Goodbye, 2012

The dawn of a new year approaches, and it's time to say goodbye to the old.  As years go, 2012 was a pretty basic year with some ups and some downs and mostly a lot of average.  Still, as the old year passes, I'd like to tip my hat to it by recognizing ten of the more significant events which transpired during its course:

  1.  I lost a mother.  (God freed my 80 year-old-mother from her Parkinson's
       and dementia in April.)

  2.  I found a mother.  (I made contact with my birth mother a mere 47¾
       years after being given up for adoption.)

  3.  I lost 40 lbs.   (And by "lost," I mean "forcibly ejected from my person.")

  4.  I made new friends.  (Who are still willing to talk to me.)

  5.  I hung out with royalty.  (Which just means I'm cooler than you.)

  6.  I didn't break anything new.  (At least not on my body.)

  7.  I traveled.  A lot.  (I became a road warrior, and not just because I had to
       use public restrooms in 12 different states during my trips.)

  8.  Someone actually paid me to sing at a wedding.  (That'll teach 'em.)

  9.  I joined the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA).  (Which contrarily
       won't let me use my very "period" real name for my persona, because it
       also happens to be the name of a historical royal person.  I can
       anachronistically sneak my iPhone to events and wear brassieres under my
       garb, but I can't anachronistically use my real, historically accurate name.
       Party poopers.  On the plus side, I've met a lot of cool people and can now
       do the Bayeux stitch, not fall over while attempting to bow [mostly], and
       can talk about watery tarts with swords and their viability in government
       all day long without people looking at me strangely or asking if I forgot to
       take my meds.  So I'm calling it a WIN.)

10.  Someone even let me write a guest post on her blog and didn't run away
       screaming in horror.  (You can read it here at the amazing Kristen's blog,
       Four Hens and a Rooster.)

So thanks, 2012, for the highs and even the lows, all of which serve to remind us that we are still alive and have the opportunity each and every day to do more, to be more and to help more.

As for the new year?  I'm ready for you, 2013--BRING IT.

Goodbye, 2012

The dawn of a new year approaches, and it's time to say goodbye to the old.  As years go, 2012 was a pretty basic year with some ups and some downs and mostly a lot of average.  Still, as the old year passes, I'd like to tip my hat to it by recognizing ten of the more significant events which transpired during its course:

  1.  I lost a mother.  (God freed my 80 year-old-mother from her Parkinson's
       and dementia in April.)

  2.  I found a mother.  (I made contact with my birth mother a mere 47¾
       years after being given up for adoption.)

  3.  I lost 40 lbs.   (And by "lost," I mean "forcibly ejected from my person.")

  4.  I made new friends.  (Who are still willing to talk to me.)

  5.  I hung out with royalty.  (Which just means I'm cooler than you.)

  6.  I didn't break anything new.  (At least not on my body.)

  7.  I traveled.  A lot.  (I became a road warrior, and not just because I had to
       use public restrooms in 12 different states during my trips.)

  8.  Someone actually paid me to sing at a wedding.  (That'll teach 'em.)

  9.  I joined the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA).  (Which contrarily
       won't let me use my very "period" real name for my persona, because it
       also happens to be the name of a historical royal person.  I can
       anachronistically sneak my iPhone to events and wear brassieres under my
       garb, but I can't anachronistically use my real, historically accurate name.
       Party poopers.  On the plus side, I've met a lot of cool people and can now
       do the Bayeux stitch, not fall over while attempting to bow [mostly], and
       can talk about watery tarts with swords and their viability in government
       all day long without people looking at me strangely or asking if I forgot to
       take my meds.  So I'm calling it a WIN.)

10.  Someone even let me write a guest post on her blog and didn't run away
       screaming in horror.  (You can read it here at the amazing Kristen's blog,
       Four Hens and a Rooster.)

So thanks, 2012, for the highs and even the lows, all of which serve to remind us that we are still alive and have the opportunity each and every day to do more, to be more and to help more.

As for the new year?  I'm ready for you, 2013--BRING IT.

The Most Epic Christmas Gift Ever

Another Christmas has come and gone.  All over the world people are clearing up the detritus of another year's holiday, carefully putting away decorations, moaning over the extra pounds gained from holiday snacking, trying to find places on already teeming shelves for this year's haul, and opening the refrigerator only to roll their eyes in disgust at the prospect of leftovers for dinner yet again.  Like everyone else, I still have a refrigerator full of leftovers. I have gifts to put away.  Decorations will come down, probably next weekend after Epiphany, assuming they don't drive me nuts before then.  And I confess to having slapped on a couple extra pounds from holiday noshing, in spite of the fact that my thoughtful daughter went out of her way to find Weight Watcher-friendly snacks for my stocking this year.

As things get packed away, most people's focus inevitably returns to creating another list of New Year's Resolutions, which those same people will start to ignore three days after the holiday is over.  Life will go on, as will we, secure in the knowledge that we have survived one more would-be (Mayan) apocalypse and are therefore able to begin another year afresh.  Everyone will start thinking about work or school or chores or whatever and forget about the holiday just past.

Normally, I would too.  This year, however, I am still a little obsessed with one of my Christmas gifts, which I received two weeks before Christmas.  And that's okay, because this is a gift like no other, nor is it one I was expecting to receive in time for Christmas (if at all).  This year, I was given the most epic of Christmas gifts. I was given back my history--my heritage.  And that's a priceless gift.

Some of you may not realize it, but I was adopted when I was only five weeks old.  Sometimes my mother claimed she picked me because I had a cold and she felt sorry for me (probably because she thought she was being funny and/or noble) and sometimes she said it was because I had red hair (which is probably more accurate--she was obsessed with redheads).  At any rate, the call came that a little girl was available and so they drove to the children's home to collect me. They had to stop on the way home for supplies because the call had come so unexpectedly that they weren't entirely prepared; the only baby things in the house were my brother's, none of which would fit me since he was 10 months old when he was adopted.  So after some minor scrambling they got me and the supplies home, and thus my life began.

I always knew I was adopted; my mom went out of her way to make sure we knew long before we were old enough to understand what adoption really meant. Because this information was never hidden from us, it became commonplace and I grew up not thinking much about it one way or another.  It was just another random fact, as much a part of my everyday identity as my freckles or eye color or auburn hair or height.

As I got older, I did occasionally get curious about my birth parents, or more specifically about my genetic background.  I used to fantasize that one day I'd pose as a Gallup pollster (back when that was still plausible) and would "interview" my birth parents to answer all the questions I had, such as who liked to draw or who liked music or what country they were from or who had blue eyes. Afterwards, I'd pack up my clipboard, shake their hands, and quietly leave with nobody the wiser.  After all, I figured that, for whatever reason, they'd made a difficult decision in giving me up and there was just no reason to upend everyone's life by pursuing the matter when I could simply do an informational hit and run to satisfy my curiosity.  Or so I thought.  Obviously, such a plan wasn't very realistic for a number of reasons, not the least of which was whether my birth parents could even be found and were still alive, never mind willing to talk to a "stranger" about something so personal or that they might prefer forgotten.  But then that's how childish fantasies often work.  Most of the time, though, I was reasonably content with my lot.  I never felt abandoned by my birth parents; if anything, I felt (perhaps naïvely) that they'd given me up because they wanted me to have a better life than I might otherwise have had. So I never held a grudge.

