Please read these entries first (or just scroll down ) Clicking opens the posts in a new window:
Adoption Part 1
Adoption Part 2
Adoption Part 3

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My parents adopted me when I was 9 days old. They had tried for four years to have children of their own, but couldn’t conceive. They adopted me, then within four years had two sons of their own.

Did you know adoption was a cure for infertility? It is sometimes.

Problem was, I was an ugly baby. Holy god! I’m talking strangers-smile-politely-then-turn-away ugly. As I mentioned before, my parents had to take whatever baby came up on the list. Even if it wasn’t a pretty baby. Even if it had medical problems (I needed eye surgery by the age of four). Even if it wasn’t a boy.

Here you can see the bloom is quickly coming off of the rose of this “adopted brat” thing. And these are the best of the best - my mother gave them to me to include in a slideshow to be shown at their 40th anniversary party. I can’t imagine what facial expressions of disgust are in the pics she decided to keep for herself. You can see in the pictures below that she is clearly contemplating roasting me, and my dad is thinking of tying me to the hood of his car. Just kidding!

My mother is Ms. Sorority. Everything is about her, and her getting attention and looking good to others. She got plenty of attention for adopting a “poor, unwanted” baby. (An unwanted baby that there was a 2 year waiting list for! ) After the adoption and the attention she got for it, she was in her element for a while, I would imagine.

But then she found out she could have her own. She had two beautiful baby boys born 13 months apart from each other, cute and perfect in every way.

But yet she still had me, and she had no way to change that.

Growing up, my brothers didn’t like me. At all. I’m not talking normal sibling rivalry, I’m talking hate and resentment that little children just don’t normally have. It was like I was living in a clubhouse, but I was never invited to join. My two brothers were their own club. My parents were a second club. All four of them together were a third club. By God, I was going to join their club!

My childhood was spent trying to win approval, and withdrawing in despair when I couldn’t get it. I shared my toys. Some days I’d spend all afternoon cleaning my brothers’ rooms (to try and get in good with them AND my mom). I remember sitting and thinking, “How will I get them to like me?” I’d follow them around, even spy on them, to try and figure it out.

Spying became my favorite game. Usually my brothers were the focus, but one day I overheard a conversation between my parents that I will never forget.

When I was in fifth or sixth grade, my younger brother Mark got sick with stomach pains. He even went to the hospital for it. The doctors couldn’t understand what was causing it. He ended up being fine, but for about a week we didn’t know.

One afternoon, I was in the living room while my parents were in the kitchen, talking about my brother’s condition. They must have not known I was home, and me being a super-awesome ninja spy, I was not going to alert them to this fact.

The spying game took an unfortunate “bummer!” turn when I overheard my mother saying to my father that it was my fault my brother was sick in the hospital. That I “kept the house in turmoil” and “made” my brother sick. (Yes, now you know my secret. I was the most powerful and evil sixth grader ever to exist. Bow down before me!) She spoke of me with such contempt, it made my blood run cold.

I don’t remember how she rationalized blaming me, nor do I remember the rest of the conversation. I do know it involved me, and regret that I was in their household. It was pretty ugly. I stayed in the living room and hid behind the piano until I could sneak away, feeling like the world had come to an end. I had made my brother sick, and I didn’t even understand how I did it. Also, it was the first time I had heard my mother confirm what I felt all along: that I was an unwelcome burden, an intruder.

I must emphasize that overall I was a good kid. Annoying yes, but I almost never got in trouble, I made good grades, I had plenty of friends. To this day I can’t see how my parents could blame me for making their house one of “turmoil”.

When I was about 21 or 22, I had it out with my mother about a lot of things. One of those things we discussed was why my brothers had hated me all my life. I told mom it was because they picked up on my parents feelings towards me, and imitated them. She acknowledged that my guess was probably true. It was a victory for me.

Read these first (or just scroll down ) Clicking the links will open new windows:
Adoption Part 1
Adoption Part 2
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One of the things that pisses me off most about being adopted is the comments I get. (Not blogging comments — people say these things TO MY FACE!)

One comment that is consistently in the top ten:

“You must be so GRATEFUL to your adopted parents for taking you in!”

Translation: You’re a charity case, and a burden, and I’m superior to you because my parents wanted me.

I’m as grateful to my parents as any child should be to their parents for the time and money it takes, and general pain-in-the-ass it is to raise a child.

But this expectation of society (and of some adoptive parents) that adopted children should be MORE APPRECIATIVE than other children is just one big, gigantic crock of steaming horseshit.

For God’s sake, I was a 9 day old baby! And there was a 2-4 year waiting list for babies at that time. So don’t canonize my parents for taking in this “unwanted” baby. They were blessed with a new member of their family; they did not volunteer for a lifelong case of charity work. They do not deserve the admiration and awe of others who say, “How wonderful of you! I know I couldn’t take in someone else’s bastard child and raise it as my own!”

Sorry, but I don’t care if society, or even my own parents, see me as some sort of “second quality” person who should be eternally grateful for everything that everyone else gets as a matter of course. Like I’m some horrid person that was a huge burden that mooched 18 years of handouts from my parents, yet my brothers were gifts from God to my parents.

