Hair-itage and Memery

Hey - I'm still alive out here. I know, I've been absent. But, one of my most faithful and loyal and FANTASICALLY WONDERFUL blogger buddies tagged me a while ago, bringing me out of my blogging slump. So, a big THANK YOU to Kila, aka momto3cubs, for giving me an assignment and luring me out from under my rock. Love ya, babe.

Okay - here goes!

THE RULES

1.Go to your Picture Folder on your computer or wherever you store your pictures.
2.Go to the 6th Folder, then pick the 6th picture in that folder.
3.Post that picture on your blog and the story that goes along with the picture.
4.Tag 6 other peoples that you know or don’t know to do the same thing and leave a comment on their blog or an e-mail letting them know you chose them.Yeah, I'm gonna save you all some grief and NOT tag. You're welcome.

So, I did this, and had to laugh when I saw the photo...I received this quite a long time ago. In fact, those of you who have followed The Story will truly appreciate this. Back when I first discovered part of my heritage, I had an identity crisis. One of my blogger friends felt my pain and wanted to help me embrace my ethnicity, so she sent me this composite:
Can you guess the celebrity? Yeah - it made me feel better. And I feel HORRIBLY ROTTEN b/c I can't remember which of my blogger friends did this for me...and I'm running out of time to post, so I have no way to go back through archives and research. So, if it was YOU...many thanks! I remember how this picture lifted my spirits and made me identify less with the local illegal aliens.

AS a woman of "some" color...I am rediscovering my hair. I have kept it straight for so long, but it is naturally curly. I realize that the blessings of my heritage include hair that grows quickly, has fantastic body, and yet can be easily manipulated. So, which hair do you like best on your Tiggerlane? This is how I've been wearing it some lately - natural curl, with some gel thrown in. This was taken late, on my cell phone - not the best quality, but you get the idea: This is with a little bit of curl...a bit of body...and yeah, I took this last night after I had rubbed off most of my makeup. You're welcome. But you're supposed to be looking at the HAIR. And yeah, doesn't my nose look big here? Weird.
And this is how I've worn it over the last few years:
I've been having multiple-personality hair lately - wearing it all three ways several times in one week.

Think I should just keep changing it up?

Fun Monday Birthday

IamwhoIam at Dungarees Ablaze is this host for this week's Fun Monday, and it's all about birthdays! This was tough for me, as my husband's 50th was incredibly special, and upcoming? Well, guess who is gonna hit the big 4-0 in September? Yeah, just don't tell anyone - I'm gonna try to still pass for 35.

To be honest, since I was abandoned within days of my birth, I have no idea when my actual calendar birthday is.

The most special birthday was the day The Offspring was born. I went into labor around midnight, Christmas Eve - I remember it distinctly, b/c I was just SURE I had gas that needed to be expelled. And I would wake up each hour, trying to expel it. All Christmas Day, I was in hard labor, as I was frosting five dozen sugar cookies that I had made the night before. Finally, after the contractions were about 5 minutes apart and we had returned from celebrating Christmas at Roger's family's home, it was time to have a baby. Nevermind my OB/GYN who kept insisting I was having Braxton Hicks false labor - I knew better. This was it. My doctor slid into the room, just as I was pushing her out. It was an easy delivery, all natural, no drugs, and though it was painful - I had the luxury of being the only patient in labor that night.

Click here for photo - Blogger is being difficult. At 3:21AM, on December 26th, 1993, I met the only person that I know for sure is related to me. My precious little girl. I had always wanted just one child and always wanted a girl. In this day and age of sophisticated ultrasound equipment, we had decided NOT to find out the sex of our baby beforehand. So I was ecstatic that SHE had arrived! And the look she gave us? It was incredible. She was full of wonder and life and spark - eyes big and checking out her new world.

She was the most precious gift I've ever received, and I treasure all the moments we continue to share. It's a birthday I treasure...and will never forget.

Sorry about the lack of photos! BLOGGER and I are NOT getting along tonight!

Fun Monday Stardom

It's time for another Fun Monday assignment, and this week's hostess is Janet, from the Planet of Janet. She was curious about the movie trailer for our life story, and who we might choose to play in our feature film about our lives.

Given the recent discovery of my heritage, who better to play me than Penelope Cruz? However endearing her accent, she'd have to drop if for a CaliforniTexArkansan style - just to prove her acting chops. Of course, given the nature of my beginnings in this world as an abandoned baby, the movie would have to start off dark, and brooding, with the feeble cries of an infant echoing in a filthy gas station restroom. Destined for Hollywood GREATNESS! Of course, it would progress on to show my mistreatment in foster care, and resolve somewhat in the youth years as my adoptive parents molded me into a child prodigy. I think I would skip most of this stuff, since I lived thru a lot of this phase with buck-teeth.

