Baby Woodruff, the sign said at the foot of the crib. A friend, and mentor, sent a birthday message yesterday and wished happy tidings to Baby Woodruff. I smiled. Rarely do I remember that I have had two names: one assigned in the hospital before my adoption was finalized and one given to me by my parents. Since I lived with the first "name" for only ten days, I think I can be forgiven for not remembering it. But in a minor milestone year (turning 45), it felt right to remember that brief beginning.
I am grateful for all that my parents have done for me. They often told me the story of my arrival in the early evening of June 1 and their dashing to the hospital to see me but only briefly because the ward was closing to visitors. First thing the next morning, they were back but they were not allowed to hold me, so they stared through the glass and the nurses moved my crib as close to the glass as possible. They also told me that the nurses held me more than the other babies, but my guess is that they were just saying that because they were proud parents. I have not celebrated a birthday with my birth name, which is probably a good thing since "Baby" might have gotten me beat up somewhere along the way. As I have reflected on the day, however, it appears right in mid-journey to pass by that touchstone for two reasons. I am grateful that my parents loved me, even when I was not their own. It is a model of parenting I have returned to over the years, particularly in the past two. And I am grateful for a "mother" who loved me enough to give me to a loving family. Two and a half decades ago, a scared, brave young teenager brought me into this world and the nurses carried me out of the room to the outstretched arms of adoring parents who could not yet touch me. I was blessed on both ends of that short journey from one room to the next.
Thank you, Mike Cass, for reminding me of my name(s) and helping me to re-member the enormous amount of love that brought me into this world and has sustained me ever since.
