I met my birth mother in the 80’s. I have many great things to say about that decade. Meeting her isn’t one of them. It took me years, until I wrote a newspaper article about the experience to remember what she called me the entire weekend. I was “my mistake.” “Why hi. How nice to meet you. Just call me her mistake.”
The word guilt was invented specifically for me yet I felt no, OK very little guilt when I stopped corresponding with my birth mother. She had told me how sorry she was she didn’t marry my birth father (I wasn’t as I wouldn’t have had my family) yet she would write me letters listing cities where I could meet Jewish men.
Hello. I lived in Manhattan. It was a bit hard not to meet Jewish men but I was looking, half-heartedly, for love and religion played no part in that. Actually I was in the midst of a two year, get together for sex and fun–friends with benefits, before the name, with an Italian-American character actor. But I had no desire to talk about it.
We had met at the Iggy Pop concert where I was carried in a rave, and somehow got my friend a job with Iggy who I had never met before the after party. Being friends with doormen, managers and/or club owners all over downtown had certain advantages.
I’m not proud of a lot of things I did but I’m not ashamed either. I didn’t expect my birth mother to approve of everything I did nor did I feel the need to tell her. As I didn’t tell my parents everything. I was a self-supporting adult who didn’t need a new mother. Mine, adoptive, was everything I wanted in a mother.
So I let the relationship die a natural death. I’ve googled her maybe a total of four times in the entire time I have had access to the Internet. I was shocked to see a picture of her still alive and sharp looking. She looked very different than she had 22 years ago. Old but better. Nothing at all like me–we have totally different noses, eyes, and mouths. But the face shape, yes. When I saw her she had a round face. Mine hasn’t been round since teen years.
If I met her now I would handle the reunion very differently. But I don’t know how. It’s something I think you’re never prepared for no matter how “prepared” you go.
The picture stirred up feelings in me.
Feelings of needing family. Feelings of being somebody’s child. Unfortunately I can never be her child. I had two of the best parents, and this year I know I will think of them often. My Mom’s tenth anniversary and my Dad’s 20th. Bookends I called them and they were.
I have incredible family and friends. But I don’t think you ever stop wanting to be somebody’s child. Even when they’re old, frail and maybe dependent, they diapered you. They love you for the flaws, not in spite of them. Well, a bit of everything. It’s their job to love you! They even pay you for the privilege. Room, board, toys, clothes, vacations, college if you’re lucky. And all the things you take so for granted.
This is an article making the FB rounds on quitting blogging. Seven to ten hours a week on blogging? At my height when friends mentioned above called me “lost to blogging,” rather melodramatically I might add, I was spending 70-100 hours a week on two or more blogs. And paid for mine!!!!!!!!