Then the blur of college - which would basically show the true "formative" years of Tiggerlane. The time in my life when my eyes were opened, and I discovered more about myself than I thought possible.

Of course, a recurring theme of me struggling with my pursuit of perfection and my constant need to reach that "next" level of success must be included. After all, that is key to character development.

The birth of my only-known relative would be a plot crescendo, and then in later years? I would hope to be portrayed as such:A woman who is passionately committed to making the world a better place, without the passle of adopted kids, however.

Now go visit all the other participants lurking around Janet's Planet!

Pondering My Discovery

So...how does one react to the results of a DNA test? My heart rate became elevated the second I saw that my results had been posted on the Genetree site. At first, I wasn't really SEEING the results...just scanning hurriedly, trying to find out WHAT I WAS. I saw the phrase "Haplogroup A2," which meant nothing...and finally found the link to the ancestry page. That gave me the "dot-map," which had dots of all the people in the database who matched (some exactly, some partially) my mtDNA profile. All in one place - Guerrero, Mexico.

Mexican.

I am part Mexican.

It took a minute to sink in. Instantly I realized how desperately I had wanted to be Italian. I thought it would explain the parts of my personality that make me feel at home with my Italian friends - which are the same parts that make me feel like a weirdo around my adoptive parents.

I feel ordinary. Not b/c of the specific ethnicity, but now? Now there was no mystery. Yes, it's only a part of the DNA picture, but I had erased that aura of "not knowing," of asking people what they thought I could be. The excitement of hearing the theories. The look in people's eyes as they tried to puzzle over my features. Now, that parlor game is over, and I am no longer an enigma.

I raced to Google this "Guerrero" and found pictures like the one above. It is beautiful country. My mind immediately began planning a family vacation there - just to walk among the people - to see if I felt a connection. Synapses firing wildly, I pulled up photo after photo...and then realized I needed to take a deep breath.

My husband's immediate reaction to the news: "Oh, no!" Wasn't sure how to take that at first, but he explained that he felt I wanted to be more exotic, and he was hoping I was partially black.

My kid's reaction was much the same. Maybe as a result of the negative media attention surrounding the illegal immigration issue - but she felt "common," even though she has all sorts of other bloodlines on her father's side.

I went to Walmart a few days later, and looked closely at the Mexican population I encountered. I look so different - sure, most of them are not tall people, but they are so dark. I have to tan for months to be that color. A friend informed me that the Mexican people are NOT all like the immigrants that I have seen. I felt ignorant. And then I thought about the Miss Mexico contestants in the Miss Universe pageant.

As I struggled to assimilate this new "identity," I felt as if I had been haughty and imperious in the past. Am I supposed to look at the illegal immigration issue in a different way? I didn't think I had discriminatory thoughts - but I had secretly resented their actions.

I took Spanish for two years in high school, and two years in college. I retained very little of it, and yet it was an easy language to learn. Romance languages are. But I never felt a "connection," does that make sense?

Should I learn the language again?

I wondered more about my mother. I thought more about the blonde man who carried me into that gas station restroom and left me. And I'm looking at my world differently today.

The Answers You Didn't Expect

I appreciate all your guesses about my heritage! What a diverse answer set - I was impressed! Now...on to the results.

mtDNA. That is what my recent DNA test analyzed, which is maternal DNA. This passes down from mother to child, with little or no alterations in the sequence. However, these rare mutations allow scientists to assign people to "haplogroups". Members of a haplogroup are descended from a single common female ancestor who first had that particular collection of mutations. Haplogroups are usually assigned a geographic location based upon the location of the current population.

My results came back that I am a member of Haplogroup A2. Haplogroup A is found throughout modern Asia. Haplogroup A1 is found throughout modern Asia, while subgroup A2 originated in Siberia. Archaeological evidence suggests that the founders of modern Native American populations migrated to North America from Siberia over a land bridge across the Bering Strait, tens of thousands of years ago. These people populated all of North, Central and South America.
I read all this in my results, including information that I have the same mtDNA as at least six other people on the planet, who are in the Genetree database. They were all born in ONE place - every single one of them - the State of Guerrero, Mexico, home to Acapulco, and the silver mining town of Taxco. I have actual names of some of these people, but knowing that there could be literally hundreds of thousands of people within this mtDNA haplogroup - I'm not going on a man(or woman) hunt.

So, there you have it! I suppose I can say that I'm most likely "half-Mexican." Surprised?

Please Be Patient, My Blog Friends

I know, you KNOW I have the results. But I've been swamped and away from the computer for most of the day. Tonight, we have company coming, so I have to make my little weird house look presentable.

