One of life’s great mysteries is solved. You may not know this, unless you’re a guy. Then, you probably do.
Those holes in boxer shorts?
They’re for PEEING through.
Don’t even ask how this came up at my house because I just couldn’t tell you. Suffice it to say, E and I are the only girls, there are three guys, and there are things we just never have reason to think about. But tonight, after being streaked by a child in boxers, I asked, “Why do they even PUT those holes?” They’re a CLEAR security risk.
Hubs looked at me like I have no brain in my head and stated their purpose.
I dropped to the ground like a stone and howled. I promise you, I laughed until tears rolled down my face. I held my sides until my ribs hurt. I rolled from side to side trying to placate the ache in my teeth from laughing so hard. Every time I thought I was done, the mental image would refresh and I would start anew. My family just stared impassively, knowing it would pass. I was like a crab on my back, unable to scuttle to my feet.
Here’s the mental image that so amused me:
(and I should warn it’s probably only funny if you’re in my head)
A row of men at urinals with their buttcheeks hanging out because their boxers have no holes.
OH MY GOD I have to go laugh again.
The fact that I’m a sista from another mother has been on my mind this week, as Columbus Day is my coming home day. For you non-adopted folks, what that means is that, although I was born in August, I met my parents for the first time in October.
Last night, I read an amazing post by Jen at Steenky Bee, a wonderful mom to two adopted kids. She asked about my reunion with my birth parents, which got her the longest, rambliest, craziest email in the world for her troubles. Since it’s so in my universe this week, I decided to just put this out here.
Before I came home to the suburbs to become a doted upon first child, I was in St. Ann’s Infant and Maternity Home in DC, and my name was Madeline, after the little French girl in the books. My 15 year old birth mother was trying desperately to think of a way to keep me, but every day as she walked over to visit me after school it became more apparent that that wasn’t going to work out. She thought about putting me in foster care until she graduated high school, but in the end, decided letting me go was the best thing for all parties involved. Not the easiest, not by a long shot, but the best.
I spent so much time as a child wondering Every. Single. Day. if my birthmother was OK. If she know that I was OK. That was all I ever wanted for both of us, was to know that the other one understood why things went down the way they did. I grew up knowing how young she was, that my birth father was 18. That she had lots of brothers and sisters, and not a lot of money.
My parents are amazing and wonderful and everything anyone could ever want in
parents. But that didn’t make me stop thinking about her. (Never so much him…I don’t know what that was. I think I always viewed him as the one with the dumb stick that got her into this whole mess. Not fair, I know.)
From a very young age, I was struck by the fortitude it would take at 15 to follow through on a pregnancy, and then walk away, assuming it was for forever. I think trying to get in her head is the one of the reasons I went into Journalism. I always wanted the who, what, when, where, and why, because I was always looking for the key to this one central tenet of my life.
The cruelty of the closed adoption system broke my heart. I hated birthdays, because I thought of her and couldn’t enjoy myself, knowing on some gut level that she was thinking of me somewhere. She wasn’t the forgetting type, I knew that. I found out later she used to slip out to a diner and have cake every birthday, and that her husband and later kids (not my birthdad) were never told what day it was, although he did know about me.
Yet I didn’t search right away when I turned 18. I was scared of the power of it- I knew there was a chance she wouldn’t want to meet me, and that would be the end of that. But I never really believed that would be the case. I just didn’t know if I was ready for the fallout. When you have a system that keeps people apart for decades and then throw them back together with the title affiliations, but no real world connections to back it up, it gets weird. I knew that, I think.
But I came to a point where I just couldn’t not do it anymore. I was 26. I had already followed in my birthmother’s footsteps 2 times, as so many adoptee girls from closed adoptions do. It’s the only way we know to emulate them.
I got pregnant at 17 and had a baby that was stillborn. Went a little crazy and rebellious for a while, went out West, lost myself. Came home a year later, trying to get found. Got pregnant AGAIN, not married- at 20. Had a beautiful boy. But having a child brought up so many feelings- the first genetic connection I had had! It served to emphasize how there had been another, but it was severed.