Life continued.  I went to college, I got married, I had a child.  Some days I'd still wonder about where I'd come from, some days not.  I became interested in genealogy through B's grandmother, who had traced her family back several generations (which was impressive in the days before Ancestry.com).  She was convinced that the family had descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie (they didn't) but she could never find the direct link between her family and Charlie. Years later, after my daughter was born, I became much more interested in pursuing my origins if for no other reason than to glean medical information that suddenly seemed infinitely more relevant with an infant at home.  After several inquiries the only new thing I was able to discover was the time of day I'd been born; everything else I already knew from the adoption papers my mother had given me before she and Dad moved to New Mexico to retire.  At the time I was told I could pursue my origins if I were willing to petition the courts or pay for a private investigator, but that was about my only shot since all the records were tightly sealed.  Funding an investigation was not an option at the time, so I let it go.

Every now and again I'd still wonder about my ancestry, but mostly I went on with the daily business of raising my child, which kept me plenty busy.  Sure, I often amused myself by making up my ancestry on the whim of the day.  One day I'd be French since my maiden name was French, and another I might be English.  On St. Patrick's Day (my birthday) I was always Irish, along with every other person trying to make up an excuse for drinking green beer.  My supposed Irishosity seemed more plausible, I thought, given such an auspicious  birthday and my leprechaun coloring.  Certainly I immediately discarded  several possible ethnicities because of my pale skin; my friends' prevailing opinion was that I was either Irish (possibly Scottish) or German.  Maybe both.  Anyone's guess was as good as mine.

In April, though, things changed.  In April, my mother passed away at age 80.  I know that she wouldn't have begrudged me wanting to search for my birth parents, but I also know she would have been hurt; the one time I said anything about searching back in high school she became depressed.  She wanted me to be happy, but I think she was afraid of having to share me or of losing me.  No doubt it sounds opportunistic of me to start searching for my birth parents right after my mother died, but that's not exactly how things happened.  I wasn't even thinking of searching at the time.  My mother died and I grieved for her, though I was glad that she was finally free of her dementia and at peace with my dad. It wasn't an immediate thing, this search.  One day in August I was cleaning up piles of stuff on my desk when I ran across a clipping of  Mom's obituary.  I started to file it away with my adoption papers and my other genealogy stuff.   Of course as I did so I had to look through them all again.  After rereading my adoption papers for maybe the 100th time, I thought to myself "I should try again.  I'm getting older.  Medical information could prove useful."  So after playing with the magic Google I did some research,  found some links, and submitted some forms with the requisite fees to the Indiana Department of Health.

A couple weeks later I got a letter back from someone named Darcy.  Darcy informed me that I had used an incorrect form and was therefore returning my check.  She also noted in her letter that if I was interested in continuing my search, she could suggest a couple of options.  I admit I was intrigued.  I thought about it for a couple of days, then decided "what the hell" and called Darcy.  Darcy suggested that I register with the state's adoption database because if my birth parents were likewise registered then the database would find the match and I could then get a copy of my original birth certificate.  She also told me that another option would be to hire a Confidential Intermediary (CI) who could be appointed by the court to research my case and make initial contact with any living birth parents.  It seemed unfathomable to me that some 47 years after my birth I might finally be able to discover something about my origins; I found the prospect both frightening and exciting. I followed Darcy's advice and immediately registered with the Adoption Registry and Database.  In a follow-up letter thanking me for registering with the database, Darcy also sent the names of several available CIs in case I chose to pursue the matter further. So back to Google I went, letter and names in hand.  Next thing I knew I was looking at the Facebook page of a woman named Jill who worked as a CI for an law firm in Indy which focuses exclusively on adoptions and adoption law.  The whole thing seemed entirely too easy.

A few days later I nervously called Jill.  She told me how everything worked and how much it cost.  For $500 plus court costs I could potentially find out something about my birth parents--an amazing thought after all these years.  The cost seemed reasonable compared to that of hiring a private detective, with the added benefit that Jill could personally access the court records.  I gave Jill all the information I had regarding the adoption and she filed a petition with the court to be made my CI, warning me that it would take around a month to be processed.  I sent off my fees and proceeded to wait.  In October I got a call that Jill had been officially appointed and could begin searching on my behalf.  Jill told me that if my birth mother was deceased (as well she might be considering my age, never mind hers), then both my original birth certificate and hers would be released to me.  A part of me almost hoped that would be the case; not to be all macabre, but it seemed to me at the time that it might be easier under those circumstances because I could get the information I craved without having to potentially deal with awkward situations...I didn't want to rock anybody's boat.  Of course, that was before I met my birth mother.  Everything was just happening so quickly.  But I tried not to think about it.  I told Jill that my primary objective was to get information and that while I was not necessarily opposed to any relationship that came out of this, it was also not the main goal.  She told me she was happy that I was "managing my expectations."  Good Ginger.  Gooooooood Ginger.

Two months went by.  I kept busy.  I knew it would probably take awhile to discover anything, so I wasn't too concerned by time passing.  Then earlier this month it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Jill since her appointment as my CI, so I shot her a quick email to check in and ask if there'd been any progress.  I didn't want to be pushy but figured I should remind her I was still out here waiting patiently.  She called the next morning to say that she was "so close."  My heart skipped a beat.  Jill said she knew who my birth mother was, who her brothers were, and everything about her and was trying to make contact but had been unsuccessful so far.  Talk about dangling a carrot in front of someone's face.  She said she was glad I had called because it gave her the impetus to push a little harder by trying to send a certified letter, etc., etc.  Okay.  Whatever.  Excuse me while I go twitch in a corner for several hours.

The next morning I was in my room working out.  As I sat on the floor stretching, my phone buzzed with a message from Jill to call her because "I have good news."  With my hand shaking a little, I called her back and was told "I FOUND her. And she's HAPPY."  I sat there, stunned, not quite sure what to say or feel.  Jill, meanwhile, was positively giddy with excitement because she "loves it when they're happy and not slamming doors in my face."  Well, who could blame her, really?  Jill told me I'd need to send her an email, as would my birth mother, stating that it was okay to release personal information. I agreed to send one immediately and off Jill ran off to see about getting a court date so she could get records released.  I was flabbergasted.  Later that night Jill called again to inform me that there had been an "interesting development."  I couldn't even imagine.  This was all becoming quite a roller coaster ride.  Turns out she called the family of the person she thinks is my birth father (I gather he has a common name so it was not 100% sure) only to discover that he was dead and that his daughter was more than a little freaked at the possibility her dad may have fathered an unknown child.  Jill asked what she wanted me to do, as though I had the first clue.  Let's face it--it's not every day someone asks whether or not you want to strong arm a potential sibling.  We decided to back off on the birth father search for a bit and see what happened with my birth mother, thinking perhaps more information would eventually surface as she and I chatted, after which I could decide how and if to continue pursuing my birth father.  Besides, it seemed only fair to give the girl time to process the possibility of a half-sister; after all, I certainly didn't want to traumatize anyone because of my search.  That was never my intention.  Everything was becoming real (with a capital R) at breakneck speed.

On Wednesday morning, December 12, Jill called to inform me that she could "now release information."  She gave me the name, phone number and email address of my birth mother NJ and asked whether I was going to contact NJ or whether she should contact me.  I drew a blank.  How does one answer that?  I hardly knew where to start after nearly 48 years of limbo.  I told Jill that I would contact NJ either sometime that day or the next but that first I wanted to think of some questions so I wouldn't sit on a phone and stutter stupidly like a fool since there was no way to know how I'd react in such uncharted waters.  I ended up emailing NJ later that night, making it clear that I was looking primarily for information because I didn't want to mislead her and telling her that if anything more was to come of this it would have to happen slowly over time.  As a result, I wanted to start from the safe distance of email and go forward from there.  Once my missive was sent, I proceeded to sit on tenterhooks while waiting to see how long it would take to get a reply.

