When I was six months old, I was adopted.
My parents had known about me since I was born, but apparently somebody (the details are unclear who exactly was involved) couldn't make up her mind about giving me up for adoption, and I spent the first six month of my life in an undisclosed location.
My dad still says I was the cutest baby he'd ever seen when they met me in the elevator in February, 1971.
Things didn't go much more smoothly before my sister was adopted, either. Before she came into our lives, my parents were told a baby boy was on his way. Then they said, "Oops, sorry about that."
My sister came along when I was five and a half. I remember the events surrounding her arrival vaguely, with a rush to Sears for a crib and a day with Grandma and Grandpa babysitting so Mom and Dad could pick her up. Like shopping.
Given that my friends' little brothers and sisters were all in the 3-4 year old range, I was a bit confused by the screaming, red-faced, two-day old infant that moved in that day. My mother's insistence that we all wear surgical masks around the baby because of the first swine flu outbreak didn't help my attitude.
My mother was more than a little nervous when the social worker wanted to meet with me individually before the adoption could be finalized.
We kept her in spite of my sisterly observations, and people who don't know our story frequently tell us they can tell we're sisters.
My mom, dad, and baby sister are definitely my family. My real family. I've never searched for my birth parents, although health information would be nice.
But my real family is the one who supported me through the past 43 years, loving me unconditionally in spite of my stubbornness and sometimes crazy plans, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.
My parents had known about me since I was born, but apparently somebody (the details are unclear who exactly was involved) couldn't make up her mind about giving me up for adoption, and I spent the first six month of my life in an undisclosed location.
My dad still says I was the cutest baby he'd ever seen when they met me in the elevator in February, 1971.
Things didn't go much more smoothly before my sister was adopted, either. Before she came into our lives, my parents were told a baby boy was on his way. Then they said, "Oops, sorry about that."
My sister came along when I was five and a half. I remember the events surrounding her arrival vaguely, with a rush to Sears for a crib and a day with Grandma and Grandpa babysitting so Mom and Dad could pick her up. Like shopping.
Given that my friends' little brothers and sisters were all in the 3-4 year old range, I was a bit confused by the screaming, red-faced, two-day old infant that moved in that day. My mother's insistence that we all wear surgical masks around the baby because of the first swine flu outbreak didn't help my attitude.
My mother was more than a little nervous when the social worker wanted to meet with me individually before the adoption could be finalized.
We kept her in spite of my sisterly observations, and people who don't know our story frequently tell us they can tell we're sisters.
My mom, dad, and baby sister are definitely my family. My real family. I've never searched for my birth parents, although health information would be nice.
But my real family is the one who supported me through the past 43 years, loving me unconditionally in spite of my stubbornness and sometimes crazy plans, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.