Today? I am in a reflective mood. Tomorrow? Shoesday. ( And I am being dragged by the KK bandwagon.)

Somewhere in my parent’s house is a dusty manila folder containing what my memory recalls to be a faded red folder. That folder contains the details of my history.


Twenty-nine years ago yesterday I was given to the only parents I have ever physically known, but not the only parents that have ever loved me. I am lucky in that regard. I have 4 parents who love me in a truly undeserving, albeit different manner.

When my B-Day rolls around each May, I don’t hear the sappy, sugary, sweet stories of “I was in terrible pain, but that all disappeared when the nurse placed you in my arms…” or even the “your Dad almost fainted at the site of the epidural…” anecdotes. I go about my day accepting the obligatory “Happy Birthdays” offered by friends, family and passers-by that overhear it is the day I was born, even though it is only second in meaning to me. It is after all the day that I got my license 13 years ago, the day I was able to legally begin using my real ID to purchase liquor 8 years ago, and the day I realized it is a LOT of pressure to determine the lunch location for your entire department to celebrate. Especially when you have worked at this company for say, 2 weeks?


That day in May? Doesn’t mean what it does to other people. The day I get the warm fuzzies is in September.

Yesterday.

This is the day that almost 3 decades ago my Mom met M on the front steps after school and told him that he was going to be a big brother. This is the day my family loaded up into their car and drove I-35 N to Fort Worth in anticipation of filling the now empty car seat buckled securely next to M.

And this is the day that is filled with memories.

The day my parents let M go with the nice lady at Gladney to get me, armed with 2 outfits, sizes 1-3 months and 3-6 months. M returned in tears exclaiming, “She’s too big for these! What.Is.She.Going.To.Wear?” while giving my parents a look of despair and shame for their lack of foresight. My mother thankfully had brought along a 6-9 month dress just in case her new weeks-shy-of-4-months baby was too chunky to fit in anything else. She just had a feeling. And M breathed a heavy and dramatic 8 year old sigh of relief.

The day my Mom was too scared to admit to the social worker that there was no running water at our house because after 6 plus years of waiting for the call, they had decided to renovate.

The night I struck fear in my parents that they may never sleep again when during the 3 hour drive to my grandparents house in Granite Shoals I was wide-eyed and awake the entire trip. Evan at midnight.

It is the day that I think about how blessed I am to have been loved so deeply by the first two important people in my life to have been placed on my personal yellow-brick road to happiness instead of the rocky road that might have been.

It is the day that reminds me that love isn’t something everyone is born into. I am one of the lucky ones.

But it is also the day that I share these thoughts alone with my *second* family. The two responsible for bringing me into this world have only the day in May.

They don’t know about my A-Day.

I am forever grateful for the choices that were made 29 years ago. Signing the papers must have been hard. I hope the decision does not haunt them, it was the right one.

I am equally as grateful that my parents show no difference in love for a biological child versus love for an adopted child. They love, completely, unconditionally, and the same. They love me so deeply that they have always chosen to share the story of my beginning with me.

I have always known. I was told every day how lucky I was to have both families.

One family I know in and out, up and down, for better or for worse.

The other, I know only what is written in that red folder. I am fairly certain that people divulge more detailed information in online dating profiles than those two 8.5 x 11 sheets of paper, but I have all I need.

Bonus? I get to celebrate with cake and shopping 2 times a year.