Making The Call

"If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't have had children."

"It's just a matter of time until everyone finds out how truly evil you really are."

These were a few of my father's greatest hits of my childhood. It wasn't exactly the sort of childhood that is captured by Norman Rockwell.

My dad and I are not in touch. I haven't spent more than an hour with him since 1994. He doesn't know that I have two kiddos. Or that I live in Minnesota. Or that I am even married.

I don't intend on telling him these gems when I call him. I have taken to staring at my cell phone a lot lately. I imagine dialing the last known digits, but I am stuck on how to broach the fact that I know about the donor dad. Worried that my voice will fail me.

Do I start with the quick and dirty? "Hey Dave (cruel irony that his name is also Dave), so I know. What's the deal with the sperm donor?"

Or do I ease into it? "Howdy Dave, how's my evil stepmother? Gonna retire soon? Great. How'd you pick my donor dad?"

Or should I be gentle in hopes that he'll be true? "Hi Dave. How's it going? Oh, I am great. So, AC finally let me in on the secret. I am hoping you can share a bit about what you know..."

And yet, part of me is just grateful to him. I am still struck that he never told me. A man that did not mince words of his unbridled disgust for me never slipped up. He could have slayed me in high school. He either didn't tell or held back my stepmom from spewing the secret. I was already so beaten down, I think it could have pushed me into territories I am surprised I didn't explore.

Or maybe this knowledge would have untied my perverted allegiance to a father who seemed to find peace in torturing me. Maybe I wouldn't have spent years fearing the evil that didn't lurk inside.

Stop staring. Pick up the phone.

Uh oh....This Might Get Messy

Stanford?

As with any web of lies, many are dragged into the sticky mess. When things went down with my dad and I moved in with the H family, my AC unloaded the Secret on an unsuspecting mama. She was sworn to secrecy. After the big reveal, she let me know that AC had told her the donor dad was a Stanford student. This juicy tidbit had still been shrouded in secrecy for me.

Stanford?

For some reason, this locates him in space. My space. Yes, I am very self-centered...I am referring to the world as "my space." (Another product of the 'me generation,' I know.) Could I have crossed paths with him? Could I have seen him on that strange Lutheran Youth event at Stanford in high school? Silly, he must have left by then.

Stanford?

If he was an undergraduate, he could be as young as 53 or 54. Do you think he looks like me? Do you think he reads the New York Times on Sunday from front to cover or just lingers over the Styles section? Ugh. These questions. They were bound to come. You probably knew that. I did not.

Stanford?

I am not even going to ponder the nature vs. nurture question. I cannot go there. I routinely try to avoid it when I see gendered things happening with my boychild and girlchild. And now, this? My cousin dared to blurt out "I guess that is why you are so smart" upon hearing of the Secret. Or another remarked that it explains why I was a bit of a misfit.

Stanford?

I cannot think about this. I am not going to ponder. And I most certainly will avoid The Kids are All Right. For now, I am just going to focus on this funky picture of Nora.

Stanford.