However, I WILL reveal the DNA results - but first, I want you to take one last guess about my heritage.

Remember - I had dark skin and kinky, curly hair as a baby:And later, it got VERY long - as my teeth grew wider and wider apart:I had a tiny, petite, NON-curly haired baby:Who is growing up to look somewhat like me:Oh, yeah - and did I mention that I straighten my hair? I also have NEVER colored or permed it - I'm all natural:Last tips - I'm 5'3" with tiny wrists and long fingers. I gesticulate wildly when I talk. I'm VERY animated.

Now, guess away - one last time!

Friday - Something for Everyone

I have so many things on my mind today - and don't even get me started on the holidays! So, here is a menagerie of "stuff" for your amusement, in no particular order!

There is still a house in progress...but as you might imagine, little things slow us down! Painting takes a long time, even if you only use ONE porn-star-named color. It's all that trim work - and heck, I don't even have crown molding! We did finish picking out the light fixtures, so hopefully, the electrician will begin installing those next week. He has to wait for the painters to quit spraying toxins and clean up their mess:We have a septic tank and lateral lines, and they didn't tear up the yard too much, either. He is a quick peek at the beginnings of the process:Some of the countertops are installed:By looking at this photo of our partially completed kitchen cabinets, you should have some idea of our storage space. The Offspring said that once the cabinet doors were on, it was really starting to feel like a house.Speaking of The Offspring, can you pick her out of this photo? She's changed her hair since, but give it a shot anyway:And guess what I sent off today?Yup - that's my DNA kit. It came very quickly, and so I'm wondering how long it will take to get results. I'm guessing I'll know something by mid-January. I didn't get my parents' Christmas gifts packaged and sent, but you can bet I put this sucker in the mail TODAY. Where the heck are my priorities?

My Christmas Present to Myself * UPDATED*

I am seriously considering buying myself a gift, with Roger's blessing. And I would appreciate your input. I'm not sure how many of you stay up late at night, watching television. If you do, you might have seen Tuesday night's episode of ABC's Nightline. Well, it got my attention.

As a sidenote, some of you may wonder why I read Heather Armstrong at Dooce. One reason is that she is funny, but the more poignant reason is that she is a former Mormon, like myself. I read about her struggles with the religion and immediately identified with her. This bit of information may seem irrelevant to this post, but trust - it will make sense in a minute.

As most of you know now, I was abandoned at birth, and have NO CLUE about my ethnicity. Tuesday night's show featured a story about a new company, called Genetree. This company, for $150, will send you a home kit for collecting DNA samples. After the customer sends the kit back, the company will run a DNA profile. Most other DNA companies I've heard about will tell your "general" heritage - European, Asian, African, etc. for around $300 - $400. But Genetree promises more - actual relatives. Countries of origin. An adoptee on the program knew nothing of his ethnicity - and always wondered if he was Greek, Italian, etc. He found out that his ancestral origins were Turkish.

Now, Mormons have the most extensive genealogical record database on the planet - but it is more like "family tree" stuff, b/c they believe in doing baptisms for the dead (long story). Non-Mormons research their families at the facilities in Salt Lake City, UT. So, I wasn't surprised that the founder of Genetree is a Mormon. Though I no longer can subscribe to their gospel - I am compelled to give this a shot.

I haven't ordered the test yet - but I am ready. Are you?

UPDATE - I have officially ordered the test. It may be a long wait, since it takes 3 to 6 weeks for delivery. Hang in there with me.

Fun Monday - Regifting Thru Reposting

Wow, long time no blog! Robinella knew that NaBloPoMo kicked some of our tails (yes, mine is one of them), and wanted this Fun Monday to be easy. Her assignment was to pick our "best blog effort ever." Some of you may recognize this story, so feel free to skip ahead to the other Fun Monday participants. The only thing I don't like about this post, is all the linkage - but I felt it was necessary for those who were "in the know" at the time, or felt they might have missed something during my days of VERY random posting. Since many of you are new to this blog, and the holiday season is upon us, I present the story of "Sinclair Baby's First Christmas," originally posted December 16, 2006:

I know some of you figured I would never finish telling the story that started innocently with a post about birthdays. I realized after this post that some of you were intrigued, and I felt a little "on display." Anyone who knows me would be shocked that this might make me uncomfortable, as I revel in being the center of attention at any gathering. I found myself debating whether or not to make more posts like this. I guess I have lived with this "oddity" for so long, it has become commonplace. The only time I have to really face the bizarre circumstance surrounding my arrival on the planet is when someone else hears the story for the first time, and reacts with abject horror. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, follow the links, in order, and you'll get caught up.
I wish I could tell you that this photo is of me, but I'd like to think I was in this kind of mood on my first Christmas. The first baby photo in my parents' possession was taken when I was almost nine months old, so I don't know what I looked like before then. I DID know that in December, three months after I was born, one of my legs was broken. The ramifications of that didn't show up until my mother tried hemming my pants, and one leg would always end up a lot longer than the other. I was always called back for that "second screening" during the school scoliosis exams, but never diagnosed with the disease. It wasn't until I started running with my dog as an adult that I noticed terrible hip pain.