Meanwhile, I shared this stunning revelation with my "Posse" of friends in our online forum.  They were thrilled for me even as they advised caution initially.  While I was chatting with them I looked up and saw that an email from NJ had suddenly appeared in my inbox.  I gaped at it in awe.  Then I read it.  And read it again.  And again.  NJ very respectfully answered my email just as carefully and cautiously as I had approached her in my own.  The irony that her message came through at  12:30 am was not lost on me either...perhaps NJ was also a night owl, I thought.  I soaked in her words, marveling at them, then answered her back immediately.  It took longer to get a response the second time and I was surprised to find myself so twitchy and antsy with anticipation while awaiting her next email.  I nearly had to tie myself down to keep from calling her immediately.  So much for dignity and caution.

With the dialogue between us freshly opened, we emailed regularly back and forth the next several days.  Within a mere 48 hours, questions I'd held in my heart for nearly half a century were finally answered.  Then suddenly NJ's emails stopped.  I didn't think much of it at first, since sometimes it took a while for one or the other of us to answer (particularly as her laptop wasn't working and she was still getting used to a new smartphone), but when I didn't hear anything from her for a couple of days I began to worry that I'd unintentionally said or done something to upset her.  It seemed cruel that a door so suddenly opened should be slammed shut just as quickly.  After 3-4 days I finally sent her another note saying that if she needed some space to process things that was fine, but could she please let me know she was okay?  I got a message back the next day; turns out her phone and laptop had been stolen so she'd been largely incommunicado while trying to deal with insurance for the stolen items and for a fender bender she'd had the previous week.  I was relieved, far more than I might have expected.  I was starting to like NJ.

Over the last two and a half weeks NJ and I have slowly been getting to know each other.  It's been difficult to think of much else, really, especially before the girlie got home for break.  How could it not be?  I have rarely faced more monumentally life-changing events than this. I expect this has all been as much a miracle for NJ as for me;   it never really occurred to me before now that my birth mother might have just as much curiosity about me as I did about her.  (You know how selfish children can be.)  This has already been a fascinating journey, and the more I get to know NJ, the more I respect her--and not just for giving me life at a time when unwed mothers were largely vilified.  Now that I've had the opportunity to talk with her, I'm grateful she is still around to put my history into context with stories of real people and real family members.  We are both getting long-sequestered questions answered and curiosity slaked as we each discover the type of woman the other is.  We are uncovering hidden connections between us, such as that NJ is indeed as much a night owl as myself.  Along the way I've been plugging in new information to Ancestry.com as it comes; for the first time in my life, I have a genetic heritage.  I can look online and see the progression of generation after generation and know, even if I never met any of them, that I am still a part of them.  That half of my legacy is no longer unknown.  I have a past--well, more of a past.  I have a nationality, one which I no longer have to guess at or make up.  I am learning my medical history.  In short, I have knowledge, a knowledge I can now share with my daughter so she'll know the rest of her history too.   And it's brilliant.

Now, three days after Christmas, three days after a lovely day with my family during which we opened fun and festive presents (one of which was a new, non-possessed laptop--squee!) and spent quality time together, I am still unwrapping the biggest and most mind-boggling gift I've ever been given (short of my daughter's birth) and no doubt will be for some time.  And it is a gift, a gift of epic proportions--one which has already changed my life and will probably continue to do in ways I can't yet comprehend.  None of this changes the fact that I loved my mother or that I miss her or that I am equally the product of her nurture as I am of NJ's genetics.  I consider myself more than fortunate to have been raised by a woman generous enough to love another woman's child as her own; now the selfless woman who gave me life in the first place has been selfless enough to give me (and my child) back our history.

I am twice blessed.

*********************************************************
Now--bonus--a poem I've had on my wall for years, one which seems infinitely more relevant and poignant in light of this month's blessings:

THE LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD 

Once there were two women 

Who never knew each other. 

One you do not remember, 

The other you call Mother. 

Two different lives, 

Shaped to make yours one. 

One became your guiding star, 

The other became your sun. 

The first one gave you life, 

The second taught you to live it. 

The first gave you a need for love, 

The second was there to give it. 

One gave you a nationality,

The other gave you a name.

One gave you a talent,

The other gave you an aim.

One gave you emotions, 

The other calmed your fears. 

One saw your first sweet smile 

The other dried your tears. 

One sought for you a home 

That she could not provide. 

The other prayed for a child, 

Her hopes were not denied. 

And now you ask me

Through your tears, 

The age-old question, 

Unanswered through the years:

"Heredity or environment,

Which am I the product of?"

Neither, my darling, neither--

Just two different kinds of love.

~Anonymous

The Most Epic Christmas Gift Ever

Another Christmas has come and gone.  All over the world people are clearing up the detritus of another year's holiday, carefully putting away decorations, moaning over the extra pounds gained from holiday snacking, trying to find places on already teeming shelves for this year's haul, and opening the refrigerator only to roll their eyes in disgust at the prospect of leftovers for dinner yet again.  Like everyone else, I still have a refrigerator full of leftovers. I have gifts to put away.  Decorations will come down, probably next weekend after Epiphany, assuming they don't drive me nuts before then.  And I confess to having slapped on a couple extra pounds from holiday noshing, in spite of the fact that my thoughtful daughter went out of her way to find Weight Watcher-friendly snacks for my stocking this year.

As things get packed away, most people's focus inevitably returns to creating another list of New Year's Resolutions, which those same people will start to ignore three days after the holiday is over.  Life will go on, as will we, secure in the knowledge that we have survived one more would-be (Mayan) apocalypse and are therefore able to begin another year afresh.  Everyone will start thinking about work or school or chores or whatever and forget about the holiday just past.

Normally, I would too.  This year, however, I am still a little obsessed with one of my Christmas gifts, which I received two weeks before Christmas.  And that's okay, because this is a gift like no other, nor is it one I was expecting to receive in time for Christmas (if at all).  This year, I was given the most epic of Christmas gifts. I was given back my history--my heritage.  And that's a priceless gift.

Some of you may not realize it, but I was adopted when I was only five weeks old.  Sometimes my mother claimed she picked me because I had a cold and she felt sorry for me (probably because she thought she was being funny and/or noble) and sometimes she said it was because I had red hair (which is probably more accurate--she was obsessed with redheads).  At any rate, the call came that a little girl was available and so they drove to the children's home to collect me. They had to stop on the way home for supplies because the call had come so unexpectedly that they weren't entirely prepared; the only baby things in the house were my brother's, none of which would fit me since he was 10 months old when he was adopted.  So after some minor scrambling they got me and the supplies home, and thus my life began.

I always knew I was adopted; my mom went out of her way to make sure we knew long before we were old enough to understand what adoption really meant. Because this information was never hidden from us, it became commonplace and I grew up not thinking much about it one way or another.  It was just another random fact, as much a part of my everyday identity as my freckles or eye color or auburn hair or height.

