I kind of found my birth parents!

Kind of. As in I have non-identifying information about them, which is AWESOME!

Some of you may or may not know that I'm adopted. And lately, I've been doing a little digging around to see if I can find anything out about my birth parents. I mean, they're, what... 51 and 53 now? Why waste more time?

I started doing this when I was 18 or so but gave up quickly when I detected some tension in my family. I'm older now. And I can't upset my grandparents, which is what I was mostly trying to avoid. (I can't upset them-- Gram died 10 years ago and Grandpa died 4 or 5 years ago. It sucks because I still miss the hell out of them, but I'm not going to go into that. I don't feel like going on a crying jag.)

Back to birth parent searching. I sent information to the agency that adopted me out, and they sent me all kinds of information about my birth parents.

First thing they told me was that the birth date that I listed on the info I sent them is different from my original birth certificate. You know, the original birth certificate that wasn't supposed to be in my file? It's listed on the original as December 9, 1974. I grew up thinking my birthday was December 7. See, I think someone wrote a sloppy 9, and when they called my adoptive mom (Starr), they told her I was born on the 7th. And from there, the error perpetuated itself; they reissued my birth certificate with by adoptive parents' names on it with the date December 7.

Westley said we'll be celebrating both dates from now on. Ruth said heck, that's grounds for a three day party. I just think the whole thing is funny. Starr almost cried about it.

I could legally change it to Dec. 9, but I think I'll just leave it instead of going through all the hassle.

Funny story about my birthday (Dec. 7): They called my mom (in March) to tell her that they had a potential baby for adoption. They said I was born on Dec. 7. My mom hung up the phone and prayed to God for a sign that this was the right baby.

In my mom and dad's room, there was an often-forgotten wood block calendar. My mom never paid attention to it. She walked into the bedroom to do something and her eyes went right to it. It said Saturday December 7, 1974. And this was March, may I remind you.

My dad knew I was the right kid for him because I was crying in the little crib, but when he picked me up, I stopped crying.

Always been a snuggler, apparently. Or maybe it was because my foster mother always carried me around in a pouch.

And my mom found out my original name by fluke. She walked into the doctor's office for the first time with me and someone who worked there (a nurse or someone) exclaimed, "Oh! How is Stacy doing?!" My mom said, No, we just adopted her, her name is Nicole. Oooops. My mom wasn't supposed to know anything about my life leading up to the moment they placed me in her arms. She got the new birth certificate, a short history (mother was 17, father went in Army, great grandfather who developed diabetes at a young age, foster mother who carried her around in a pouch all the time) and that's it.

I'm doing this without the papers in front of me. They're in the car in my planner. My car is outside parked in front of a trailer. The trailer is there waiting to be filled with boxes and furniture to be taken to Westley's and to my mom's. It's time to move out of my cute house. I'm moving back in with mom for the month of December and the first week of January (the hour drive to work I'm sure will be divine!). The idea is that I'll save some money before the wedding. Hopefully it'll work out that way. But I'm digressing in a horrible way, so I'll get on with it.

When I was born, I had an Apgar score of 10 out of 10, which I've been told is rare. My birth mother did in fact name me Stacy.

My birth mother was 17 years old when I was born and usually weighed 115. (I was usually around 120 when I was that age.) She had light brown curly hair and blue eyes, and medium skin. (Damn, I missed out on the blue eyes! I'm going to have to yell at someone about that!) She was my height (5'4") and was ...was she German? She had all kinds of brothers (5!), but she didn't have any sisters.. They said she had an effervescent personality, a good sense of humor, and was likable and got along with people of all ages (like me!).

My father was taller, with dark hair and eyes, but fair skin. He was 20. He was half Armenian, and I think he had all kinds of brothers, too. He was shy until he got to know someone, then he was open and friendly. (Also like me in the shy department!) He went in the Navy before I was born... which is different than what I understood; I thought he went into the Army AFTER I was born. The papers said he was sorry the relationship with my birth mother was ending; if it had been up to him, he would have not chosen to end it.

I had a great grandfather who died at the age of 24 from diabetes, and a grandmother who had a sun allergy and always wore long sleeve shirts and big floppy hats. Or maybe I made up the latter. I'm trying to avoid the sun a lot myself; my face doesn't tan evenly and I've been getting thousands of freckles lately. They would have been cute when I was a kid, but noooooo, I have to get them in my stinkin 30s!

Both my parents enjoyed backpacking, biking, hiking, camping, roller skating, and all that outdoorsy jazz that I enjoy. My birth mother liked animals and raised rabbits. (I love aminals!) I think that's just uncanny. See my profile. I haven't changed it since I signed up for blogger a couple years ago. Wait, instead, look here. That account I set up in 2002?

Now let's have a nature/nurture debate. I'm voting for nature here! Some of the similarities are WEIRD.

I always thought I was German, English, and Irish, but those are the nationalities of my adoptive family. My birth family is German, Armenian (hang on, I got the paperwork!), Swedish (does that mean I am entitled to shares of Ikea?!), and Slavic.

I also always thought I was technically adopted on the Ides of March (15). Turns out that was wrong; it was March 14. So all that talking I did about how I was a bad omen because I was born on Pearl Harbor day and adopted on the Ides of March was all wrong. Apparently I'm fairly harmless.

It's all interesting. I need to dig out that picture of me my parents first took of me when they brought me home.

And mom and dad, if you're out there, I hope you don't mind if I try to contact you sometime. I'd love to meet you.

Thank you for loving me enough to let me go. I've had a great time so far. :)