I am an only child for whom the spoiled and pampered myths are not the full truth given that 40 of my 54 first cousins were mostly older than me, and were as proficient at kicking me in the butt and as they were in taking me by the hand as my behavior or attitude required. And, sure, the 40+ aunts and uncles across three generations were attentive and indulgent to the kiddo who was often the only young one around – but that also meant they could be sharp-eyed and far-sighted and level-headed all at once when I needed to be pulled aside for correction before (or instead of) my parents came to know about the transgression of the moment.
Coming into a world that included 7 grandparents of some sort – great, regular, and grand godparents – allowed for indulgences of time, learning multiple practical skills, and taste testing fresh baked goods. Those bonds provided nurture in the sharing of stories through books, photographs, and life experiences over afternoon lunch, more cakes and pies and shortcakes and cinnamon rolls, on the front porch or in the backyard gardens.
My Mom and Pops were firm in their decision to make our home within an hour’s drive of their growing up families, even though it meant not moving from southern Minnesota to Duluth to purchase a small restaurant that would have allowed Pops to pursue his dream of running a small diner. In these decisions, my life included multiple safe places and people.
It did not include the person whose sperm, it turns out, accounts for half of my DNA.
I learned about the person I call biodude – Not dad. Not parent. Not “real” father. Biodude, making him as distant as I can – on opening and actually studying my Ancestry DNA report on 4 April 2018, two years after it arrive, and on what would have been Pops’ 88th birthday, some 18 years after he died at age 70 of a cancer that metastasized to his lungs.
My parents learned the night I was born.