As I got older, I did occasionally get curious about my birth parents, or more specifically about my genetic background.  I used to fantasize that one day I'd pose as a Gallup pollster (back when that was still plausible) and would "interview" my birth parents to answer all the questions I had, such as who liked to draw or who liked music or what country they were from or who had blue eyes. Afterwards, I'd pack up my clipboard, shake their hands, and quietly leave with nobody the wiser.  After all, I figured that, for whatever reason, they'd made a difficult decision in giving me up and there was just no reason to upend everyone's life by pursuing the matter when I could simply do an informational hit and run to satisfy my curiosity.  Or so I thought.  Obviously, such a plan wasn't very realistic for a number of reasons, not the least of which was whether my birth parents could even be found and were still alive, never mind willing to talk to a "stranger" about something so personal or that they might prefer forgotten.  But then that's how childish fantasies often work.  Most of the time, though, I was reasonably content with my lot.  I never felt abandoned by my birth parents; if anything, I felt (perhaps naïvely) that they'd given me up because they wanted me to have a better life than I might otherwise have had. So I never held a grudge.

Life continued.  I went to college, I got married, I had a child.  Some days I'd still wonder about where I'd come from, some days not.  I became interested in genealogy through B's grandmother, who had traced her family back several generations (which was impressive in the days before Ancestry.com).  She was convinced that the family had descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie (they didn't) but she could never find the direct link between her family and Charlie. Years later, after my daughter was born, I became much more interested in pursuing my origins if for no other reason than to glean medical information that suddenly seemed infinitely more relevant with an infant at home.  After several inquiries the only new thing I was able to discover was the time of day I'd been born; everything else I already knew from the adoption papers my mother had given me before she and Dad moved to New Mexico to retire.  At the time I was told I could pursue my origins if I were willing to petition the courts or pay for a private investigator, but that was about my only shot since all the records were tightly sealed.  Funding an investigation was not an option at the time, so I let it go.

Every now and again I'd still wonder about my ancestry, but mostly I went on with the daily business of raising my child, which kept me plenty busy.  Sure, I often amused myself by making up my ancestry on the whim of the day.  One day I'd be French since my maiden name was French, and another I might be English.  On St. Patrick's Day (my birthday) I was always Irish, along with every other person trying to make up an excuse for drinking green beer.  My supposed Irishosity seemed more plausible, I thought, given such an auspicious  birthday and my leprechaun coloring.  Certainly I immediately discarded  several possible ethnicities because of my pale skin; my friends' prevailing opinion was that I was either Irish (possibly Scottish) or German.  Maybe both.  Anyone's guess was as good as mine.

In April, though, things changed.  In April, my mother passed away at age 80.  I know that she wouldn't have begrudged me wanting to search for my birth parents, but I also know she would have been hurt; the one time I said anything about searching back in high school she became depressed.  She wanted me to be happy, but I think she was afraid of having to share me or of losing me.  No doubt it sounds opportunistic of me to start searching for my birth parents right after my mother died, but that's not exactly how things happened.  I wasn't even thinking of searching at the time.  My mother died and I grieved for her, though I was glad that she was finally free of her dementia and at peace with my dad. It wasn't an immediate thing, this search.  One day in August I was cleaning up piles of stuff on my desk when I ran across a clipping of  Mom's obituary.  I started to file it away with my adoption papers and my other genealogy stuff.   Of course as I did so I had to look through them all again.  After rereading my adoption papers for maybe the 100th time, I thought to myself "I should try again.  I'm getting older.  Medical information could prove useful."  So after playing with the magic Google I did some research,  found some links, and submitted some forms with the requisite fees to the Indiana Department of Health.

A couple weeks later I got a letter back from someone named Darcy.  Darcy informed me that I had used an incorrect form and was therefore returning my check.  She also noted in her letter that if I was interested in continuing my search, she could suggest a couple of options.  I admit I was intrigued.  I thought about it for a couple of days, then decided "what the hell" and called Darcy.  Darcy suggested that I register with the state's adoption database because if my birth parents were likewise registered then the database would find the match and I could then get a copy of my original birth certificate.  She also told me that another option would be to hire a Confidential Intermediary (CI) who could be appointed by the court to research my case and make initial contact with any living birth parents.  It seemed unfathomable to me that some 47 years after my birth I might finally be able to discover something about my origins; I found the prospect both frightening and exciting. I followed Darcy's advice and immediately registered with the Adoption Registry and Database.  In a follow-up letter thanking me for registering with the database, Darcy also sent the names of several available CIs in case I chose to pursue the matter further. So back to Google I went, letter and names in hand.  Next thing I knew I was looking at the Facebook page of a woman named Jill who worked as a CI for an law firm in Indy which focuses exclusively on adoptions and adoption law.  The whole thing seemed entirely too easy.

A few days later I nervously called Jill.  She told me how everything worked and how much it cost.  For $500 plus court costs I could potentially find out something about my birth parents--an amazing thought after all these years.  The cost seemed reasonable compared to that of hiring a private detective, with the added benefit that Jill could personally access the court records.  I gave Jill all the information I had regarding the adoption and she filed a petition with the court to be made my CI, warning me that it would take around a month to be processed.  I sent off my fees and proceeded to wait.  In October I got a call that Jill had been officially appointed and could begin searching on my behalf.  Jill told me that if my birth mother was deceased (as well she might be considering my age, never mind hers), then both my original birth certificate and hers would be released to me.  A part of me almost hoped that would be the case; not to be all macabre, but it seemed to me at the time that it might be easier under those circumstances because I could get the information I craved without having to potentially deal with awkward situations...I didn't want to rock anybody's boat.  Of course, that was before I met my birth mother.  Everything was just happening so quickly.  But I tried not to think about it.  I told Jill that my primary objective was to get information and that while I was not necessarily opposed to any relationship that came out of this, it was also not the main goal.  She told me she was happy that I was "managing my expectations."  Good Ginger.  Gooooooood Ginger.

Two months went by.  I kept busy.  I knew it would probably take awhile to discover anything, so I wasn't too concerned by time passing.  Then earlier this month it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Jill since her appointment as my CI, so I shot her a quick email to check in and ask if there'd been any progress.  I didn't want to be pushy but figured I should remind her I was still out here waiting patiently.  She called the next morning to say that she was "so close."  My heart skipped a beat.  Jill said she knew who my birth mother was, who her brothers were, and everything about her and was trying to make contact but had been unsuccessful so far.  Talk about dangling a carrot in front of someone's face.  She said she was glad I had called because it gave her the impetus to push a little harder by trying to send a certified letter, etc., etc.  Okay.  Whatever.  Excuse me while I go twitch in a corner for several hours.

The next morning I was in my room working out.  As I sat on the floor stretching, my phone buzzed with a message from Jill to call her because "I have good news."  With my hand shaking a little, I called her back and was told "I FOUND her. And she's HAPPY."  I sat there, stunned, not quite sure what to say or feel.  Jill, meanwhile, was positively giddy with excitement because she "loves it when they're happy and not slamming doors in my face."  Well, who could blame her, really?  Jill told me I'd need to send her an email, as would my birth mother, stating that it was okay to release personal information. I agreed to send one immediately and off Jill ran off to see about getting a court date so she could get records released.  I was flabbergasted.  Later that night Jill called again to inform me that there had been an "interesting development."  I couldn't even imagine.  This was all becoming quite a roller coaster ride.  Turns out she called the family of the person she thinks is my birth father (I gather he has a common name so it was not 100% sure) only to discover that he was dead and that his daughter was more than a little freaked at the possibility her dad may have fathered an unknown child.  Jill asked what she wanted me to do, as though I had the first clue.  Let's face it--it's not every day someone asks whether or not you want to strong arm a potential sibling.  We decided to back off on the birth father search for a bit and see what happened with my birth mother, thinking perhaps more information would eventually surface as she and I chatted, after which I could decide how and if to continue pursuing my birth father.  Besides, it seemed only fair to give the girl time to process the possibility of a half-sister; after all, I certainly didn't want to traumatize anyone because of my search.  That was never my intention.  Everything was becoming real (with a capital R) at breakneck speed.

