I finally got my baby feet. What I mean is, I just received the card stock paper where the nurses at St. John’s Hospital in Fargo, North Dakota inked my feet, shortly after being born on October 1, 1962 and made an impression of my baby feet with ink.

As I looked at the paper with the impression of my new born feet, the thought occurred to me that after 52 years, I now posses something tangible that most closely ties me to my birth mother in proximity and time.

That piece of paper was there where she was. I know that I was too, but there is something meaningful about having something that I can touch, something outside of myself. It made me think of my birth mother and how she must have felt that day.

The adoption records say that she expressed her desire to want to keep me and parent me like my other two siblings, but she knew it would be nearly impossible given her circumstances as a recent divorced single mother with financial struggles. She opted instead to give me a chance at a better life through adoption and here hope came true, I believe.

My birth mother died of cancer in 1990 at the age of 51 years old. I really wish I could have spoken with her before death took her. I wish I could have let her know that the decision she made in giving me up for adoption was the right choice. It was no doubt a tough choice, one that took courage and hope, and ultimately it was a choice rooted in love for me. It proved to be God’s choice for us both.

I am so grateful that I finally got my baby feet.