Suddenly *Not So* Single Journey

A little backstory…

Author: thenicknick

When people ask of my birth, I joke about being imported.  I tell everyone it sounds so much more exotic than simply being adopted.  And if you know me, then you know I can never be too simple.  God forbid that you should accuse me of being run of the mill or ordinary…you might never live it down.  *ahem*

So, the truth of my existence is that I am adopted.  It’s something I’ve always known.  My mom, the woman who raised me, always read me a children’s book while I was little that explained what adoption was.  The book was called “The Chosen Baby.”  It was designed to make me feel special, loved, and wanted.  There are some indications it may have worked too well…like that time with my little sister.

As so frequently happens, my parents were able to have a child on their own about two and a half years after adopting me.  And Allison was feisty…still is.  One day she was very angry with me over goodness knows what.  She was about 8 years old.  And she spoke words meant to strike a mortal blow.

Allison:  Well, you’re not even their real child!

me: Well, at least they wanted me.  They got stuck with you!

Yes, I had comebacks even then.  And she ran off crying.  (Told you I can make people cry using just my words…)

As I grew older, and like any normal kid, I wanted to know about my family.  I wanted some history.  I wanted to know what I was.  There would be projects in school where we studied various cultures and were supposed to research our origins.  Only…I didn’t have any history.  Unlike HIM, who is proud to be Irish, I had nothing.  I grasped at any straws I was given.

My ophthalmologist suggested at one time that given the shape of my eyes and my cheekbones that I might be Iroquois Indian.  Well, I ran with it and read everything I could about the Iroquois.  Now, of course, I realize that given the nature of my adoption, I could be anything or come from anywhere.

See, this story emerged as I aged…

Apparently, my biological parents were engaged and the minute my mother announced her pregnancy…he bolted.  So, rather than have an abortion, (thank you!) she opted to go live with a relative until I was born.  Her obstetrician was my mom’s cousin.  And that’s how the private adoption was negotiated.

You would think that since my cousin was the physician who helped bring me into the world that I would have more clues about my past.  I don’t.  He passed away many years ago.  All I have is a name.  And…every time I have registered on an adoption website…and there have been many…I wonder if I’m even spelling it right.

The name…the one my mom saw on the adoption papers and carried in her soul until I was almost a mother myself…was Mary Ann Petrashune.

I have a birth certificate, but it has the names of my adopted parents, not my biological parents.  I know I was born in St. Anthony’s Hospital in St. Petersburg, Florida on July 7, 1972.  (It always seemed like a lucky thing to be born with so many 7s.)  And, since my kids both had Mongolian spots on their lower backs when they were young and we know the ex’s heritage, we know that I am not completely Caucasian.  See, told you I was exotic.

HE has been very supportive of my efforts to find my past, get some history, discover my heritage.  Maybe it’s because his history means so much to him.  Maybe it’s simply because he cares for me so deeply and he wants me to have everything.  Whatever the reason, I was still surprised when he spoke to me the other night as we were lying there in bed.

He was wrapped around me, like always.  And his arm tightened about my waist briefly before he spoke.

HIM: I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

me: About what?

HIM: Your other family.

I knew what he meant.  I had explained to him that sometimes it bothered me that my family was so small.  I told him that it wasn’t that I wanted a replacement family.  It wasn’t that I felt like I had missed out on anything by being raised by my adoptive parents.  They were all I had ever known.  They loved me and cared for me and never treated me differently than their biological child.  It wasn’t that at all.  It would simply be nice to have someone that I looked like or a medical history or any history.

HIM: I think that when we have some money we should hire a private investigator.  They will have more success than the adoption sites.

And I looked at him, amazed.  It still surprises me the things he thinks about.  And I didn’t know what to say.  So, I spoke from the heart.

me: I love you.  That would be nice.  Thank you.

So, there it is.  Maybe someday I will have an answer to life’s mysteries.  Maybe I’ll know whose eyes I have.  Maybe I’ll see where that nose came from.  Maybe I’ll have family stories about coming over on the Mayflower or being related to some writer or just anything.  Maybe they’ll be a huge disappointment like Joe Dirt’s family was.  It’s a risk I don’t mind taking.

I’m not looking for a new mom.  I have a great one already.  I’m not looking for a new family.  I love the one I have.  Still, I have a lot of love.  And if that was an option, I’d embrace it.  And if it’s not…could I at least get some medical history, please?

Quick Karma:

• nothing can bring you peace but yourself
  

This entry was posted on Friday, March 26th, 2010 at 6:10 am and is filed under Just Sharing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.