The final straw was a weekend of listening to Mary Chapin Carpenter, over and over again. I love her music, and was playing “Come on Come On.” These lines shifted something in me:
“Come on come on, it’s getting late now
Come on come on, take my hand
Come on come on, you just have to whisper
Come on come on, I will understand
It’s a need you never get used to, so fierce and so confused
It’s a loss you never get over the first time you lose
And tonight I am thinking of someone, seventeen years ago
We rode in his daddy’s car down the river road”
And suddenly, it all came into crystal clear focus- Mary Chapin Carpenter was my birthmother. She hailed from the Washington DC area. She had the same number of sisters as my birthmother. She was born in the same year. And most importantly, she knew. She knew the feeling that haunted me, the yearning.
The reason I’d been listening to so much MCC is because I was going to see her play at the 9:30 club. So, I reasoned, what better way to test my hypothesis than to drop off a letter at the box office? So I did. I wrote a a 2 page tome explaining my question, and asking, probably very, very awkwardly, if…you know…maybe I was her baby???
Amazingly, no bouncers came and found me and dragged me out. But nothing else happened either. No shout out from the stage, no, “This one’s for my kid! (Wink.)” As I drove home that night, I cried and cried. I was an idiot. There was something wrong with me. At the time, I had no idea how common it is for adoptees to shift their longings onto celebrities, because it’s easier than fixating on that lady 2 aisles over at the grocery store. We know as much about celebrities as we do about our birth parents. Often more. And shoot, who wouldn’t want to claim Madonna? Why the heck not? It could be anybody.
That weekend, I felt like something had shaken loose deep inside of myself. I cried as though someone I loved deeply had died. I sobbed at the playground. In the car. Whenever I thought about how outlandish my need to know had become, how it couldn’t be shut away anymore, but how terrified I was to unleash it.
On Monday, very quietly and without consulting anyone, I filed a petition with DC Superior Court to have my records opened for a finite period of time, long enough for the Catholic Charities social worker to find my birthparents, contact them, and determine if they wanted to know me. I had to pay a $500 fee to Catholic Charities, which always really pissed me off. I have to pay YOU to find out who I am??? But I did it. It seemed a small price to pay, although noxious.
A week later, a letter came. The record were open. The next week, I met with a social worker to go over my “reunion expectations”. Again. I was resentful. Why was it her business? Did people interview HER before she went to Christmas at HER parents house? But, it was part of the process.
By this point, I’d told my family and fiance that I was searching. They were all supportive, if nervous. My mom really worried that I would be hurt. But I felt it would hurt far more to keep plugging along, quietly breaking into pieces.
Three days after the meeting, I got the call. She’d found my birth mother. This was her phone number. Could I call her that night?
Ummm. Yeah. That would be cool, I guess.
That first night, we talked for two hours. That’s how it still is when we talk, 8 years later. We have a similar rambling conversational style- we both love to tell stories. We both drink coffee at night. Love popcorn. Cuss a little bit for fun, if there’s no small children around. She has three other children. My birth father, whom I’ve talked to twice and seen twice, has 4, 2 girls in their 20s from his first marriage and a 5 and 2 year old.
The second I heard my birthmother’s voice, that longing and yearning disappeared. All I’d ever wanted to accomplish with a reunion was done. I could say, “Hey, I’m OK. You?”
And most of all, I could say, “Thanks.”
The fact that we’ve built such a friendship is a great bonus. My parents invite her to family gatherings, she sends cards when my mom has operations. Sometimes, it’s awkward. She didn’t really want to give me up, but felt a lot of pressure from her family. I think it’s sometimes hard for her to be faced with all that I did have, all the love for all those years from parents who were not her. But I think she knows it was best, too.
