MountainMornings

I was born in the Year of Living Dangerously. Our circumstances of birth can be tossed up to faith or chaos theory, depending on lots of factors that include education and culture. And luck.

The Flapper always told me that I was the “…only child she planned.” This statement had a bitter edge to it – because of course she lost me after her car accident, and it refers to the not/quite/complete medical knowledge of the 1940s.

My biological father, a pharmacist, was losing the use of his arm. He actually used a mortar and pestle to make medicine so this, and his near-constant headaches, impinged on his family’s economic health. Psychiatry was fairly new and hip, so naturally my parents consulted a psychiatrist.

“Your husband has lost the will to live,” he told the Flapper. Then he recommended she have another baby, number six! Me.

My father died of a brain tumor 7 months after I was born.

And even though I was raised by foster parents, I always knew the Flapper was my “real” mother and I had older brothers and sisters. We’d travel from NJ to PA to visit my other family every month.

Before the days of open adoptions, I sort of experienced one. Well, this week we discovered another member of Bob’s family that I had no idea existed. His brother had a daughter in 1970, and she was given up for adoption back before a father’s consent was needed. In fact, this father didn’t even find out until many years later when she started looking for him.

Don’t you love social media! She found me on Facebook and was hoping Bob was her biological uncle!

I wonder if her eyes close when she smiles. Or if she has a wicked sense of humor.

I wonder if the FBI knew almost two years later that the code name for the Trump-Russia investigation, “Crossfire Hurricane,” would still be capturing our interest. That The Rolling Stones warned us about this egotistic real estate magnate back in the 80s when he managed one of their tours by billing his name TRUMP above theirs in marketing.

We all come into this world kicking and screaming. Alone. In fact, the Bride just ended her night shift by delivering a baby in the parking lot of her hospital. Without a hurricane or tornado in sight.

But our families forge our character and help us make sense of the life we are given for a small fraction of time. It’s up to us to forgive our parents, to grow into adulthood and get on with the ADLs (activities of daily living in OT lingo). To fit into the jigsaw puzzle we get. To make our way, to pay taxes.

And to win back the House and Senate from this mad crossfire hurricane.