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I once read somewhere that when you are adopted, you end up living a life not knowing where life started for you. You grow up yearning to know who made you, what does your mother look like, what your father worked as and if you had your father or mother's smile. You end up wondering if that crooked front tooth was genetic. It probably isn't but, as someone who is adopted, you may start wondering that despite the silliness of it all.

It is a pretty selfish endeavor to start yearning to find your 'original' family because on one hand, you have this wonderful set of parents who argued over your prom dress, felt their hearts being stomped on whenever some useless fellow broke your heart and someone who wouldn't mind eating left-over donut coated with your saliva when you were little.

But the fact remains that it wasn't where one began. The very first moment of creation – that's not where it began. It began in someone's womb – a combination of cell between one woman and one man. Hopefully, they loved each other during the act of creation but it really didn't matter as long as one knew where one began.

Or does it?

For the conventional mother, you make the child, you raise the child. Period. For the unconventional mother, there are two types. There is the one who makes you and decides that she can't cope with you and then there is the other type of mother who was designed in every single way, except biologically, to be a mother.

An adoptive mother, I think, is a lot of like a chef or baker.

Someone else had kneaded the dough and then she hands the chunk to you, leaving you to your own devices. 'You come up with something with this one, eh?' she chimes without casting a backward glance.

So the adoptive mother works on the dough, watching it grow and become something. And if it flattens out and becomes a big fat nothing, it's not the birth mother's fault....it becomes the adoptive mother's fault. She ruined something that should have been good.

The child may carry with her all the genes from her parents...the creators, but the child's soul will carry with it the experiences of life - love, tears, happiness, profound joy, commitment, loyalty, fears, anger, frustrations and hate – together with the one who lived it with her.

The one who didn't give up on her.

About The Author
Marsha Maung is a freelance writer, web content producer, seo article writer, blogger, and online social networking consultant. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, her website and blog.

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