Happy Birthday, Nor!

Two Years

Two years ago, I was in labor.  Back breaking, bone crushing labor.  Dave grabbed the phone and threatened an ambulance ride.  Ready the warm towels, I thought the baby boy would be born right there on our bathroom floor.

We made it to the hospital.  Through a few red lights.  In time to have another five hours of can't access the English language labor.

She was finally born. Right after midnight on February 24.

Nora Charlotte turns 2 tomorrow.

Nightmares

There is a small band of plastic superheros guarding Spence's door tonight from the dinosaurs with long wiggly arms. The cinnamon spray that those particular dinosaurs are allergic to seemed to be waning in its power. I left him still wide awake cuddling his wobbly gobbly.

I have tried many different approaches to helping Spence with his fears. Encourage him to learn more about the dinosaurs. Asking him to describe them a bit more. Walking him through guided visualizations where he is his own hero. Affirming our love and protection. And yes, using cinnamon spray and toys.

I wish the plastic toys worked for adults. I could line up little plastic dolls outside my own door. Perhaps use a little lavender spray. Or at the very least, my nightmares could be delegated to just my sleeping hours.

My uncle is having surgery on Wednesday. Serious surgery. Hours and hours of surgery.

I don't want to know more. And I don't want to describe my fears to you. I just want to line up toys made in China, spray a little scent, and have all the nightmares go away.

It's time for a script change.

I am thinking of embracing the notion that my donor dad is it. Wouldn't that be the ultimate mind trick? Poof. With a little wordsmithing, I could eradicate that whole pesky legacy of my "father" rejecting me. I could just be a kid who had a mom who found some sperm and had a baby. She had a husband and when she died, she let that man take care of her babies for a while until they wised up and left.

Even writing that last sentence sets me in a different frame of mind.

I didn't recognize his voice.

I was frying up some falafel and cooking a pot of black beans and roasting an obscene amount of butternut squash and doing everything I could to make it seem like this call was no big deal. He picked up on the second ring.

It was awkward. How much information do I need to provide to a father to jog his memory that he has a daughter? "This is Kristy. Your daughter. You know?" I stopped myself from describing myself physically...red hair, green eyes, freckles. To be fair, I wasn't exactly sure it was him when he picked up the phone. There seemed to be a glimmer of recognition. I proceeded.

I decided not to beat around the bush. Small talk seems hollow when you haven't spoken for many years. I wouldn't even know how to do it. Everything would need a few pages of end notes. Even weather was not safe. He doesn't know where I live.

"SoAuntCarolyntoldmethatyouandmomusedaspermdonorandIwashopingyoucouldtellmesomemoreabout that."

I guess I expected a dramatic pause or at least some uncomfortable tension. But, it was as if that was our small talk. "I was wondering when you would find out about that."

His voice sounded tinny and round. As he recounted the story, I found myself lost in his voice. Sentences would pass over my ears and I would have to remind myself to pay attention. His accent was so unique...a bizarre combination Southern (not deep South, closer to the Mason Dixon line) and Minnesotan? His words seemed to be formed from a being that could not be traced to a space. It was as if I was hearing his voice for the first time.

I intentionally "life dropped" to see if he'd ask follow up questions. He didn't. Was he totally uninterested in learning more about his two grandchildren? Or was he just afraid I would dart if he asked about my beloved husband? I guess I am not sure.

He searched the recesses of his mind for details of this process and came back blank. Palo Alto and a vague connection to Stanford was all he could muster. He did say that the doctor tried to match the donor's looks to the father's. Sperm was collected from "anywhere they could find--mostly the university and the surrounding area." It took me a few moments to realize that he was willing to go out of his way to find something out for me. He repeated his offer--he'd call up Kaiser and dig around to find the name of doctors, request medical files and report back to me.

In the fuzz of the offer, I asked him why he never told me. "I never thought it was important." Even when things were stressful? "No." In seven words, he shot down all of the different theories I had concocted about why he could just turn away from me and never look back. In my own moments of parenthood, I find myself trying to put myself in my father's shoes and fail. I would turn myself inside out if it meant I could stay connected in some capacity to my kids. But to attempt nothing? I lack the imagination.

I fumbled and halted and returned to the details of clinics, doctors and sperm. He assumed that I was uncomfortable sharing my own contact information and offered up my stepmother's email address. She instructed him to tell me to "not forget" to email so they could follow up with information. He said it would be a while--they were at their vacation home for the next month.

We both started the dance to get off the phone. "Well, we're out in the garden..." was met with "I suppose I should get back to making dinner..." and then goodbye.

I took out the pan of squash and stirred the beans. I could only think about how his voice was so different from the earthy and sharp voice he uses in my head.

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.