Category: Growing up

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Growing up Stories about my fam

“What Does Adopted Mean?”

“What does ‘adopted’ mean?” Daniel’s little voice queried from his booster seat. My heart quickened. I’d already thought about how to address this. There’s a lot for little brains to process, and I’d wanted to be ready to tell the boys what they needed to know in the best way I could.

I’m sure there’s more than one right way to handle things such as this, but I’m also sure that my  parents straight nailed it with their approach.

Before I understood what adoption was, I knew I was adopted. My parents were very open with me with all that they knew. They had some great explanatory children’s book. My mom talked me up as “special.” Clearly, I’ve run with that messaging.

What my adoption means to me has changed over time. Early on, the only differing factor was that I cooked in someone else’s belly. Teen years cause all shorts of shenanigans. Thinking more about identity is certainly one of them. So there was some more contemplation then. There was an arc of curiosity that I’m thankful my parents supported. They were curious too. But that’s about it.

Even though I wasn’t born in 1950, I still encountered some stunted thinking from others about adoption. I didn’t see that coming. Things said that weren’t ill intended but still felt yucky.  “I just don’t think I could love someone as much as if they were mine” and of course the classic “you’re weird” and the less frequent but still applicable “stop acting like you’re special.” (See, it’s funny because my mom TOLD me I’m SPECIAL!)

Because of the great messaging from my parents, I’d never thought that there was anything unusual about being adopted. When I became a parent, I wanted my adoption to be a non-issue for my kids too. Like my parents, the language was around before they understood it. And on that fateful day, young Daniel asked me what it meant.

I did my best to let Daniel (and my less interested blonde passenger) know my story just as my parents had done for me. I replaced “special” with “they really wanted a kid.” But I kept in how lucky it was for everyone involved. In my mind, it was going really well. But, since I was piloting my pick-up at the time, I was unable to track Daniel’s every response to my words. At the end of my narrative I checked if he understood then said, “why do you ask?”

“Because this says ‘adopted of Coca Cola.’”

Young Daniel was new to reading and was eagerly reading the back of a Dasani water bottle. I looked at what he’d seen. It read “a PRODUCT of Coca Cola.” Poor guy got a lot more than he bargained for when he tried to read, but it was worth it to be able to keep them involved in what I think is a pretty cool story.

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Growing up Personal Growth (or not)

Not Sure How I’ve Lived This Long

“She was just so full of life. No one expected something like this. The community was shaken up.” The classics of murder documentary catch phrases. It’s really a wonder I didn’t end up on one of those.

News Flash: Teens can make bad decisions. While I’m living proof that adults can also possess that skill, this is a story about some of my questionable decisions I made with my undercooked brain.

I was a shiny new adult waiting tables at my first real job at the truck stop. Full of hope, wonder, and the dangerous belief that nothing bad could happen to me.

Maybe it’s also no surprise, but I was a giant dork then too. “Quirky,” if you will. Certainly not the girl that would be showered with compliments or lavished with boy attention.

So,…naturally I blushed painfully when the handsome young man was in my section to wait on. Emphasis on “painfully.” Being the person I was, flirting was not my forte. I’m sure I resembled someone passing a kidney stone with everything he said to me. We’d chatted throughout his meal. He stayed long after. He left saying that he was headed back home to Nevada.

After a couple of hours, he returned. He gave one of those lines that would sink a person like me. Something akin to “I knew I would regret it if I didn’t come back and get to know you better.”

Don’t worry, this won’t evolve into a naughty story. I wasn’t that boy crazy.

But, it will evolve into something cringe worthy. After work, he and I got in my car and I drove him to see Shasta Dam. Just me and whoever he was. I didn’t tell anyone I was headed out with a stranger to a dark secluded location in the wee hours of the morning. You know, because that’s safe.

This was in the days when there were no cell phones. No security footage to review from my last known whereabouts. Nothing of the like. Luckily, he wasn’t intent on any nefarious activity, murder or otherwise. We remained pen pals for a while. Legitimate letters were sent back and forth. Postmarked from Nevada, for real. Bullet of blind faith effectively dodged.

I should have realized that I needed to be safer. Instead, I did something else.

At the truck stop, there are customers who are regulars even though they’re from far off places. A lot were from Seattle. It was the early 90’s and Seattle was the shit. So, when a regular invited me to visit there; I did what any overly trusting 19 year old would; I fueled up the yellow Prelude, opened the sun roof, and headed north.

As evidence that fully cooked adults can also make bad decisions, a co-worker asked me to take her children to Oregon and drop them off. Who does that? Kids were dropped off with who I guess were the right people, and onward I pressed.

