All in the Family

I have two biological brothers. I have two adopted sisters. We became a family the day my parents chose to love us and give us a home.

I have an adopted daughter and a biological son. People have asked me if there is a difference in my love for them? Yes. Yes there is a difference. It is the same kind of difference as if you had asked which do you love more your eyes or your hands? Your ears or your feet? The moon or the stars?

Mother, Father, I am your biological offspring, but what did I inherit from you? I don't have your eyes, your nose, or your mouth. Dad's skin, maybe? Yes. I have dad's ultra-white, freckled skin.

But, I have inherited much from you both.

From my mother I inherited the idea that white bread is poison and I should never eat it. It will turn to paste in my intestinal tract and rob me of nutrients. I should always take vitamin supplements--especially if I slip up and eat white bread or, GASP, sugar.

I also inherited my mother's disdain for day-time television and television in general.

I feel serious guilt if I do not get up and get dressed--"ready for the day"-- by 6 AM. And, truly, that's practically lunch time already for my mom. I'm working on passing on my genetic code to my children. I can't help myself; it's part of my being.

My father loves to fill out forms and so do I. We like to fill in all those fabulous blanks and check all the pertinent boxes that apply. It fills us with ethereal satisfaction. We both shrink from making phone calls to people we barely know. We have tele-phobia.

I believe I and all of my siblings inherited the knowledge that even if no one else loves us--our parents do. My children are lucky; they inherited that, too.

Both of my children are in love with my hair. I never loved my parent's hair. I wonder who they got that from? They stroke my hair, smell my hair, entwine their fingers in my hair and run to it when they are frightened or sleepy. No teddy bears or blankets or binkies for them...only Mama's hair. They must have gotten it from their dad; he loves my hair, too. He calls it, "sparkly."

My mother and I pray and expect an answer--even if that answer comes "someday." I'm waiting to see if that gene will blossom in my children or not.

Gardening, planting, nurturing, harvesting and preserving--all of these activities are hard-wired into my genetic code as they were in generation upon generation before me. I must garden or I am not. To see my children digging and harvesting with me reassures me that the legacy of reveling in spring blossoms, summer buds and autumn's harvest will be passed on.

My daughter has my genetic love for words. She is six. My son has inherited my ultra-white, freckled skin. He is three.

Neither of them has my eyes, but even if they did...we'd all see things differently.

Sarah L. Garriott