On Wednesday morning, December 12, Jill called to inform me that she could "now release information."  She gave me the name, phone number and email address of my birth mother NJ and asked whether I was going to contact NJ or whether she should contact me.  I drew a blank.  How does one answer that?  I hardly knew where to start after nearly 48 years of limbo.  I told Jill that I would contact NJ either sometime that day or the next but that first I wanted to think of some questions so I wouldn't sit on a phone and stutter stupidly like a fool since there was no way to know how I'd react in such uncharted waters.  I ended up emailing NJ later that night, making it clear that I was looking primarily for information because I didn't want to mislead her and telling her that if anything more was to come of this it would have to happen slowly over time.  As a result, I wanted to start from the safe distance of email and go forward from there.  Once my missive was sent, I proceeded to sit on tenterhooks while waiting to see how long it would take to get a reply.

Meanwhile, I shared this stunning revelation with my "Posse" of friends in our online forum.  They were thrilled for me even as they advised caution initially.  While I was chatting with them I looked up and saw that an email from NJ had suddenly appeared in my inbox.  I gaped at it in awe.  Then I read it.  And read it again.  And again.  NJ very respectfully answered my email just as carefully and cautiously as I had approached her in my own.  The irony that her message came through at  12:30 am was not lost on me either...perhaps NJ was also a night owl, I thought.  I soaked in her words, marveling at them, then answered her back immediately.  It took longer to get a response the second time and I was surprised to find myself so twitchy and antsy with anticipation while awaiting her next email.  I nearly had to tie myself down to keep from calling her immediately.  So much for dignity and caution.

With the dialogue between us freshly opened, we emailed regularly back and forth the next several days.  Within a mere 48 hours, questions I'd held in my heart for nearly half a century were finally answered.  Then suddenly NJ's emails stopped.  I didn't think much of it at first, since sometimes it took a while for one or the other of us to answer (particularly as her laptop wasn't working and she was still getting used to a new smartphone), but when I didn't hear anything from her for a couple of days I began to worry that I'd unintentionally said or done something to upset her.  It seemed cruel that a door so suddenly opened should be slammed shut just as quickly.  After 3-4 days I finally sent her another note saying that if she needed some space to process things that was fine, but could she please let me know she was okay?  I got a message back the next day; turns out her phone and laptop had been stolen so she'd been largely incommunicado while trying to deal with insurance for the stolen items and for a fender bender she'd had the previous week.  I was relieved, far more than I might have expected.  I was starting to like NJ.

Over the last two and a half weeks NJ and I have slowly been getting to know each other.  It's been difficult to think of much else, really, especially before the girlie got home for break.  How could it not be?  I have rarely faced more monumentally life-changing events than this. I expect this has all been as much a miracle for NJ as for me;   it never really occurred to me before now that my birth mother might have just as much curiosity about me as I did about her.  (You know how selfish children can be.)  This has already been a fascinating journey, and the more I get to know NJ, the more I respect her--and not just for giving me life at a time when unwed mothers were largely vilified.  Now that I've had the opportunity to talk with her, I'm grateful she is still around to put my history into context with stories of real people and real family members.  We are both getting long-sequestered questions answered and curiosity slaked as we each discover the type of woman the other is.  We are uncovering hidden connections between us, such as that NJ is indeed as much a night owl as myself.  Along the way I've been plugging in new information to Ancestry.com as it comes; for the first time in my life, I have a genetic heritage.  I can look online and see the progression of generation after generation and know, even if I never met any of them, that I am still a part of them.  That half of my legacy is no longer unknown.  I have a past--well, more of a past.  I have a nationality, one which I no longer have to guess at or make up.  I am learning my medical history.  In short, I have knowledge, a knowledge I can now share with my daughter so she'll know the rest of her history too.   And it's brilliant.

Now, three days after Christmas, three days after a lovely day with my family during which we opened fun and festive presents (one of which was a new, non-possessed laptop--squee!) and spent quality time together, I am still unwrapping the biggest and most mind-boggling gift I've ever been given (short of my daughter's birth) and no doubt will be for some time.  And it is a gift, a gift of epic proportions--one which has already changed my life and will probably continue to do in ways I can't yet comprehend.  None of this changes the fact that I loved my mother or that I miss her or that I am equally the product of her nurture as I am of NJ's genetics.  I consider myself more than fortunate to have been raised by a woman generous enough to love another woman's child as her own; now the selfless woman who gave me life in the first place has been selfless enough to give me (and my child) back our history.

I am twice blessed.

*********************************************************
Now--bonus--a poem I've had on my wall for years, one which seems infinitely more relevant and poignant in light of this month's blessings:

THE LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD 

Once there were two women 

Who never knew each other. 

One you do not remember, 

The other you call Mother. 

Two different lives, 

Shaped to make yours one. 

One became your guiding star, 

The other became your sun. 

The first one gave you life, 

The second taught you to live it. 

The first gave you a need for love, 

The second was there to give it. 

One gave you a nationality,

The other gave you a name.

One gave you a talent,

The other gave you an aim.

One gave you emotions, 

The other calmed your fears. 

One saw your first sweet smile 

The other dried your tears. 

One sought for you a home 

That she could not provide. 

The other prayed for a child, 

Her hopes were not denied. 

And now you ask me

Through your tears, 

The age-old question, 

Unanswered through the years:

"Heredity or environment,

Which am I the product of?"

Neither, my darling, neither--

Just two different kinds of love.

~Anonymous

Thankfulness

Today is Thanksgiving, that day when family members far and near descend upon one house with the sole intent of stuffing themselves stupid while attempting not to kill each other.  You know it's true--there's always that one relative somewhere who creates drama or makes you crazy by criticizing everything.  And yet, we wouldn't have this day any other way.  Even though we make ourselves crazy cooking for a small army or those loved ones may drive us to drink (more than usual, at least) Thanksgiving is a chance to get everyone together for a short while, particularly those we don't get to see as often, and share delicious food and fellowship.  On the one hand, I suppose there is something inherently wrong with building up a culture based on shoveling an overabundance of food down one's throat (which might explain why the US is, as a country, probably the most overweight in the world), but then again nothing brings people together like the sharing of good food.  Comfort food.  Food which reminds us of simpler times and problems as we nestle safe in the bosom of our families.

Thanksgiving with my in-law's was always a pretty epic throw-down.  When I was first married, I loved the party atmosphere of it all because it was so different from anything I knew.  Though my mother came from a very large family, her relatives were always prohibitively far away so we usually celebrated with just the four of us.  It was nice, but very quiet.  Then I got thrown into a world with multiple parents and grandparents and siblings and cousins.  My first Southern Thanksgiving included no less than 15 people, all strategically placed around the dining and kitchen tables.  If you were "important" or "interesting" in some way, you got elevated to the dining room with the grandparents.  That's where I spent my first TN Thanksgiving--being grilled and evaluated by B's grandmother while his grandfather smirked at the other end of the table.  I became fascinated by the tiny crystal dishes set near each place, discovering later that they were "salt cellars."  Personalized salt settings??  How decadent!  We feasted on turkey and rolls and honey ham and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and jello salad and probably 5 kinds of desserts and sweet tea and green bean casserole and probably a few other items I'm forgetting.  It was glorious.  I so enjoyed partying with my new family at Thanksgiving and Christmas, because with so many people, it truly was a party.

Nobody parties like the Peanuts party.