That was the main reason for obtaining my "non-identifying information" - not necessarily to find birth parents, but to determine the actual medical facts about this breakage. Naturally, the adoption agency was extremely reluctant to divulge anything. My mother had always said the break was "suspicious," in that our family doctor felt the healed bone might have been twisted. By now, you remember my first conversation with the social worker. Well, the same letter only gave these details regarding the break:
"As you were a healthy, normal baby, the hospital discharged you and you were placed in a foster home. The foster parents had three children of their own and provided foster care to infants. On December 3, 1968, your leg was broken. The injury was investigated, and it was determined that it was accidental and not child abuse. An X-ray revealed a transverse fracture of the proximal third of the right femur. You were placed in Bryant's traction (this is the photo you see to the left) until December 23, 1968; then you were placed in a spica cast until January 27, 1969."

It seems like a LONG time for a 3-month old baby to be immobilized, doesn't it? There were more photos of the spica cast at this site, and I was amazed at how many of the children seemed happy and were smiling broadly.

Since I've decided to revisit this topic, I encourage you NOT to feel all sorry for me. I was a baby. I can't remember a thing about it. Yes, I suppose it makes me more unique, but we are all unique in our own way. However, I have a special place in my heart for Christmas, and I wonder what that first one was like for me. Did someone visit me? Or was I all alone? I think of this very abstractly - as if it didn't really happen to me.

I am just extremely blessed that every Christmas since then has been filled with family, friends, joy, and the love of the season. It's the only gift I require.

NaBloPoMo Day Twenty-One - Life is Like a Box of...

I've never claimed to be anything but unique. In fact, I am PROUD that I'm unlike anyone I've ever met. Of course, it's more complicated when you are abandoned shortly after birth.

Those of you unfamiliar with THE STORY, go ahead and catch up. Then maybe you'll forget that I've been NaBloPoMo-ing (moaning?) for days, and get lost in a decent narrative.

At any rate, if you DO know THE STORY, then you'll appreciate this even more.

I wanted to keep my gall bladder after they took it out. Not that it was good for our home decor, but I'm kinda attached to my parts. (They DID let me keep the gallstones, and Roger let me display them for months on a shelf in our dining room. He finally threw them away. Dammit.) I am so curious about every aspect of my body, in case I might find something unusual that would make me "one in a million," and easier to link to any possible relatives. At any rate, the only thing that has come out/off of me are:

1) a mole;
2) a fatty tumor under my armpit (I know, GROSS), after several painful mammograms;
3) The Offspring;
4) a gift to my husband's friend.

Wanna see?

Now SOMEBODY on the blogosphere wasn't appreciative of my twisted sense of humor, even though my GIFT, considering the nature of THE CONTEST, was heartfelt and appropriate.

The recipient of these? Well, let's just say that it was his first real glimpse into the person his best friend married. I had never seen this man in my life, yet my husband and I threw together this package of random stuff you might find in your junk drawers, some happy meal toys, etc., and my teeth. These were pulled from my head when I was 14 years old, to make room for braces and my ultra-massive teeth in my too-small mouth.

Surprise! I still have some gnarly wisdom teeth to send, so watch out.

Here is a picture of him and Roger, during our visit to Chicago. They had not seen each other in 12 years. Needless to say, we recently received a package from Kim (yes, that's his real name). I got my teeth back.

That's how we roll.

NaBloPoMo Day Seventeen - Awards!

You may have noticed new items in my sidebar, and I have been remiss in thanking those who have bestowed blogging awards upon me...so here is where I make amends! I'm always surprised when I receive one of these. In fact, I'm actually surprised anyone ever reads this silly blog. Unlike Willowtree, I do not alter my awards, nor am I an award whore.

First up is the "Community Blogger" award, given to me by Desert Songbird:

This award celebrates "those who reach out and make the blogging world a better place." I think I received it b/c MONTHS after she won a prize on my blog, I finally got around to sending it in the mail. She shouldn't feel slighted, though. It's a Tiggerlane Tradition. Just ask any of my friends or coworkers. They are constantly appalled that I wait until March or so to send my parents their Christmas gifts. Hey - isn't it more of a surprise that way? At any rate, I'm not sure I deserve this one.

