Being Adopted (Part 1)

Someone must have told my parents that it was important for adopted children to be made aware of this fact at an early age. I never remember being sat down and told the facts. I remember always knowing. I knew I was adopted before I knew what the word meant. I suppose my parents felt it best to introduce the label from the very beginning and let me grow into an understanding its meaning over time.

At various points in my life, I've faced both the pros and cons of having been adopted. As a child, it was a fact that seemed to fascinate my friends, which is always cool when you’re a kid. The writers of television shows found adoption a great subject to address in a 30-minute family drama. The show I remember most clearly was an episode of “Father Knows Best”. The youngest daughter learns that her friend was adopted. For some reason I don’t recall, the daughter begins to suspect that she may also have been adopted, a fact which greatly disturbs her. Her friend explains that she’s proud of how she came to be part of her family. She says that most parents are just stuck with the kid they get, but adoptive parents get to choose. Now perhaps the writers were trying to say that adoptive parents choose to be parents, as opposed to having the responsibility thrust upon them after an alcohol-induced lapse in judgment. However, at my age, I took it to mean that adoptive parents were actually able to specifically choose the baby they wanted. I envisioned an adoption agency being like a baby store. Would-be parents, walking among the cribs, deciding which cute baby they wanted to take home…much like families choosing which cute puppy to adopt from the pound. This mental image became so ingrained that it stayed with me long after I grew mature enough to recognize this really wasn’t how the process worked.

On the negative side, I grew up in the northeast where people are very concerned with nationality. (Southerners only want to know if you hail from the south or if you’re one of those damn Yankees, but northerners want to know where your ancestors hailed from.) Adopted kids have no ancestors. We have no nationality. When required to write a school report on my heritage, I had to “adopt” my adoptive parents’ ancestry. I knew that it wasn’t really mine, but what else could I do? Teachers shouldn’t assign projects like that.

On the positive side, when an adopted kid hits the rebellion years, and grows to think his or her parents are morons, he or she can delight in the fact that they are not blood relatives. He is not destined to become his father. She is not doomed to become her mother. They share no genes, no DNA.

As we get older, another benefit rises to the surface. As we age, we find the need to visit more doctors. Everything is not under the realm of the family doctor or pediatrician. And every new doctor requires a new set of forms. If you were adopted, once you get past the insurance information, you’re basically done! You have no family history. Skip those check boxes asking if you have a family history of heart disease, cancer, high blood pressure, stroke…who knows?? Of course, there's the flip side to that too. You read the warning on the medicine bottle advising you that you are at greater risk if there is a history of breast cancer in your family. I’ve never had breast cancer (thank God), but for all I know, every single one of my female relatives died prematurely as a result of that condition…or not…I have no idea. Do I take the meds?? Is it like Russian roulette?

Being adopted is not something you think about every day, but there are moments when it becomes a major focus - for example, when you become a parent.

I’ll address that issue in the next post, the conclusion to “Being Adopted”.

While you’re waiting, visit Lejnd at: http://lejnd.blogspot.com. He’s the WordWhiz featured blogger this week. I promise you, the visit will be worth your time!! Tell him WordWhiz sent ya!