I did not see the regular customer as a potential mate. He was a nice man, to be sure; but his look was a combination of Mike Ditka and stereotypical 70s era Italian gangster. PS it was not the 70s. I’m sure he worked hard, putting in a lot of OTR miles to get the weighty gold chain he wore. Nice man. Probably someone’s exact type. Not mine, but someone’s.

Looking back, I’m not sure what I expected to happen out of this experience. Maybe to find some strapping young grunge Seattle man in his flannel ready to take me to hear Eddie Vedder croon. That’s not what happened.

Instead, what did happen was I was met at the door of the humble home he shared with his mother by his two daughters, maybe 8 and 10.

They were extremely excited to meet me. This is what a grown-up would call a “red flag.” Baby me didn’t see it though. Baby me grew up a lot though when they said “are you going to be our new mom?” Shortly thereafter I was showered with the quintessential claiming gift of the time, black hills gold. I’m sure my jaw went slack as the light slowly started to come on for me. “Wait a second,…he….oh….no.”

I grew up a lot in those couple days. Nothing will teach you about learning to gracefully back pedal and regroup quite like being a 19 yr old in a situation you should have seen coming. Prelude and I beat feet back to C’wd.

Maybe the modern popularity of murder documentaries and podcasts would have scared some sense in to me. Maybe not. Maybe we all have to make questionable decisions to appreciate the good ones we be still making. Probably one of the best take aways from questionable decisions is the ability maintain hope in the growing up process. Teens are like turkeys that have that crispy golden skin, but are still undercooked on the inside. They look like the real deal that is an adult, but their internal temperature is still at that point that will make you sick. We got through it, and we need to know that they will get through it too.

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Growing up

Margaret Thatcher and Duran Duran

I got a new phone yesterday. It has a new (to me) feature where I can make myself a talking shark. It’s cool, but it’s also embarrassing how I instantly turned 12 years old upon playing with it. And maybe that’s why I started to think about Margaret Thatcher and Duran Duran.

I was a lucky middle-schooler. I was spoiled and allowed to be whatever weird version of myself the changing moods of maturation could throw my way. Margaret Thatcher was my go-to example of gal empowerment.

She was the first female prime minister of the UK. That was about all I knew of her. That and she had some cool one liners that came about back in the day before you could steal one-liners off ye olde internet. “Standing in the middle of the road is dangerous, you get knocked down by traffic from both sides.” Not sure my interpretation of the quote was accurate, but middle school me thought it to mean the importance of taking a side. Something akin to “right, wrong, or indifferent; just do something.” This shit be still pure gold.

But how did a C’wd kid in the 80’s get to be Thatcher fan? Duran Duran. Obviously.  

To say I was obsessed with that band would be an understatement. My walls were plastered with their posters; the fancy ones that came from wherever posters were sold, and ones that were out of magazines that I would beg to have purchased for me from the old Holiday Market in Cottonwood; Tiger Beat, and maybe something called Bop.

I HAD to have them. Not only did they have posters, sometimes they had song lyrics. This was critical because, again pre-internet. If you wanted to know every word to Hungry Like the Wolf, you had to seek it out. The magazines also had ads for exclusive European LP records. I was never fancy enough to procure one, but they were a big enough deal that I remember the kids who did. I had every button that the mall sold of the band. They made a scarf, I owned it. Lead singer wore a fedora in a video; I bought a fedora. Etc.

I’m not sure what the term for a group of middle school girls is, a giggle instead of a gaggle maybe; but I was in one. There were terms negotiated for which girl could like which Duran Duran guy. It was serious business; who knows the hurt Shondell would’ve felt if I’d have put up a poster of John Taylor instead of my appointed Simon Le Bon? Shondell and I were in this together, I couldn’t do that to her. I just couldn’t.

I mean without her, neither of us would have the crown jewel of our collection; the VHS tape of their music videos. Independently, we couldn’t afford it. So we pooled our money and rode our bikes down to Bowman Video. This was both a) when Bowman Video existed and b) when it was actually still on Bowman Road. Pat the owner had to flatten wrinkled ones and count our coins to make sure she had what she needed before she committed to work that was ordering a VHS in day. Shondell and I held discussion about how to share the resource; she got the original tape, I got the box. Her dad “knew a guy” who was able to connect 2 VCRs so that a bootleg copy could be made for me.

I’m sure everybody knows all things Duran, but just in case you don’t; they’re from England. So there it is. Because I was pretty sure I’d be living in England as an adult, I followed UK politics more than a Tehama County kid ever needed to and accidentally found myself a powerful dame to admire. England never got me as a resident. But; maybe, just maybe, there’s some good that comes from poor music choices after all.

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