Something strange happened on my way to my inbox... instead of arriving safely at the sign-in page, I instead was bounced to the adoption store. I hadn’t realized there was such a thing as an adoption store, but then again, other than actually being adopted, and even that thirty-seven years ago, I haven’t exactly been in the adoption scene inner circle. Balloons, personalized books, T-shirts; everything one could (or could not) imagine are available there. Some of those things seemed very useful resources and tools whether you are a birth parent, adoptive parent or an adoptee. Some of those things got me thinking... and worrying a bit.

One of the reasons that adoption really hasn’t been a “big deal” in my life was because it was never MADE a big deal. Although I wasn’t told I was adopted until I was around seven or eight years old, I have no recollection of having been “lied to” or awkward moments when discussing where babies come from (for that matter, I have NO recollections of such a discussion being as it was the late ‘early 70’s and the sexual revolution never reached my home town.) For a few years after I was told how I came into my family, we took the time to celebrate my “second birthday” otherwise known as the day I came home, but I can barely even remember them (other than the first) and have no idea when the celebrations became extinct due to the evolution of my primary school social life.

I can count on one hand the number of times before I was twelve that the fact that I was adopted was something I even thought about. Occasionally it would come up in my group of friends and/or I would talk about it. I think in the fourth grade I brought my adopted self in for show-and-tell (yes, always looking for the creative angle... not to mention a few laughs.)

Ah, yes... I do remember another "main" time I really thought about being adopted. It was just after seeing Annie, the movie. I recall wistfully singing (incessantly, for weeks,) “Betcha they’re young, betcha they’re smart. I bet they collect things like ashtrays and art. Betcha they’re good why shouldn’t they be? Their one mistake was giving up meeeeee...”

Occasionally, after singing this little ditty with a red towel wrapped around my head trying to BE Annie (Daddy Warbucks was sadly missing, so the illusion was never complete) I do remember wondering what THEY were like. But mostly I didn’t, I just didn’t think about it. Taunting by my sisters, both biologically of my parents, was about being fat or stupid or hitting or just BEING, as is often the case with siblings, but NEVER about being adopted. Again, just as it wasn’t a big deal for me, it didn’t seem to be a big deal for them.

[Continued...]