March 18, 2016 by T. Gregory Argall
Both of my brothers are adopted. Doesn’t matter. Genetics be damned, they are still my brothers and always will be. I don’t recall when or how I first learned that they were adopted. It was never a secret. It was always just something I knew.
Grass is green. Snow is cold. Michael and David are adopted. Monkees reruns were on everyday after school at 4:00 followed by Gilligan’s Island at 4:30. I like Jell-o.
It was simply one of those things that you just know.
In the early 70s there were a lot of made-for-TV movies and after-school specials about the trauma of kids discovering that they were adopted. It was treated like a hidden family shame. To me it just seemed like very bad parenting to create that sort of home environment with whispered secrets. I couldn’t understand why people would be embarrassed about wanting to raise a child. It made no sense to me.
My parents were told that my mom was unable to have children. I don’t know all of the details myself, but they were told this by medical professionals and as a Registered Nurse Mom was a medical professional herself so it’s a safe bet that she understood the reasons behind the statement.
But then, in defiance of medical wisdom, I was born.
Mom has recently transitioned into a lifestyle of octogenarianism, but you wouldn’t know it from looking at her. But still, it’s difficult now to picture her as having been pregnant. I think part of the reason for that is that I have no frame of reference. I’ve never seen a photo of her boasting the inflated belly of impending motherhood.
My dad was an avid photographer. Looking through old photo albums it is clear that he was very proud of both his camera and his pretty wife. (Not necessarily in that order.) I’ve seen many many photographs of my mother taken before and after I was born; photos with other people, with the new car, with the dog, with my brothers and/or me, but none of when she was visibly pregnant.
Other than my actual existence, there is no lasting evidence that she was ever pregnant.
Granted, there was a time when such things were simply not discussed in polite company, but we’re talking about a bedroom community outside Toronto in an era when the whole point of bedroom communities was to produce children. The word “bedroom” is in the name. Other than the backseat of the occasional Chevy, that’s the only place you could make a baby back then. It wasn’t until the mid-70s that people started making babies in other rooms of the house, on sofas and kitchen tables and so on.
So, while the effects of the free love movement on casual conversation may not have reached suburban Canada by then, it still seems odd that there would be no record of this apparent “medical miracle.”
So this, of course, leads me to the much more reasonable conclusion that I was grown in a laboratory.
It’s the only explanation. I knew it was something as simple being adopted like my brothers. I have DNA traits from both of my parents. Anyone that knew him would agree that I look very much like my dad. Logic suggests that they both provided DNA to be used in my laboratory birth.
Which, understandably, was probably not something you’d chat with the neighbours about in the mid-60s.
Yes, there are doubters and naysayers who will dismiss the idea that a lack of photographs equals proof of theory, but to them I say, “Shut up, I’m not listening!”
Like every child since Baby Jesus I will deny to my dying breath that my parents ever had sex, because I just don’t want to think about.
Yeah, being grown in a lab doesn’t sound so weird now, does it?
Try to be nice to each other.