Honey, let's adopt a baby!



The younger version of myself, with my adopted sister.




Happy Sunday! Yes, the so-called "day of rest" (I think that's a decidedly Catholic/Christian description of Sundays). But, I'm not exactly rested today. You see, I'm a borderline insomniac. Some nights, sleep won't visit me no matter how tired I am. It's the ages old story of your head hitting the pillow only to find that your brain refuses to shut down. Hate when that happens.
I ended up jabbering on the phone with one of my biological sisters for an almost full 4-hour period last night. I always have to use the term "biological" for certain siblings for the simple reason that I'm an adopted child (and a damned lucky one at that!). I was surrendered for adoption (a nice way of saying I was given up) at birth. Did I say I was lucky? You bet your bippy I was lucky! My biological parents couldn't and/or wouldn't deal with another child under foot. I was baby # 6, born in the 6th month, on the 6th day too. Uh oh, 3 sixes there aren't there? Yikes, not too sure if that's a good sign, or not. The supposed "number of the beast" according to some New Testament theologians, though I think there's a bit of contention whether the original number was 616 or 666, but whatever. I seem to remember some crap about the dreaded 666 having some reference to that hedonistic ruler of Rome, named Nero (the same guy "they" say fiddled while Rome burned to the ground around him). Anyway, I assure you that I'm not into any form of Satan worship, so there! Now, where did I put that fresh goat's blood to smear my naked body with? Sorry, probably not funny, but I'm kinda tired, so forgive me. <smirk>
How the heck did I get into that mess o' words regarding those nasty sixes? Oh yeah, the adoption thing. Long story short (as if!), I ended up getting adopted when I was 4 months old. My first 4 months were spent in a foster home in a picturesque town in Massachusetts, called Sherborn. I had an awesome upbringing by two very loving, self-sacrificing adoptive parents, there's that "lucky" thing I was talking about. By the way, they are my mom and dad regardless of my not sharing their biology/heritage. Nobody can ever tell me otherwise either! (on a side note, mom and dad are now deceased, but they're living in my heart until the final breath leaves my body. Excuse me for a moment, I've got something in my eye, and tears are streaming like raindrops. That emotion called "missing", just plain sucks.) Fast forward to 1989, I was 26, that's the year I decided to conduct a search for my biological roots. It took close to a year to get any information, but in March of '90 I hit paydirt. I found out the last name of my biological family, found one brother through the help of auto insurance records, wrote a long letter to him, he called me, and holy DNA batman, I had found my roots and a crapload of other siblings, my birth mother, maternal grandmother, cousins, you name it. All I had hoped to accomplish by my search was to find out the family history of what made me, me. Kinda weird growing up and wondering why I had such small hands, brown eyes, rather "vertically challenged" stature, etc., etc. Come to find out, I was Italian! No "Eye-talian" jokes please, I'm proud of my heritage even if it's not considered my "legal" heritage.
By the by, if anybody who has the misfortune of reading this blog is adopted and you're considering searching for your biological roots, I emphatically say...go for it! Just remember one important sentence, ok? Promise? Okey dokey. Remember these words..."it's not what you find, but that you found". Sleep well y'all, I know I will.