The beginning

My very long back with a "crack in it" (as my husband claims), my dirty-blond wavy hair and my penchant for "fixing" those in need of fixing, are the traits I inherited from my mother. My indecisiveness, my romanticisms, my love of putting pen to paper and my love of a good beer is also what I inherited from the woman who birthed me nearly forty years ago. From my father, I inherited my bawdiness, my social graces and my love of - yet again, a good beer. Up until nearly ten years ago, I didn't have a clue as to who to credit with these attributes. I was the product of adoption. A wonderful option that my birth-mother chose, rather than a 1967 back-alley abortion. Friends and family often ask "aren't you resentful?"

Resentful? Of what? Of the fact that she decided to give me to a loving family that actually wanted me? No, never. I am, and forever will be grateful.

The discovery

I didn't find out that I was adopted until I was about 13-years-old. My parents did not sit down and have "the" conversation with me. No, instead, I found out the sneaky way. I was rummaging through the armoire in my parents' bedroom (for what reason, I don't have a clue) and came across my birth certificate. It wasn't what I had expected. there was a lot of "black" ink on it kind of like the negative of a picture. The type was white, and the blank spaces were black. I thought that was oddNot that I had seen a birth certificate before, but this time I just had a hunch that mine was "different." There were two parts that really got my wheels turning the space for "birth weight" said " 4 lbs, 11 ozs. I was never great in math or science, but I was swift enough to know that that was rather small for a baby, Funny, I thought, mom never said anything about me being early. The second thing that I found odd was that the state of my birth was listed as Connecticut! Now, THAT was odd. My parents were both from Brooklyn, New York, and later moved to Rosedale, Queens. How and when did they have the time for a stopover birth in Connecticut? Now, THAT was perplexing. I did the math (simple math!) and figured out that my mom was 41 when she "had" me. At that time, in 1979 41 were considered WAY old for a woman to have a baby. I never thought of my mom as OLD, but my dad was always mistaken for my grandfather. Suddenly, all the pieces came together, and I buried a very hefty secret for a twelve-year-old to bury.

The questions

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