 As the years went by, more and more tables would get set up.  In addition to the dining room and kitchen tables, folding tables would be added in the den and living room as the family grew.  By the time B's grandparents passed away, there would be (when everyone was there) upwards of 30 people.   I was in charge of deviled eggs, often making two dozen eggs' worth.  Eventually I became responsible for pies as well; I was appalled that they usually lacked the traditional pumpkin pie, generally eschewing it for pecan and/or mince pies.  So I started bringing pumpkin and apple pies.  Sometimes I brought cherry.  Invariably, though, in spite of telling me repeatedly that "no one likes pumpkin pies," that would be the first dessert obliterated.  Nor did the eggs ever last.  The kids in the family particularly enjoyed them, sneaking into the kitchen to scarf down the "debilled eggs" when no one was looking.

Fresh pumpkin pie, straight out of the oven to cool.

Sometimes it was annoying to be expected at these occasions every.single.time, whether Thanksgiving or the traditional Christmas Eve dinner/get-together at the grandparents' house.  Sometimes I wanted it just to be my little family and other times I felt bad that my own folks got short shrift, even if it was largely the result of geography.  Now that all the grandparents and all four of our parents are gone, however, I appreciate those traditions even more.  All of our siblings are scattered, so we rarely get to see them all now.  The giant family gatherings of old are no more.  We have become the older generation, and frankly, we suck at it.  Our world is moving so fast that we can barely keep up.  We have trouble making the time for each other, and we are all to blame.  Granted, it's a bit more difficult when everyone is spread over four or five different states, but still.  Now I have come full circle, and Thanksgivings these days tend to consist of just the three of us (if you don't count the Greedy Moocher Dog) and are once again rather quiet.  Not that that's an entirely bad thing, mind you; a little down-time is sometimes necessary to recharge our over-stimulated brains.  But I do miss the parties.  On the plus side, if I want to sit at the dinner table in my pajamas with my Don King hair at Thanksgiving, I can now do it without anyone pointing or shaking a head while uttering the infamous "Bless her heart."

Meanwhile, I am ecstatic to have my girlie home for the holiday and to be able to cook "real food" for her.  This is the essence of my holiday--getting to look after her once again, even if only for a moment.  I get a chance to hang onto old traditions even while celebrating all that's new in our lives and the woman she is becoming.  But I still miss those Stanton shindigs.  I still miss all the joking and laughter and teasing and tickling and eating and complaining and arguing and, well, loving.  I can only hope that I provide my girlie with even a shadow of all the joy and love I felt during those family holidays so that her great-grandparents' legacy lives on.  Perhaps that's part of what it means to be thankful--we aren't just thankful for what we have right this minute, but also for what's gone before and for what's yet to come.  We are thankful just to be.  At least I hope we are.

Sometimes I think that's an important thing to remember, especially after the last couple of weeks here, which were decidedly NOT "quiet weeks in Lake Woebegone."  Not even a little. In the past couple of weeks I voted in a presidential election, twisted an ankle, pondered if I could back-date enough posts to catch up on BlogHer's NaBloPoMo for November after my continued writing delinquency, been accused of discrimination over an (I thought) innocuous grammar joke, given myself junior whiplash, had a "freckle" biopsied, worried about friends with major medical issues, traumatized my dog--who apparently suffers from PTSD whenever I try to use my FIL's exercise bicycle, and more or less been given the heave-ho by the unstable minister at my current church, simply because I chose to leave the service (discreetly) before his sermons, even though the majority of the congregation (choir included) didn't know why, if they'd noticed at all.  Needless to say, it's been quite a couple of weeks.  Well, like I always say, go big or go home.

"Woe--Be gone!"

Since all that happened I have written and re-written blog posts chronicling everything several times over (in my head, anyway) and once even wrote an actual draft.  (What most of you  probably don't know is that I actually mentally write blog posts daily--I have a running dialogue in my head; I just sometimes suck at the discipline of setting them down on the page and actually publishing them.)  What I wrote never seemed quite right, though, and as much as I love a good rant I ultimately decided to let it all go. Complaining wasn't going to make a biopsy come back negative or a man in serious need of psychological help suddenly "get it" or convince a friend to have approached me in a less negative way.  In fact, ranting about those things would probably have only made them all worse.  Besides, all I could think about while crafting these missives was how inappropriate posting them would be during a month with the theme of "thankfulness."  So I didn't.

Instead, I'd like to wind up this post with a nod to the pervasive internet meme in which everyone says something they are thankful for each day.  As usual, I'm running more than a little late.  (I like to tell everyone my daughter was born two weeks late and that neither of us has been on time for anything since.)  Doesn't make me any less thankful, though.

Thankfulness

Day   1:  I am thankful first and foremost for my lovely, brilliant daughter and for the joy she gives me
              and inspiration she is to me each and every day of the year, even when she is driving me nuts.
Day   2:  I am thankful to have a husband who, in spite of everything, puts up with most of my bullshit and
              indulges me far more than I probably deserve.  Of course the same is true in reverse, even if
              he won't admit it.
Day   3:  I am thankful that my daughter has found both a wonderful church family on campus and an
              SCA family to corrupt her and protect her and challenge her and harass her much as I
              would myself.  It's very difficult to be so far away from her so much of the time, but it helps to
              know she has such remarkable friends nearby to support her.  Or torture her, as the case may be.
              (What are friends for, right?)

My kid is now part of the Mongol horde, and a royal one at that.
(Maybe now I can get away with telling her when she's being royal pain...)

Day   4:  I am thankful to have been promoted to Director of Irony because it allows me to appreciate
              the humor in life's stupid situations, such as when I go to Bed, Bath and Beyond the day after
              all three of my coupons expire, only to get home and find a fresh one in my mailbox or when
              I perfectly cook a turkey and pies but manage to burn the ridiculously no-brainer pop-up
              cinnamon rolls because I'm too busy writing this to pay attention to them.
Day   5:  I am thankful for a democratic process in my country that allows my voice to be heard.  I will be
              even more thankful when it is over.
Day   6:  I am thankful for this anniversary of my parent's union, for without them I wouldn't be who I
              am today.  (Sorry about that.)
Day   7:  I am thankful for friends who care enough to educate me about potential biases, even if I'd
              sometimes prefer they find more positive ways to do so.
Day   8:  I am thankful for the snoring dog under my desk because she keeps me company each day in an
              otherwise empty, quiet house.  Plus it's really entertaining to watch her paws twitch and flick while
              she's dreaming.
Day   9:  I am thankful for the crisp autumn air and for beautifully colored leaves which make my heart sing
              (and some of which match my hair).
Day 10:  I am thankful for leftover Lortab and for its ability to allow me to sleep in spite of frozen neck
              muscles.  This does not make me a drug addict; my only crack is candy corn, which is not only
              tasty but can be used for building creative models of Stonehenge.

Cornhenge:  Because life is always less boring when you can play with your candy.