Next up, is "The Colors of Friendship" award, I got from Kila, who is known as the "Mom to 3 Cubs."If there is an award for raising three fiesty boys, AND blogging on a regular basis? Kila should win it hands-down. I am constantly amazed that she has any time in her life at all to get on the computer, much less come up with a SLEW of fabulous gifts for mine and Julie's recent blogosphere house-warming party!

And I like the design of this award. It helps me reflect on my possible origins.

Last but not least, comes the "Be The Blog" award from Bond's Comfy Big Leather Couch:

The creator said that this award sums up what a successful blogger does with his/her blog - that they make it their own, stay with it, are interactive with their readers, and just plain have fun. I have decided in the past few months to respond to EACH AND EVERY COMMENTER, especially since I figured out how to have your comments sent to my email addy. I think it is my responsibility in this blogging medium, and I sincerely have enjoyed the increased interaction.

And just so you know, this blog wouldn't be as cool without Bond, b/c he designed that fancy new masthead you see above.

So THANK YOU to all my readers, my commenters, my lurkers, and my award-givers. I'm really not worthy, but I appreciate your kindness. You make me want to continue this "blogging more often" phase, even after the clowns of NaBloPoMo are satiated gone.

That Pesky Caucasian Box

Some of you familiar with THE STORY will know that recently (or anytime before September 10th) I will have had a birthday.

Those of you wondering what I'm talking about, well, just click on the label. Otherwise, in short version, I have no idea exactly when, where, or to whom (who? Help me out here, Mocha Momma and Arkansas Songbird) I was born.Wow. Looking perplexed there, aren't I?

What makes this an interesting fact is that I'm faced with THE BOX. Having a child in school means filling out lots of forms each year, and sometimes, these forms want to know something about the parents. The forms ask about job information, contact information, and some? Well, some ask about race. And those aren't the ONLY forms.

I have a luxury few people enjoy. I will never be a racist.

I have always checked the same box: Caucasian. But am I? I don't know. Unless genetic testing reaches a point beyond that of knowing our ethnic ancestry, I may never know.Do you know your ethnic ancestry? You probably do.

I look at the box and wonder if I'm a traitor to my race. That's how the box affects me.

Not knowing my birthparents is bizarre...because I think I'm a pretty good person. I actually like hanging out with me. Could people related to me be so awful? I know, I know...the whole abandonment thing - but, we ARE related...could it have been just some horrible mistake of youth? Lord knows I've made a few.

I see the box. I check Caucasian.

I'll let you decide.

Fun Monday Hair Disaster

Robin at PENSIEVE is this week's hostess, and her assignment was to: "Pull out your old photo albums and find your WORST BAD HAIR DAY." Wow...that's a tough one! There were two I was torn between, so you get the privilege of seeing them both. Along with BONUS material: flagrantly bucked-teeth.
Here I am early on in life, when it was extremely easy to tell that I was adopted. (Either that, or my mother was the talk of the neighborhood, for having an "off-color" child.) My mother is bathing me, and my hair is in its most unmanageable stage - curly, kinky, in an afro. I can only imagine how my mother tried to tame the mane until it grew long enough to put in pigtails. However, I was really hip with this '70s look.

I think my mother was so worried about returning to this stage that she never again cut my hair. It grew exceedingly long, as you can tell from this photo:
This was taken while I was in the fourth grade, only a few months before my hair was chopped off to shoulder-length, a story I've shared previously. My mom used to unbraid my hair every night for washing, and then we would rebraid it in the morning before See those yarn ribbons? They were a staple at the top of the looped braid.

I almost didn't post this photo, due to the HORRIBLY offensive teeth. I had four permanent ones yanked so that the orthodontist could fit the rest of them into my mouth. My palate had also become misshapen due to years of thumb-sucking, probably related to my early abandonment. Thank goodness for $3,000 worth of braces that allows me to smile without scaring folks too terribly.

There you have it! Now I have to go check out all the rest of the hair disasters. (Oh, and in case you're wondering, one reason I don't have anything worse to display is because 1) I've NEVER had a perm - for obvious reasons, and 2) I've never had my hair colored - EVER.)

"It's mine... My own... My precious..."

Another Fun Monday assignment, co-hosted by Karmyn R and an anonymous yet entertaining associate of Marnie's.

It was difficult to come up with just ONE precious thing - and as Pamela commented in the post below, the most precious is my daughter. But that's too easy.

Much like a gypsy (maybe therein lies my heritage, eh, Matt?) - I always wear several gold rings. A total of FOUR on my wedding finger (see the sapphires, Willowtree?), my Texas Aggie ring, my MBA ring, and then, my most prized - I've worn it on my left hand ring finger for almost 21 years.

