The other day I found out, quite incidentally, that Ryan was adopted. I was taken aback. Not because I think anything is weird about adoption but because I thought anyone adopted would lead with that information about themselves. It’s such an interesting and complex thing to be.

So, last night, over tea and bourbon, I asked Ryan about his experience. Was it interesting? Was it complex?

“I don’t recommend it,” he said quickly without much feeling.

“Really? That surprises me.” 

“It shouldn’t. Adoption is rarely a parent’s first choice. And no one ever teaches them how to deal with that fact.” 

That’s a point, I thought. “But isn’t it a reprieve? A second chance? A door opening they thought was closed forever?”

He stared into his tea mug at something only he could see. “Sure. It is all those things. But it is also never as good as having your own.”

“I guess I always thought it was this great gift for all concerned.”

“It can be,” he said. “For some. Maybe even many.”

“But not you,” I ventured.

Well, it turns out that Ryan’s mother had wanted lots of kids. She was a smart woman, very competent and formidable, and thoroughly bored with married life. She had hoped lots of children would fill her days with noise, activity, and drama. 

On the other hand, Ryan’s father found children childish and annoying. And, due to some mysterious, never-discussed injury he suffered during WW2, he was told that he would probably be impotent—something he neglected to tell his fiancee until a year after they were married with no hint of pregnancy. She immediately wanted a divorce but he was Catholic so divorce was out of the question.

“Jesus!” I bemoaned.

“It was the forties, don’t forget.”

“Right,” I conceded. 

Apparently they decided to go the route of adoption two years into the marriage. Fifteen months later they came home with a beautiful baby girl. Everyone was happy because the baby was cute and funny and loved every pink dress and bow put on her. Ryan’s mother wanted a princess and she got a queen. 

Riding high on success, three years after they adopted their daughter, they decided to try for a son. Nine months later, Ryan was put in their arms. He had a snotty nose, a dirty playsuit, and needed a change.

“She handed me back,” Ryan said with a laugh and a too-big smile. “They went out to lunch to think about it. My father was the one who had the strongest reservations. I looked fragile to him. Too pretty, not boyish enough. But my mother, starting to feel immature and shallow, convinced him that I would look like a strapping young lad in no time with new clothes and plenty of nutritious food. And a bath.”

I laughed. “Did you?”

“Not even close.”

“I can’t believe they even told you about any of it. I mean, what were they thinking?”

“I think they were thinking that I should be grateful to them.”

“Grateful?”

“That they went back and got me.”

“That’s fucked,” I said, shaking my head. It never occurred to me that adoptive parents allow the child to come home with them, an act that deserved gratitude. I don’t think birth parents really consider that. My mother thought that children chose their parents and she was thrilled that I picked her.

Without me really realizing it, Ryan turned the conversation to my childhood—a subject I am always happy to go on and on about. I had the best mom ever and he seemed delighted with my stories about me and Pen and my mother. But he left before I got to ask the thousands of questions I still have about adoption--about him. I don’t know why I’ve become fixated on the subject.

Maybe next time.