I’m grateful I had parents and a home. I’m grateful I’ve never known abject poverty or physical abuse from my parents. I’m grateful for the exact same things that everyone who was raised in a decent home should be grateful for.

But do I owe a bigger debt than those who were raised by their biological parents? No, and fuck anyone who thinks so.

Second most popular quotes (a tie, boys and girls! How exciting!) :

“You went looking for your biological family? How UNGRATEFUL of you!”

“So, your parents loved you and raised you your whole life, and this is how you show your APPRECIATION?! Searching for your *gasp* ‘real’ family?”

AGAIN with the “grateful” and the “appreciation”! Jesus, but people love to point fingers and tell you that you’re not deserving of what you have, and should make amends immediately.

I found (what’s left of) my biological family (maternal side) in 2001. (My biomom was killed by the church of $cientology in 1995. I found two half-brothers, an aunt, a step-aunt, and a second cousin).

When I told my mother that I had found my biofamily, she began with the theatrics and hurt feelings. I stopped her cold.

You see, my mother is way into genealogy. Around that time, she had discovered in HER family heritage an uncle that had fought in the Civil War. She found his gravesite and some stories about his life and everything. It was interesting to me, and she was incredibly excited about it.

So when she started her pouting about my seeking out my relatives, I explained it to her this way:

“You know when you found that Civil War uncle, and all the genealogy stuff you’ve dug up over the years, the stories and the pictures and how interesting that is?”

Mom replied, “Yes?”

I explained, “Well, that man is someone you never met. In fact, most of the relatives you’ve found information on are people you’ve never met. But it’s INTERESTING and important to you, right?”

“Well, of course it is.”

“So, why are adopted people not allowed to have the same curiosity? Why are WE not allowed to have an interest in our blood heritage?”

It shut her up, because she realized she was being hypocritical. She dropped the hurt martyr thing immediately.

A select few in this society truly believe that adopted people have less rights and more obligations than other people. I don’t know if it’s because they think only horrible people would be rejected by their own parents, or maybe they think only horrible parents would “reject” their child (and since we are related to these irresponsible people, we as adopted children are guilty by genetic association). I really can’t say for sure what it is. And the bad attitudes are certainly the exception, not the rule.

Know this:

I’m grateful and appreciative for all my life’s blessings. But, despite being adopted, my debt to the world is no more and no less than any other person on the face of this beautiful earth.

If you haven’t already, read Adoption, Part 1

The concept of “home” has always been my Holy Grail. I have spent my whole existence focused on obtaining a home, even though I technically had one. Why did I feel this way?

My mother says that I was told I was adopted “all along.” But this is not true. I remember the first time I heard it. I remember the day because it was also the first day I realized that my mother could lie to me.

I remember I was in kindergarten. My younger brothers weren’t in school yet. I looked like my brothers, except for the eyes. Mine were brown, theirs were blue-gray; a good blend for my mothers’ hazel eyes. My father had brown eyes, but we were all brunette. I blended.

One afternoon, my mother had our baby books and was showing us pictures and locks of hair from our infanthood. The cover of my baby book had writing on it, and I asked my mom to read it to me. She read: “Our Adopted Baby.” I remember the sensation of all the blood draining out of my head, and asking her, “I was adopted?!” She was incredulous. “Yes, we’ve always told you that you were adopted!” she snapped at me angrily. I was unprepared for this sudden anger and it scared me. Then she got even more pissed and said some stuff in a snotty tone. Then she dismissed any questions I had and changed the subject.

I may have only been six years old, but I knew bullshit when I heard it, even if I didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate it. I knew that my parents had never told me I was adopted.

But yet, mom just said they had told me “all along”.

Either she was lying, or I was mistaken and had “forgotten” I was adopted. Parents don’t lie, so it had to be my fault, my mistake. That was my first lesson. Tis’ far better to accept responsibility for situations for which you are not culpable, than it is to admit that you can rely on no one. I decided I must have forgotten. But, how does a child “forget” they were adopted?

Even at that young age, as my mother sat in her tacky green ’70s chair surrounded by three children hanging on her every word and dying to have their sticky fingers touch the black and white photographs — even then, as I made the decision to accept her hint that I was somehow feeble-minded for forgetting such a fact, I knew somewhere deep down that I had never heard that I was adopted until that day.

That has always been my family’s way of handling things. Or one of the top five ways:

• Deny, deny, deny
• Find a way to shake any responsibility
• Quickly change the subject
• Refuse to admit anything is “wrong”
• When caught in a lie, stick with it and accuse the other person of needing “psychological help” (that one rang big in my teenage years)

I came out of the proverbial adoption closet on the playground the next day, telling all my friends about me being adopted as I swung on the swingset. I remember one kid saying, “that means your real parents didn’t want you!” but comments didn’t phase me. I just said, “Get off my case, toilet face!” and kept swinging.

I was happy and full of hope. I felt special. At that young age I couldn’t understand why, but I felt like it explained everything.

Just an aside question from the adult Mary: What kind of attention-seeking fuck buys a baby album with the title “Our ADOPTED Baby”? Danger, danger, Will Robinson!