I had a great childhood. Really, I can think of only two deficits from my youth. One, I was a girl, and therefore a horse would have solved all my transportation needs, a unicorn would have been even better. Secondly, and perhaps more devastating, I always suspected I was adopted.
It wasn’t so much because my mother didn’t remember my name until she’d gone through everyone in the family including the dog, or that I always seemed to find out last that we were going on vacation. My vacation preparations consisted of running after my parents calling, “We’re going on vacation?” as they put the last suitcase in the car and locked the front door. They said they always told me but now I’m beginning to wonder. My suspicions grew in college when my parents really did move and not leave a forwarding address. For two weeks when someone asked me, “Where are you from?” I had to answer, “I don’t know!” But now I have official documentation, my mother has a Facebook page, and I am not on it. Under children, she has listed my brother. Just my so-called brother. Not only does she have him listed but she remembered his full name. According to Facebook he is her only child. My Dad saw the page, he didn’t point out the glaring omission of their second born child. Now all my childhood suspicions have been confirmed. I knew my brother was their favorite but I thought it was because he was neat and quiet and got good grades. But now I can blame it all on genetics. Who can deny it? My mother loves me, I’m sure of it, she has always been there to correct my mistakes, bite her tongue, or roll her eyes, whichever is appropriate for the situation. My son has taken on that roll now that she is getting older. She has counseled me on gardening, laundry, cooking, and anything else I show aversion to. She has cared for me in ways no one else would ever consider and I owe her more than I could ever pay. But not telling me I was adopted I think has evened the score a little. I called her to point out her little omission and the call just didn’t go as well as I would have liked.
“Mom, what gives, why is Jeff your only child on Facebook?’
“You saw him on Facebook?”
“No. Mom, you list him on Facebook as your only child.”
“Doesn’t he look nice?”
“Mom, you forgot me.”
“I did not, your listed under hobbies, right after gardening and laundry.”
When I find my real parents, I bet they’ll have a pony.
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