She said to me once, taking a drag on a cigarette, “If I had kept you, kid? Peanut butter and jelly, alllllll the way.”
So we just breeze through it with the best social grace we can all muster. There are no rules, no right way. My mother had her sit in the front row with them for my wedding. I can’t begin to describe the feeling I got, looking down from the altar and seeing the trifecta of people who loved me in such different ways.
And Chapin, If you read this, don’t worry…I’m not a stalker. No, seriously…ok, musically, yes. But you can play 9:30 again. Soon.
Below is a live version of this song, from 1995 at Wolftrap. It’s much slower than the studio version, but really highlights the amazing power of her voice. I’ll always thank MCC for getting me off my ass and making me take a step that truly, truly changed my life.
And so is this blog. And yet, I have to ask a burning question: Where is the campaign music? We need some TUNEAGE up in this campaign, y’all. Now, I know each candidate has their songs, but I haven’t seen anything that captured my imagination like Bill Clinton’s use of Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow”. Now THAT was a moment.
But this year’s guys are trying. Here’s what they spin so far, according to Songfacts:
Barack Obama’s main songs:
Move on Up, Curtis Mayfield
City Of Blinding Lights, U2
John McCain’s main songs:
Johnny B. Goode, Chuck Berry
Take a Chance on Me, ABBA
Seriously, nothing grabs me with those. Now, I would absolutely vote for anyone who used Ben Fold’s “All You Can Eat”- I can’t stop singing that song in my head. I think it sums up what needs to change in our country right now.
Another one that would get my vote: Ani D’s “Not A Pretty Girl”. That line where she snarls “And I am a patriot…and I have been fighting the good fight…” Chills every time.
Speaking of Ben Folds, Chag over at Cynical Dad hosted one of his famous Twitter radio shows the other week highlighting Ben-twas very cool. Tonight’s another one, “Duets: Hold the Cheese”, 10 pm EST. To request a song, follow Chag on Twitter. Huh…so I guess “Love lifts us up where we belong” is out, huh?
What about you? What would be solid campaign music? Not music that doesn’t offend the voters, music that actually tells voters what the candidate cares about? If you’re strongly about one candidate or other, that’s of course awesome, but please play nice in comments.:)
I learned via Brooklyn Vegan last night that MIA is quite pregnant. I’ve been a fan of the Sri Lankan powerhouse since her Galang Galang days, and was so excited to see the pics (Credit: Kyle Dean Reinford) of her rocking the stage at a NY party with her bump front and center.
Go check out these pictures, and tell me what you think- I was blown away by how powerful she looks. It’s pretty cool to see a traditionally passive and protected state transforemed and translated in this really Goddess-Y way.
I’m at Blogher DC today, in the lunch session right now, and will be back tomorrow with more words. If my head doesn’t explode from all the learnng. Hot topic of the day? Twitter: Brain drain or community building dream?
Hey everybody, it’s Friday again! That actually means the opposite to me of what it means to most folks. Instead of blessed respite from office stuff, round these parts, it means three small people, 24/7, expecting to be fed and whatnot. Hell-o, what am I, your…Oh. Yeah. I am your mom. Shoot. All right then, let’s bust out a frozen pizza, shall we?
Anyway. In honor of this dubious thing we call Friday, I’m stealing borrowing an idea from Brenda over at Seriously, Mama. If you’re not reading her, go now. I’ll wait right here.
While you’re at it…I’m guest posting at Momma’s Tantrum today, while she lounges on the beach in Maui. No fair, I know. So while you’re blog hopping, go check out my love of all things XM.
Are you back? Kay. So for my first Flashback Friday, I’m busting out Primus’s “My Name is Mud”, because it introduced me to the slaphappy bass genius that is Les Claypool. The heaviness of that song, combined with goofiness and a slightly eerie key, delight me every time. I heard it today on…you guessed it…XM radio (also known as the device that allows me to pretend I’m still in high school) and it delivered, as always. Have a great weekend!
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October 19, 2008 
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