Another story of adoption dribbles into my mind....

I was hanging out with a new friend over the weekend who told me that she had a friend who had met his birthparents. Her description of his reunion was quite touching. We were at his house in fact, when she was telling me about it. She, graciously, had agreed to let their dogs out, and we incidentally ended up sleeping there since it was so late when we had finally gotten there after our rather wild night out.
I think we hit up at least 5 bars, saw some live music, had a funny match.com encounter. Apparently I'm not the only one who's met some weirdos on there. We ended up across town scarfing down mini chocolate chip cookies and sliced turkey from a strangers fridge. At least they were strangers to me. They were her good friends.
Her story was this. Her friend, David, had been adopted in what was an open adoption. I'm thinking he is probably ten years younger than me. Adoption was much more open in the eighties than it was in the 70s- a sign of the times.
He didn't meet his birth mother till he 21 as I recall Lauren telling me. I find that odd, but men typically think much differently than women for some reason. I think it was by divine design.
He didn't find it necessary to meet his birth mother. His adoptive family gave him all he needed- similar to mine.
Whatever his reasoning was, he waited until he was mature enough to handle meeting her. And that's how I think it should be, given the right circumstances. So much is involved in a reunion. It's life altering. And that's the cold, hard truth.
He somehow met his birthfather, who was married with two of his own children. She went on to say that the birthmother had not told him about her pregnancy- like mine didn't, that I know of.
That would be such a shameful secret to hold onto for all of your life. How could you live with yourself knowing that you have held that secret for years? I can't even imagine what kind of guilt-ridden conscience one would have or not have.
I'm not sure which one is scarier-not having told anyone and bottling it in for your whole life, or not telling anyone, and not caring enough to worry about it. Either way. Both seems pretty dispicable.
The adoptee, whose comfy guest bed we were lying in while discussing his life, little did he know, ended up married to the love of his life.
At his wedding, guess who was in attendance-an interesting trinity of his birth mother and her family, his birth father and his family, and his Mom and Dad who raised him. What an interesting dynamic.
Can't you hear the conversations at the tables after the vino had been flowing. "OK, now which one is his real father? What? I thought it was him. What? What do you mean real father?"
At any rate, I think it's pretty cool. He danced the whole mother/son dance with his mother who raised him- as it should be. He didn't leave any time for is birth mother. Why would he, except to be nice, maybe to give her the feeling of inclusiveness. Oh well. Some things don't need to be done politically correctly.
This is just another story of adoption that somehow has been forwarded to my ears. In this quest I have been exposed to so many people who have been adopted or who have adopted. It's been absolutely amazing to hear the stories.
One day, I will have my own story to tell. When? I ask myself the same question all the time. Right now, the ball is in my court. Im not ready to let that go yet. I'm not ready to be worried, to have my cell phone on constant charge in anxious anticipation of a phone call from area code 910.
I guess it's the control freak in me rearing it's unrealistic mug again. One day I will have control over the controller. Life is funny.