I am such a geek

No, seriously.  I’m a geek.  I don’t think you can spend much time looking at my blog or at my websites without seeing it.  I love computers.  I love everything to do with computers.  I’ve been teaching myself how to use computers (for most of my life) and the web (since the old BBS days) and every neat cool thing that has come along since.  I’ve self-taught myself how to write in multiple programming languages and have recently really enjoyed learning how to build nice websites using some of them.  This is why my blog about my life as an adoptee includes these little “asides” about creating a Google home page, the Linky Links list, making my own Word Cloud thingy, etc.  I really like doing stuff like that.

 

In my letter I asked the agency and the IARMIE to pass on to any member of my birth family who requests info regarding me, I mentioned my love of computers and all things computer-related.  I don’t know why, it was important to me to have them know I guess.  I often wonder if anyone else in my family loves computers like I do.  It is funny how something as simple as that makes us question.  When people ask why it bothers me to be adopted, that’s one of many things.  Imagine not even knowing something as basic as whether or not someone else you are related to shares your passion for something.  Wondering if you get that from someone else in your family, wondering if it is an inherited talent, something you share with someone else. 

 

I understand music on the same level I understand computers.  That, at least, I know I get from my birth father.  At least, that’s what my non-id says.  It is something tangible I know I share with another human being.  This of course makes me wonder if the two are somehow related – does a love of music translate into a love of computers for anyone else in my family?  I don’t know, but I hope to find out someday.

 

One of my kids and I share a mole.  It is a small thing, we’ve both had them since we were born in the exact same spot.  The moles are identical.  I remember the first time I noticed it.  He was just a few hours old and I was doing the “count the fingers count the toes” thing.  “10 fingers to hold – check.  10 toes to nibble on – check.  Little dimples – check.  Gorgeous red hair – check.  Beautiful eyes – check.  Ooooo!  Lookie here!  Mommy has that too!”  For me, it was one of “those” moments.  It is on-par with the day I was looking over pictures of him I’d had done around his first birthday.  I was flipping through the proofs, glanced up, and saw a picture of me from when I was about the same age.  You’d have been hard pressed to pick which one was me and which one was him.  All my kids look a great deal like me.  Apparently I have some pretty dominant genes.  Which of course makes me think I probably look a LOT like my birth family. 

 

For an adoptee, at least for this adoptee, those were extremely significant moments.  It is something which, I’m sorry, a non-adoptee cannot relate to no matter how much they think they can.  Though it fascinates me how many people try to dismiss this as important.  Of course it isn’t important to you – you’ve seen where your ears and eyes and nose all came from your entire life.  Nor is this important to all adoptees.  I’ve met a few to whom it simply doesn’t matter.  And that’s OK.  But their experience does not negate mine.  I get tired of the “it doesn’t bother me (or my child), so it shouldn’t bother you” argument.  Or worse, the “it isn’t a problem for me (or my child), so there’s no problem at all.”  Do they even realize that is as unreasonable as saying, “I like brussel sprouts so everyone should like them.”  Well gee, I don’t mind blood and guts – I can eat a 7 course meal which includes a hefty serving of blood sausage after picking up someone’s entrails off the road after a car accident.  Care to join me?

Yeah, I didn’t think so.

 

Perhaps in the future I’ll start responding with things like, “Oh, your computer is acting up and you’d like me to look at it?  Well, gee, my computer isn’t acting up, so I guess there is no problem, huh?”

 

-bangs head-

 

The “not my child” argument bothers me more than anything.  I remember my adoptive mother telling her friend who was considering adopting, “Oh, no, it doesn’t bother the kids at all.  They know how lucky they are.”  She really believed that.  I was “the perfect child” ergo, no problem.  News flash – I would not have told my mother I had a problem if you had paid me to.  Now, maybe that’s because I was abused, I don’t know.  What I do know is that there are many other adoptees out there who did not have a childhood like mine – and they STILL would never tell their parents (even as adults) that they are having any issues with having been adopted or with their identity or anything else.  Why?  Because they fear on a very deep level that they will cause their parents pain.  My friend Bob talks about this in his book “Not Remembered, Never Forgotten.”  He is one of biggest advocates of adoptees seeking out their history, yet as he says in his book, he did not feel he could search until after his mom had passed.  He knew it would hurt her, so he put it off for years.  Unfortunately, he waited too long.  His birth mother had already died by the time he found her.  No child should have to go through that.  No adoptee should have to be so concerned about what their parents think that they miss out on the chance of learning everything they want to know about their origins.  You, as the parent, have a responsibility to your child – and part of that responsibility is not forcing them to be deprived of potentially life-saving information just to spare your feelings.  If you do not want to deal with your child possibly wanting to know where they came from, then adoption is probably not for you.  Save yourself (and the child) a lot of grief and work through your issues of jealousy or possessiveness before you bring a child into your life.  Don’t make them suffer for it.

 

Do I sound harsh?  Very likely.  But I am also a parent.  I know what it is to love your child more than life itself.  I know what it is to want that love returned.  But I also know what it is to be deprived of my history and to be told I have no right to it.  And you know what?  It sucks.