I received this ring from my grandmother - my mother's mom. Before you get all in a twitter, I'm talking about the only family I've ever known - my adoptive family. My grandmother attended Marlborough School, a prestigious all-girls' high school in Los Angeles, CA. The inscription inside the ring is "BCM 1934," for Barbara Corinne Morrow - graduated in 1934. My grandmother sent it to me shortly before my own high school graduation in 1986. The crest and lettering were once clearly defined; they have worn down now, and the ring has taken on the shape of my finger. (By the way, I had to have a lot of help taking this photograph. It's nearly impossible to take a photo of your own right hand, and I don't have a fancy camera with a macro-lens like Ree's. The ring I'm talking about is the top one in this photo.)

My grandmother was articulate and wrote long letters to me over the years, discussing everything from current events to stories of her past. As the eldest of her granddaughters, even sharing her middle name, I felt very close to her - even though we lived many miles apart. I only saw her a few times after my family moved to Texas in 1976. The last time was during Christmas of 1992, when I flew to California to visit my parents, who were then serving as my grandparents' caretakers. Unfortunately, she was no longer completely lucid, and our conversations were limited by the onset of her Alzheimer's.

I started this post late last night - too late to phone my mom and ask more about my grandmother's past. I knew she had attended college, but couldn't remember where. I found a "missing alumni" entry for Barbara Morrow Weir at the Alpha Phi site, in the UCLA Beta Delta chapter, with a graduation year of 1938. I assume she married my grandfather during her college years. I remember hearing that she had also attended Cornell University, though I wasn't able to access their alumni site for verification.

I am extremely proud of my grandmother, as it was quite an achievement for a young lady to attend college during the Depression Era of the mid-1930's. The ring reminds me of the challenges she might have faced, as well as her determination to receive a quality education. I am honored to wear it each day, and it has given me courage to face adversity as I seek my own place in this world.

Oh! And I'm giving bonus points for those of you who can correctly name the movie character whose quote I used to title this post!

Pre-Pubescent Tiggerlane

Welcome to another Monday adventure in voyeurism prompted by Erik, who is curious about how his blogging buddies looked as children. I've chosen age five as the best "kid year" for Tiggerlane. Before buck teeth emerged, the lack of coordination and the pleasantries of puberty. The first photo is my favorite - I'm all jacked up on Easter chocolate - documentation of my first "high." See those cute braided double-pigtails? As mentioned here, I was blessed with uncertain heritage and VERY curly hair which grew to be lengthy, and heavy. My parents weren't hippies, but their love of my hair kept them from cutting any major length off until I was in the fifth grade. The FIFTH GRADE, people. Why? Well, that's the year I contracted chickenpox. Four feet of hair, gallons of calamine lotion, and itchy spots made for a nasty combination. And finally, Princess Tiggerlane, in all her Halloween glory. My mother made the outfit in the first two photos, as well as this one. Check out that '70s couch! This photo always reminds me of my favorite childhood fantasy. As an adoptee, I've been fascinated with the unlimited possibilities of my heritage. When I would get angry at the parental units for some perceived injustice, I would fantasize that my birthparents were royalty. I imagined they had brought me to America for safe-keeping, until the time was right to notify me of my noble heritage and take me away to my place as a princess in their family. As I got older, the idea of being a Mafia princess replaced this childhood fantasy.

I think I could pull it off either way, don't you?

Sinclair Baby's First Christmas

I know some of you figured I would never finish telling the story that started innocently with a post about birthdays. I realized after this post that some of you were intrigued, and I felt a little "on display." Anyone who knows me would be shocked that this might make me uncomfortable, as I revel in being the center of attention at any gathering. I found myself debating whether or not to make more posts like this. I guess I have lived with this "oddity" for so long, it has become commonplace. The only time I have to really face the bizarre circumstance surrounding my arrival on the planet is when someone else hears the story for the first time, and reacts with abject horror. If you have no clue what I'm talking about, follow the links, in order, and you'll get caught up.
I wish I could tell you that this photo is of me, but I'd like to think I was in this kind of mood on my first Christmas. The first baby photo in my parents' possession was taken when I was almost nine months old, so I don't know what I looked like before then. I DID know that in December, three months after I was born, one of my legs was broken. The ramifications of that didn't show up until my mother tried hemming my pants, and one leg would always end up a lot longer than the other. I was always called back for that "second screening" during the school scoliosis exams, but never diagnosed with the disease. It wasn't until I started running with my dog as an adult that I noticed terrible hip pain.

