Christmas... a time for family and friends, a time to be thankful and generous, a time to reflect on the year past and hope for the year ahead.
Maybe that's why I'm obsessing about the current drama in my life...
Here's a brief overview:
I was adopted as a baby. I've always known this, in fact, my Mom used to tell me stories about how she picked me out specially from a room full of babies because I was special and shiny (well, maybe not shiny...) and it made me feel CHOSEN. I loved it. And I have a great mom and an amazing sister and grew up very happy.
But. But, but, but... the curiosity. It was there. Always. So when I was in my twenties I managed to get some information about my birth mother. It was non-identifying, so no names or places were mentioned, just general medical stuff, what my birth-mom and birth-dad were interested in, and the circumstances of my birth.
I tried, thru the Children's Aid Society of Canada - who holds all the ultra-secret documents, to make contact with my birth-mom but sadly she didn't feel the same. Apparently her family was never aware of my existence and she wanted to keep it that way.
Fine, I respect that.
Earlier this year, the province of Ontario opened up the adoption records so I applied for and received my original birth certificate, hoping that my birth father would be listed. Alas, birth-mom didn't include his name on the form. But I know my name, and her name, and where she used to live.
Small coincidence - my initials are W.K. yes? My birth-name initials are K.W. *shivers*
This is where it gets twilight-zone weird...
I was born and raised in a place called Thunder Bay, which is a long way away - 1600 kilometers - from the Toronto area, where I currently reside. My birth-mom was in university in Thunder Bay so I always assumed that she was from some small town in Northern Ontario.
Her listed address from 40ish years ago is town that happens to be just down the road from where I live now. HOW BIZARRE IS THAT?!
If you're guessing that I went there - to that old address - just to see where my birth mom grew up, you're correct.
I recruited a friend, stuffed my pockets with tissues (in case of hysterical breakdown) and off I went. Sat in front of the house for many minutes, wondering... Do my grandparents still live there? The grandparents that don't know I exist? The grandparents who don't know that they've got two gorgeous great-grandsons??
They still live there.
I know this because damned if they didn't have their name on a plaque next to the garage.
What next? I keep reminding myself that this isn't a made-for-television movie, that I can't go knocking on the door and tearfully spill my story and have these elderly people embrace me. Not sure I'd even want that. But, but, but, but... the curiosity. It's there.
What should I do, people of the blogworld? WHAT SHOULD I DO???