When I tell people that I’m adopted, often they’ll say, “Oh, did you ever think of finding out who your ‘real’ parents are?” My mom and dad told me that I was adopted when I was really young. I don’t remember the exact words that they used, but they must have framed it in such a way that the news gave me the impression that while they weren’t directly responsible for my genetic material, they WERE the people who were supposed to raise me. I still feel that the people I called mom & dad are the parents I was supposed to have, and I’m not curious about my supposed other “real” parents; but I do feel just a slight bit of worry that they’re gypsies, or circus people and they might be missing teeth and/or living in trailers. It’s just a hunch I have.
I like the idea of baby spirits floating around on clouds, carefully selecting their parents. That’s why when Fireboy and I kicked off our IVF journey I made a fancy brochure that touted all our most appealing features. I was really going after the sophisticated, discerning baby market—the way a five star hotel would lure choosy guests. My informative brochure showcased all the benefits of selecting us as parents; from instant Ivy League legacy status, to our wide variety of in-house pets, to the high level of tech support and extensive library—including the complete and final print edition of Encyclopedia Brittanica! Swimming lessons! Travel to exotic destinations! Organic, home-cooked meals! I was really surprised when time after try, we had no little taker.
Then again, having me for a mom probably won’t be all gravy either. While I still remember each and every song, game and art project I picked up in during my 12+ years of teaching, I can’t run very fast anymore. I spend the better part of one day a week hooked up to an IV. And, if we’re being honest, I just might not be on this planet for very long.
I was in college when my mom died. Her death gutted me in a way I probably still haven’t full recovered from, but I loved her with all my heart and if I had it all over to do again—floating around on a cloud, clad in a heavenly diaper—browsing to discover the one perfect mom for me—I’d chose her again in a minute. She was and is, my “real” mom.
So, it makes my heart sing that there’s a baby that’s chosen me for a mom. Finally. A baby who assembled a team of brilliant doctors and a dedicated surrogate in order to incarnate Earthside. And while I might not be this little person’s “real” mother in the eyes of some, I know what the deal is. Also, while we might not be technically related, because this kid picked us, and the trouble it’s gone through to get here—I already like its style.