That was the main reason for obtaining my "non-identifying information" - not necessarily to find birth parents, but to determine the actual medical facts about this breakage. Naturally, the adoption agency was extremely reluctant to divulge anything. My mother had always said the break was "suspicious," in that our family doctor felt the healed bone might have been twisted. By now, you remember my first conversation with the social worker. Well, the same letter only gave these details regarding the break:
"As you were a healthy, normal baby, the hospital discharged you and you were placed in a foster home. The foster parents had three children of their own and provided foster care to infants. On December 3, 1968, your leg was broken. The injury was investigated, and it was determined that it was accidental and not child abuse. An X-ray revealed a transverse fracture of the proximal third of the right femur. You were placed in Bryant's traction (this is the photo you see to the left) until December 23, 1968; then you were placed in a spica cast until January 27, 1969."

It seems like a LONG time for a 3-month old baby to be immobilized, doesn't it? There were more photos of the spica cast at this site, and I was amazed at how many of the children seemed happy and were smiling broadly.

Since I've decided to revisit this topic, I encourage you NOT to feel all sorry for me. I was a baby. I can't remember a thing about it. Yes, I suppose it makes me more unique, but we are all unique in our own way. However, I have a special place in my heart for Christmas, and I wonder what that first one was like for me. Did someone visit me? Or was I all alone? I think of this very abstractly - as if it didn't really happen to me.

I am just extremely blessed that every Christmas since then has been filled with family, friends, joy, and the love of the season. It's the only gift I require.

So...What's in a Name?

An inquisitive child, I wanted to know everything about my abandonment. I harassed my parents, needled them, and finally got a “story.” According to the “story,” a nurse had been leaving her hospital shift in the wee hours of the morning and thought she heard the soft mews of a kitten. A cat-lover, she had to stop and check the bushes from whence the cries came. Voila – she found me, covered in ant bites, but none the worse for the wear. This “story” became part of my life-treasure, and I carried it always – along with a special place in my heart for that nurse. I even spoke about it in a college speech class. The “story” was neat and tidy – I was found in a safe location (hospital grounds) and meant for discovery.

After learning the truth, I tentatively asked my mother if she remembered any details about my abandonment. Nope. Nothing. She never mentioned the “story.” I guess it had also been abandoned, since it hadn’t been needed in many years. I brought up “remembering a story about a hospital bush…or something,” and I was emphatically told that I must have “made that up.” I was never TOLD that, you see.

I knew differently, but it is better to be kind than right.

I still haven’t shared the truth with her, b/c when I asked if it were possible to find out – would she want to know – the answer was an emphatic, “NO.” Plus, I was again lectured about the foolishness of such an exploration. ‘Nuff said.
But what’s funny is my nickname. Years ago, after hearing my “story,” my husband thought it would be cute to call me “Lawn Baby” – in reference to being found on a hospital lawn. It sounded better than “Bush Baby” – and, well, you get the picture. So non-id posed a REAL PROBLEM. What was he going to call me now?

Okay – let’s get back to the phone conversation with the social-worker-I’m-trying-to-convince-I’m-not-insane. So, I tell his lady that I’m living a great life – I’m very successful, a mother, etc….but my husband and I have a problem. Then I tell her the “Lawn Baby” thing – just to convince her that I’M NOT CRAZY and I’m WELL-ADJUSTED. I just want to know what he should call me now. Dumpster Baby? Curbside Baby? Trash-Can Baby? Alley Baby? Could she at LEAST tell me WHERE I was found??? There was a long pause, as I think she had never encountered THIS type of problem on the job. She asked me to sit down. That’s when she said (with a measure of complete dread in her voice), “You were found in the restroom of a filling station. The truck merely pulled away, and the police case was closed.”

I guess “filling station” sounds better than “gas station.” When I told my husband, he was appalled. “She didn’t tell you what BRAND??? Well, NOW what am I gonna call you?? Shell Baby? Exxon Baby? Mobil Baby?”

We haven’t done all the research as to what gas stations would have been around at the time in California. But we like to think it was one of those with the cute green dinosaurs.

You can call me “Sinclair Baby.” He does.

Getting Information - or "Non"-Information

Okay - enough of the hotties. Let's get back to the story.

I started poking around online, and found dozens of web sites dealing with adoptees in California. Who knew? But the first step was getting what is called "non-identifying" information, which according to Tina's page, is the only thing available. However, "in the case of adoptions occurring before 1984 - contact between an adoptee and birth parent may be arranged if the adoptee, birth parents and adoptive parents have filed waivers of confidentiality with the Department or agency." If I had been adopted after 1984, I wouldn't need anything from my adoptive parents. How ironically non-Orwellian.

So I send off and get the letter back. It's so weird - I remember opening it at my office, surrounded by coworkers who had been encouraging me all this time. Here is what it said, in part:

"You were abandoned on September 10, 1968 in Anaheim, California. You were dressed appropriately and wrapped in a pink receiving blanket. You were taken to the hospital and it was estimated that you were about five days old. You weighed five pounds, four and three-fourths ounces and were 18 1/2 inches long. You were described as an attractive baby with a nicely shaped head and small features. You had dark brown hair, blue eyes and fair skin. You seemed alert."

