The Missing Eight Days

Day 8 - meeting my big brother

Just like everyone else, I was born. Unlike most, I don’t have any pictures from that day. Or that week. Nothing. My first pictures are on day eight of my life.

My brother and I each had a baby book. Mom wrote a few things in them, but mostly they were a place to stuff all the papers related to us. People laughingly say “babies don’t come with a manual” as they raise their eyebrows and smile at new parents. Strangely, I did. My baby book had "the manual” in it. There were also various letters between the adoption agency and my parents. All very formal sounding. Some regarding payments. All very unemotional discussions of things surrounding the event that has arguably been the greatest source of emotion in my life. The family I left. The family I gained. My family.

I asked my mom how old I was when she “got” me.

“Well, you were 8 days old, but your brother was a month old when we got him. Probably because he came from out of state.”

This blew my young mind away. I became secretly obsessed with what had happened to me during my missing 8 days. Who had changed my first diaper? Who had given me my first bath? Was I in an orphanage like in the movie Annie? It really bothered me that someone out there knew the answer to all of those things, but that someone wasn't me.

I remember reading "the manual” over and over. It wasn't much to read, yet I read and re-read it just the same. I’m not sure you could even call it a manual. It was only a piece of paper folded in half, with all the important bits on the inside. On the front it said “Your Baby”. This is how I knew it was the instruction manual for me.

The inside was a lazy fill-in-the-blank. I studied it over and over. I dissected every typed line. Especially the part about “nationality/background”. I remember reading it as a young child. Knowing they were describing me, but in a strangely clinical and elusive manner. The document seemed to be purposefully mysterious and secretive.

From the pages of "the manual' I was able to pick up on a few key points of information. I'm Scottish. I'm English. I'm all of Northern Europe! Well, I wasn't too sure what the North European part meant, but I began studying up on all things Scottish and English. I loved the royal wedding. I loved bagpipes and kilts.

"The manual" filled in a few pieces of my missing eight days. it seemed that whomever had me those days had figured out two things about me; how I liked to sleep, and how I liked to eat. This seemed reasonable. I guess that's mainly what babies do. But it felt so minimalist. Nothing about my first bath. Nothing about whether I was held and snuggled.

Mom was a school teacher. She taught us that knowledge would open all kinds of doors for us. She bought us the 1976 version of the World Book Encyclopedia when I was in first grade. The books were a striking red, white, and blue with gold edging on the pages. They were all lined up A to Z. So many things to research and learn about. I spent lots of time reading about various subjects. Learning about distant planets, breeds of dogs, even sex. It was amazing the things we humans had figured out. But the most basic of all knowledge - Who do I look like?, Where do I come from? - these were shrouded in mystery.

meeting my dad

Day 8 - meeting my mom

I still don’t have answers about the missing eight days, but the desire to know more started at a very young age for me. I don’t presume to speak for all adoptees. I know there are some who feel “I know exactly who I am” and don’t have a desire to know any more. I’m not wired that way. And, I wasn't raised that way. Mom taught us to learn about things. When I asked her if I could find out more about my adoption, I remember she didn't bat an eye and said “Well, if it were me, I would want to know”. She gave me permission. And thus, my quest began…