I’ve been spending way too much time fantasizing about getting adopted. Yes, me a middle aged woman who is married with children. I want to be adopted. I think (maybe I hope) this preoccupation is part of a grieving and healing path I’m on. I think it brings me comfort even though it’s painful to spend so much energy in wishing for it. I think dwelling on this is part of letting go, of permanently admitting that my biological parents can’t give me what I need, that they never really could.
Here’s how the fantasy goes for me. I go somewhere new, maybe a spiritual retreat or workshop. I meet a couple in their 60’s or 70’s; smart, funny, cool and very wise. We hit it off. We ‘click’. They quickly see me for who I am and accept me. They like being with me. They have been looking for me. We hang out, talk, maybe share a couple of meals. We promise to keep in touch and surprisingly, we do. Our friendship grows, deepens, strengthens with time. It steps up to the point where I call them every week. If I don’t call them, they call me, just to check because they wondered why I didn’t call. I start to send them cards on mothers’ day, fathers’ day, birthdays. I send them flowers at Christmastime. They always ask about my kids and eventually ask to talk to them. They get to know my husband and welcome him into their lives as well. Then, we decide we need to get together. Either they come to visit us, we come to visit them, or we meet somewhere in the middle. We see the sights, or cook good food, or just hang out. It doesn’t really matter. We’re together and they care. They give me good advice, make sure things are going okay for me and love me. And… I let them.