Leave a Note

Last week marked the 32nd anniversary of my parents winning the grand prize of me in the lottery that was 1970s closed adoption.  Thirty-two years is plenty of time to learn how to properly work the system and discover the many pros and cons that come with being adopted.

Pros include the following: Growing up we celebrated my birthday like every other kid, but I also had an adoption anniversary a month later that came complete with presents, cake, and the coveted “You Are Special” plate at dinner.  These days I get a check from my parents (that’s right, I’m paid for being adopted), panties (yes, panties) or some other absurdity from my aunts and grandmother, and gifts such as enormous pancakes and cases of beer from good friends.  (My husband doesn’t quite have the hang of it yet–one year he gave my nail clippers and a bag of pork rinds.)

My parents always made a big deal about how great it was to be adopted to the point where I walked into my preschool class and announced “I’m special, for real.”  Once my brother and I got in a fight, which I probably instigated, and as a desperate line of defense he pulled out “Mom and Dad don’t like you as much because you’re adopted.”  Rather than being deeply wounded, like my brother had intended, I was elated by the comment because I knew he had actually sealed his own fate as the loser of this particular battle.  I immediately mustered up some tears and told on him.  His punishment was swift and brutal, and all of my own sins were immediately overlooked (whereas all persons even remotely involved in a fight or any other sort of dust-making activity usually got whacked with a wooden spoon).  As an adult, if my siblings ever try to use the whole “you’re adopted” thing against me, I can easily fire back “Oh yeah?  I’m the only one mom and dad planned!”  Booyah.

One benefit of knowing your biological parents is that you can blame things on your genes–”Sorry I’m a deranged lunatic.  It’s in my blood.”– but being adopted is even better because you can just make shit up.  “Ooooh, sorry I ate your sandwich.  It must be in my blood.”  I even get to skip the tedious “family history” section of medical forms and insurance questionnaires.

Still, there’s a certain comfort in knowing where you came from and what’s likely ahead for you.  For example, my sister can take comfort in the fact that our mother is a fox at age sixty-two, so there’s a good chance she will be, too; I have no idea what I’m in for.  My brothers knew ahead of time that they would eventually need glasses, but no one saw the teeth that shot every which way out of my head coming.

I completely understand the reasoning behind a closed adoption and not wanting to share too much personal stuff, but there is some information that would be useful.  The slip of paper I came with included the following facts: My biological mother was 16 and good at art and my biological father liked to bowl.  Fascinating, yet useless.

Here are some notes that would have come in handy:

Dear biological child,
You can kiss those magnificent boobs you grew in your twenties good-bye in your thirties.
Sincerely,
Your biological mother

Dear biological child,
You will have a she-stache for a couple of months after your kids are born.  Wax it immediately.
Sincerely,
Your biological mother

Dear biological child,
Your ass is going to get really big once you hit forty.  Just thought you’d want to know.
Sincerely,
Your biological mother

Dear biological child,
You come from a long line of lanky uncoordinated people, so don’t even try to play sports that require skills or balance or grace in any way shape or form.  People will laugh at you.  And oh yeah, you’re not fast and you never will be.
Sincerely,
Your biological father
p.s.  Your mother’s ass got really big once she hit forty.

And so, dear readers, if you find yourself unintentionally in a baby way and parenthood just isn’t in the cards for you right now, I say choose adoption–but for God’s sake, leave a note.

Enormous adoption anniversary chocolate chip pancake and gift of beer from the lovely and talented Kelly P. of Shoot Me Pretty.  Unfortunately I don’t have a picture of the 2004 gift of pork rinds from Steve.

Props for thumbnail: photo by Tony the Misfit on Flikr, “Pencil Pusher” lego sculpture by Nathan Sawaya.