felt very much alone.I knew I wasn’t the kind of daughter my mother had wanted—someone with similar interests. I knew my father often found me baffling—especially when I argued with him (and was often successful at proving my point). I had no siblings to talk things over with. I was very quiet around my parents' friends and relatives. Not shy, exactly; more awkward because I never knew what to say to them. I assumed my teachers tolerated me because they had no choice, and I lived in fear of saying or doing the wrong thing at school. I had friends, but none I felt comfortable confiding in, so I relied on myself.
Of course, I also felt guilty for feeling the way I did.My parents loved me. My father was a respected business-man in our small town. My mother was a stay-at-home wife and mother. I was well-fed, well-dressed, well-taken-care-of. I lived in a nice house, with pets and books and everything I needed. I did well in school. I went to Explorers and Sunday school regularly. I had no obvious needs that weren't being met. So what was wrong with me? Why did I feel as if I was different from everyone around me? As though I didn't belong?
But feeling guilty didn't change anything. And I had no idea what to do to make things better.But as I read the story of that poor duckling, I empathized with him. I realized that, like him, I didn’t fit into my world.
But, for the first time, I dared to hope that I, too, might someday become a swan.
Can you relate?
When you were young, did you ever feel all alone, even in a crowd?
Can you think of a book, a person, a TV show or movie, etc. that affected you in a similar way to how "The Ugly Ducking" affected me?
LoveChild: Life Lessons from an Ugly Duckling is the story of my struggle to adjust to the life I was given, and my eventual discovery that, not only had I become a swan but, contrary to my perceptions, I had always been one. Though I didn't realize it until many years later, my life was part of a much bigger plan that all made perfect sense.
I'll be blogging my story once a week.
Links to all these blogs at:
https://www.njlindquist.com/lovechild/
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The post LoveChild 1: The Ugly Duckling and Me appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
August 31, 2018
Call for Stories for a New Hot Apple Cider Book
Get all the details at:
https://thatslifecommunications.com/callout/
The post Call for Stories for a New Hot Apple Cider Book appeared first on N. J. Lindquist.