Day 11:  I am thankful for technology, even though it frequently gets me into trouble by sucking away all my
              time and making me "ooh, squirrel" even more than usual, because it allows me to stay connected
              to family and friends far away and magically enables me to see my girlie every Sunday night from
              1,000 miles away.
Day 12:  I am thankful for the smell of cinnamon, which reminds me of snickerdoodles and cinnamon
              rolls and is way the heck better than any number of old lady perfumes that surround me
              on a daily basis.
Day 13:  I am thankful for the opportunity to attempt to sing beautiful music every Tuesday night.
Day 14:  I am thankful each and every day for friends far and wide who dare to love me in spite of my
              inherent weirdness. Or maybe because of my inherent weirdness, though I'm not sure what
              that says about them.
Day 15:  I am thankful for dear choir friends who surround me with love and support when things suck.
Day 16:  I am thankful for loose pants.  I don't mean pants that are sexually promiscuous, but rather pants
              that no longer fit so snugly on my body.  I mean they could be sexually promiscuous; I don't
              really keep up with what my pants do when I'm not wearing them.  For all I know, they're getting
              a leg up on each other and panting in the closet.  Dirty, dirty pants.
Day 17:  I am thankful for all (almost) types of music, which can make my heart and spirit soar and can
              make almost anything better.  I am also thankful that so much music lends itself to my off-beat
              parodies, even (especially) television theme songs.  Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,
              right?  Just today the girlie shared a pic from FB which read "If you're happy and you know it,
              share your meds."  Naturally, I spent several minutes singing this and creating additional verses
              to the song.  (Don't look at me that way.  Please--like you're not singing it in your head right 
              now.)  Sometimes drugs make Thanksgiving better, too.
Day 18:  I am thankful for books and the ability to read them.  I like big books and I cannot lie.  I also
              like small books, medium books, lame books, profound books, mystery books, science fiction
              books, classical books, chick lit books, philosophical books (why do I suddenly feel like I'm
              singing "Jellicle Books?"), and educational books.  I like being transported to different times and
              places and being challenged with new ideas.  Also, in a pinch, books make good door stops and/or
              paddles.
Day 19:  I am thankful to be home and healthy, and not in a hospital recovering from an appendectomy
              right before Thanksgiving like last year, even though it was kind of fun to boss around my family
              over the dinner and subsequent Christmas decorating.
Day 20:  I am thankful for the means and ability to purchase ample food each and every day, not just
              for Thanksgiving.  Of course, that might explain some of my weight gains over the years, but still.
Day 21:  I am thankful to see numbers on my scale that I have not seen in close to 10 years and that I have
              a place to hide this normally judgmental scale from the results of my Thanksgiving overindulgences.
Day 22:  I am thankful to have my lovely daughter home from college and to be able to cook for her again,
              in between taking time to both hug her and make fun of her in equal doses.

Yes, I know there are 8 more days of November left.  Those are a story I have yet to write.  Does your thankfulness end on Thanksgiving?  Will it get lost in Black Friday and the mad, chaotic rush to Christmas?  How will the rest of your November thankfulness story finish?

Before I write the rest of my story, though, it's time for me to make the potatoes and stuffing.  I wish you all the happiest of Thanksgivings, full of family, friends, food, and fun.  With love from Lake Not Woebegone, where all the Gingers are strong, all the husbands are reasonably good looking in spite of being a half-century old, and all the children are flamboyantly above average in all things whether you want them to be or not.

Thankfulness

Today is Thanksgiving, that day when family members far and near descend upon one house with the sole intent of stuffing themselves stupid while attempting not to kill each other.  You know it's true--there's always that one relative somewhere who creates drama or makes you crazy by criticizing everything.  And yet, we wouldn't have this day any other way.  Even though we make ourselves crazy cooking for a small army or those loved ones may drive us to drink (more than usual, at least) Thanksgiving is a chance to get everyone together for a short while, particularly those we don't get to see as often, and share delicious food and fellowship.  On the one hand, I suppose there is something inherently wrong with building up a culture based on shoveling an overabundance of food down one's throat (which might explain why the US is, as a country, probably the most overweight in the world), but then again nothing brings people together like the sharing of good food.  Comfort food.  Food which reminds us of simpler times and problems as we nestle safe in the bosom of our families.

Thanksgiving with my in-law's was always a pretty epic throw-down.  When I was first married, I loved the party atmosphere of it all because it was so different from anything I knew.  Though my mother came from a very large family, her relatives were always prohibitively far away so we usually celebrated with just the four of us.  It was nice, but very quiet.  Then I got thrown into a world with multiple parents and grandparents and siblings and cousins.  My first Southern Thanksgiving included no less than 15 people, all strategically placed around the dining and kitchen tables.  If you were "important" or "interesting" in some way, you got elevated to the dining room with the grandparents.  That's where I spent my first TN Thanksgiving--being grilled and evaluated by B's grandmother while his grandfather smirked at the other end of the table.  I became fascinated by the tiny crystal dishes set near each place, discovering later that they were "salt cellars."  Personalized salt settings??  How decadent!  We feasted on turkey and rolls and honey ham and mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes and jello salad and probably 5 kinds of desserts and sweet tea and green bean casserole and probably a few other items I'm forgetting.  It was glorious.  I so enjoyed partying with my new family at Thanksgiving and Christmas, because with so many people, it truly was a party.

Nobody parties like the Peanuts party.

 As the years went by, more and more tables would get set up.  In addition to the dining room and kitchen tables, folding tables would be added in the den and living room as the family grew.  By the time B's grandparents passed away, there would be (when everyone was there) upwards of 30 people.   I was in charge of deviled eggs, often making two dozen eggs' worth.  Eventually I became responsible for pies as well; I was appalled that they usually lacked the traditional pumpkin pie, generally eschewing it for pecan and/or mince pies.  So I started bringing pumpkin and apple pies.  Sometimes I brought cherry.  Invariably, though, in spite of telling me repeatedly that "no one likes pumpkin pies," that would be the first dessert obliterated.  Nor did the eggs ever last.  The kids in the family particularly enjoyed them, sneaking into the kitchen to scarf down the "debilled eggs" when no one was looking.

Fresh pumpkin pie, straight out of the oven to cool.

Sometimes it was annoying to be expected at these occasions every.single.time, whether Thanksgiving or the traditional Christmas Eve dinner/get-together at the grandparents' house.  Sometimes I wanted it just to be my little family and other times I felt bad that my own folks got short shrift, even if it was largely the result of geography.  Now that all the grandparents and all four of our parents are gone, however, I appreciate those traditions even more.  All of our siblings are scattered, so we rarely get to see them all now.  The giant family gatherings of old are no more.  We have become the older generation, and frankly, we suck at it.  Our world is moving so fast that we can barely keep up.  We have trouble making the time for each other, and we are all to blame.  Granted, it's a bit more difficult when everyone is spread over four or five different states, but still.  Now I have come full circle, and Thanksgivings these days tend to consist of just the three of us (if you don't count the Greedy Moocher Dog) and are once again rather quiet.  Not that that's an entirely bad thing, mind you; a little down-time is sometimes necessary to recharge our over-stimulated brains.  But I do miss the parties.  On the plus side, if I want to sit at the dinner table in my pajamas with my Don King hair at Thanksgiving, I can now do it without anyone pointing or shaking a head while uttering the infamous "Bless her heart."

Meanwhile, I am ecstatic to have my girlie home for the holiday and to be able to cook "real food" for her.  This is the essence of my holiday--getting to look after her once again, even if only for a moment.  I get a chance to hang onto old traditions even while celebrating all that's new in our lives and the woman she is becoming.  But I still miss those Stanton shindigs.  I still miss all the joking and laughter and teasing and tickling and eating and complaining and arguing and, well, loving.  I can only hope that I provide my girlie with even a shadow of all the joy and love I felt during those family holidays so that her great-grandparents' legacy lives on.  Perhaps that's part of what it means to be thankful--we aren't just thankful for what we have right this minute, but also for what's gone before and for what's yet to come.  We are thankful just to be.  At least I hope we are.