Nicely shaped head! Attractive! Wow! Now, maybe it's just me - but if this had said "weird-shaped head, wrinkly face - bald," I could have seen more reason for the abandonment. I sound like a baby-hottie!! But, I digress.

Reading this stuff about myself was kinda bizarre - like the blank pages of the first nine months of my life, starting to fill in. I have to skip some of the letter here, b/c that's going to have to be a whole different post. But here's more:

"The authorities had been trying to identify and locate your birth parents. Someone had seen a pick-up truck leaving the area where you were found with two people in it. The man who was driving had blonde hair. The local hospitals were checked to see if you possibly had been delivered locally. However, your birth parents could not be identified or located. Eventually, the Court determined that you could be adopted."

Okay...a blonde man? I finally worked up the courage to CALL the lady who sent the letter. I had to know more details. When I spoke to her (which will most likely bleed over into tomorrow's post), she was VERY hesitant to tell me any details over the phone. I had to reassure her that I was not a lunatic, but I had to know - was there any CERTAINTY that these people were the ones who left me? She told me that it was DEFINITELY those people, that in fact, the witness said it was DEFINITELY the blonde man who left me there - and that I was DEFINITELY meant to be found.

I harrassed this woman into telling me MORE! MORE! on the phone, including sending me more details, without sounding like a spastic mental patient. But you'll have to wait until tomorrow!

August in October

HAWT. This is the autographed birthday-present-for-the-birthday-that-has-a-date-I'm-not-sure-of mentioned here. I can't wait to watch some football this weekend. And here is August, just in time for Fall Cuddling Season.

I promise that I will release some more exciting details of the abandonment/adoption story that began here. Including the tale of my first baby steps in the search (contacting the adoption agency), the whirlwind of interest from the online adoption community that led me to abandon (ha! ha!) that avenue of the search, my husband's new nickname for me, and the story of my first Christmas - which actually explains why I can't walk down a steep slope without holding onto someone, sliding down on my butt, or just tumbling down willy-nilly.

Thanks to all of you for reading along and making such supportive comments. They are greatly appreciated. I'm always amazed at others' fascination with my story. I usually don't immediately share it with people (as referenced by Mugsy); he has known me since grade school, and yet "never knew." I've found this process to be cathartic and experienced some feelings in the past few weeks that I realize it is TIME to feel. So thank you for the encouragement! I will return soon. And hopefully, you'll get a laugh out it all, as repayment for the therapy you are providing.

Satiating Songbird

Okay, so now some funnier things about being adopted! See that beautiful Southern California woman in this photo? That's my mom. When she would proudly show me off to strangers, the normal comment was, "Oh! She must look a lot like her father!" My mother, getting her own private giggle out of it, would usually just reply, "Well, I suppose she does!" We made a strange-looking pair - the tall, blonde, blue-eyed goddess and the plump, knappy-headed street baby.

That curly hair? Well, it got MUCH curlier as I aged. I'll have to dig up some photos (now that I have a working scanner) of JUST how curly it got. I literally had an afro when I was about 18 months old. And my skin just got darker. To manage the hair, mom started parting it and braiding it - sometimes leaving it in braids when I went to bed. But my hair as a youth will have to wait for a different post, b/c that is an odd tale all by its lonesome. This photo to the right is one of my favorites of us - I had it blown up for her on Mother's Day one year. It shows the typical mother-daughter relationship. Me causing havoc, and Mom having to clean up after me.

Now for the story that Songbird mentioned. I live in a very rural part of Arkansas, in a town of 5,600 folks; the county population nears 20,000. At the time I got pregnant with the kiddo, I believe there may have been one black person in town. And I had heard stories of hangings in the late 1960's of the very few people of color that had dared make any attempt to reside here. At some point during my pregnancy, it just hit me. As Songbird so eloquently recalls, "It was just so hilarious because your panic happened so suddenly. It was like one day you woke up and this thought sprang into your mind. 'Holy Crap!!!! I could have a black child!!!!' Then, in typical Tiffany fashion, you couldn't shut up about it. You obsessed for the rest of your pregnancy about having a black child." Which is true. I was panicked. Terrified. I literally asked my husband how he would feel if, indeed, this child turned out to be noticeably black. Who knows what genetics could be lurking in my background? We were ready to move out of town, if need be. It became this worry, all through my pregnancy.

However, all my fears were laid to rest. Unfortunately, blogger is not cooperating with me on this last photo, but as you can see here, I didn't have a black baby. I was not run out of town, nor hung from the gallows.