Sometimes I think that's an important thing to remember, especially after the last couple of weeks here, which were decidedly NOT "quiet weeks in Lake Woebegone."  Not even a little. In the past couple of weeks I voted in a presidential election, twisted an ankle, pondered if I could back-date enough posts to catch up on BlogHer's NaBloPoMo for November after my continued writing delinquency, been accused of discrimination over an (I thought) innocuous grammar joke, given myself junior whiplash, had a "freckle" biopsied, worried about friends with major medical issues, traumatized my dog--who apparently suffers from PTSD whenever I try to use my FIL's exercise bicycle, and more or less been given the heave-ho by the unstable minister at my current church, simply because I chose to leave the service (discreetly) before his sermons, even though the majority of the congregation (choir included) didn't know why, if they'd noticed at all.  Needless to say, it's been quite a couple of weeks.  Well, like I always say, go big or go home.

"Woe--Be gone!"

Since all that happened I have written and re-written blog posts chronicling everything several times over (in my head, anyway) and once even wrote an actual draft.  (What most of you  probably don't know is that I actually mentally write blog posts daily--I have a running dialogue in my head; I just sometimes suck at the discipline of setting them down on the page and actually publishing them.)  What I wrote never seemed quite right, though, and as much as I love a good rant I ultimately decided to let it all go. Complaining wasn't going to make a biopsy come back negative or a man in serious need of psychological help suddenly "get it" or convince a friend to have approached me in a less negative way.  In fact, ranting about those things would probably have only made them all worse.  Besides, all I could think about while crafting these missives was how inappropriate posting them would be during a month with the theme of "thankfulness."  So I didn't.

Instead, I'd like to wind up this post with a nod to the pervasive internet meme in which everyone says something they are thankful for each day.  As usual, I'm running more than a little late.  (I like to tell everyone my daughter was born two weeks late and that neither of us has been on time for anything since.)  Doesn't make me any less thankful, though.

Thankfulness

Day   1:  I am thankful first and foremost for my lovely, brilliant daughter and for the joy she gives me
              and inspiration she is to me each and every day of the year, even when she is driving me nuts.
Day   2:  I am thankful to have a husband who, in spite of everything, puts up with most of my bullshit and
              indulges me far more than I probably deserve.  Of course the same is true in reverse, even if
              he won't admit it.
Day   3:  I am thankful that my daughter has found both a wonderful church family on campus and an
              SCA family to corrupt her and protect her and challenge her and harass her much as I
              would myself.  It's very difficult to be so far away from her so much of the time, but it helps to
              know she has such remarkable friends nearby to support her.  Or torture her, as the case may be.
              (What are friends for, right?)

My kid is now part of the Mongol horde, and a royal one at that.
(Maybe now I can get away with telling her when she's being royal pain...)

Day   4:  I am thankful to have been promoted to Director of Irony because it allows me to appreciate
              the humor in life's stupid situations, such as when I go to Bed, Bath and Beyond the day after
              all three of my coupons expire, only to get home and find a fresh one in my mailbox or when
              I perfectly cook a turkey and pies but manage to burn the ridiculously no-brainer pop-up
              cinnamon rolls because I'm too busy writing this to pay attention to them.
Day   5:  I am thankful for a democratic process in my country that allows my voice to be heard.  I will be
              even more thankful when it is over.
Day   6:  I am thankful for this anniversary of my parent's union, for without them I wouldn't be who I
              am today.  (Sorry about that.)
Day   7:  I am thankful for friends who care enough to educate me about potential biases, even if I'd
              sometimes prefer they find more positive ways to do so.
Day   8:  I am thankful for the snoring dog under my desk because she keeps me company each day in an
              otherwise empty, quiet house.  Plus it's really entertaining to watch her paws twitch and flick while
              she's dreaming.
Day   9:  I am thankful for the crisp autumn air and for beautifully colored leaves which make my heart sing
              (and some of which match my hair).
Day 10:  I am thankful for leftover Lortab and for its ability to allow me to sleep in spite of frozen neck
              muscles.  This does not make me a drug addict; my only crack is candy corn, which is not only
              tasty but can be used for building creative models of Stonehenge.

Cornhenge:  Because life is always less boring when you can play with your candy.

Day 11:  I am thankful for technology, even though it frequently gets me into trouble by sucking away all my
              time and making me "ooh, squirrel" even more than usual, because it allows me to stay connected
              to family and friends far away and magically enables me to see my girlie every Sunday night from
              1,000 miles away.
Day 12:  I am thankful for the smell of cinnamon, which reminds me of snickerdoodles and cinnamon
              rolls and is way the heck better than any number of old lady perfumes that surround me
              on a daily basis.
Day 13:  I am thankful for the opportunity to attempt to sing beautiful music every Tuesday night.
Day 14:  I am thankful each and every day for friends far and wide who dare to love me in spite of my
              inherent weirdness. Or maybe because of my inherent weirdness, though I'm not sure what
              that says about them.
Day 15:  I am thankful for dear choir friends who surround me with love and support when things suck.
Day 16:  I am thankful for loose pants.  I don't mean pants that are sexually promiscuous, but rather pants
              that no longer fit so snugly on my body.  I mean they could be sexually promiscuous; I don't
              really keep up with what my pants do when I'm not wearing them.  For all I know, they're getting
              a leg up on each other and panting in the closet.  Dirty, dirty pants.
Day 17:  I am thankful for all (almost) types of music, which can make my heart and spirit soar and can
              make almost anything better.  I am also thankful that so much music lends itself to my off-beat
              parodies, even (especially) television theme songs.  Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery,
              right?  Just today the girlie shared a pic from FB which read "If you're happy and you know it,
              share your meds."  Naturally, I spent several minutes singing this and creating additional verses
              to the song.  (Don't look at me that way.  Please--like you're not singing it in your head right 
              now.)  Sometimes drugs make Thanksgiving better, too.
Day 18:  I am thankful for books and the ability to read them.  I like big books and I cannot lie.  I also
              like small books, medium books, lame books, profound books, mystery books, science fiction
              books, classical books, chick lit books, philosophical books (why do I suddenly feel like I'm
              singing "Jellicle Books?"), and educational books.  I like being transported to different times and
              places and being challenged with new ideas.  Also, in a pinch, books make good door stops and/or
              paddles.
Day 19:  I am thankful to be home and healthy, and not in a hospital recovering from an appendectomy
              right before Thanksgiving like last year, even though it was kind of fun to boss around my family
              over the dinner and subsequent Christmas decorating.
Day 20:  I am thankful for the means and ability to purchase ample food each and every day, not just
              for Thanksgiving.  Of course, that might explain some of my weight gains over the years, but still.
Day 21:  I am thankful to see numbers on my scale that I have not seen in close to 10 years and that I have
              a place to hide this normally judgmental scale from the results of my Thanksgiving overindulgences.
Day 22:  I am thankful to have my lovely daughter home from college and to be able to cook for her again,
              in between taking time to both hug her and make fun of her in equal doses.

Yes, I know there are 8 more days of November left.  Those are a story I have yet to write.  Does your thankfulness end on Thanksgiving?  Will it get lost in Black Friday and the mad, chaotic rush to Christmas?  How will the rest of your November thankfulness story finish?

Before I write the rest of my story, though, it's time for me to make the potatoes and stuffing.  I wish you all the happiest of Thanksgivings, full of family, friends, food, and fun.  With love from Lake Not Woebegone, where all the Gingers are strong, all the husbands are reasonably good looking in spite of being a half-century old, and all the children are flamboyantly above average in all things whether you want them to be or not.