Love Child

My Dad, an engineer at heart, planned his family. Wife? Check. Boy to carry on family name? Check. Girl? Check. House? Check. Bedroom for each child? Check. Dog? Check. Family complete. Check boxes, checked.

Sperm count? Not enough... “You can’t make any more babies”, said his doctor. That was good news.

Around that time a little rule breaking sperm snuck into Mom against the doctor’s diagnosis; me. I jostled and battled other swimmers inside of Mom to be the first sperm to reach the solo egg waiting at the finish line. I really wanted to win this one. I was a natural competitor, a good swimmer, and I wanted a family.

I dusted the rest of the sperm pack leaving them behind for recycling. I won.

But something didn’t feel quite right to me. I didn’t get the vibe that anybody was cheering for me at the finish line. I quietly hunkered down and waited for my grand entrance day and introduction to the family.

When Mom caught wind of me hiding down inside of her, she dropped the news on Dad.

“I’m pregnant.”

“How did this happen?” He said. “Get rid of IT. This is a MISTAKE.”

“I will not get rid of it,” She said. “You know how this happened.”

Battle lines were drawn. Negotiations stopped. They entered a stalemate.

Dad refused to talk to Mom or acknowledge her so she moved to the living room couch. He held the bedroom. They circled each other for months - not speaking.

A peace treaty was needed, or the union would split.

Mom’s tenacious 5 foot 2 sister flew to Seattle from LA to help break the stalemate. It went something like this; Auntie Inge smacked Dad on the side of the head. “Wake up. You are having another child or you are losing your wife.”

He woke up.

Mom and Dad reoccupied the same territory and Aunt Inge flew home.

Throughout my life, my parents repeated the story of my conception and birth, making it part of our family lore. Told in a humorous manner, I laughed along with everyone else.

But what I heard, was that I was a mistake. Dad didn’t really want another child. I ingested that story right into adulthood.

Then a crazy thing happened during Mom’s last 3 weeks of life.

While my brother and I were visiting her in the hospital, out of the blue, she said, “I have a love child.”

Surprised, my brother and I looked at each other.

“Who’s the love child mom” I asked.

“My Becky is the love child.” She said.

I almost fell over and joined Mom on the hospital emergency bed hearing her describe me as a love child, and not a mistake.

Mom lapsed into telling us the old story, her face turned reddish as she flared up in anger - as if she was living it again. “I hit him with my hands like this,” She clenched her hands into fists and punched the air. “I told him he was a stupid, stupid man. We didn’t talk or sleep in the same room for months…”

This was a version I hadn’t heard. A warmth I’d never felt before spread through my veins.

Love child?

I grabbed ‘Love child’ out of that gift box so fast.

I thought, it’s mine! I want it. I own it now. Mine. Mine. Mine. I am now a Love child. Nobody is taking this gift from me. Not ever.

I rolled the words around, Looovve child. I am a Looovve child.

Mom passed away shortly afterwards leaving me this last gift.

I am a Love child.

And those words have changed my life.

Mistake, it, unwanted. Discarded words. My life wasn’t a mistake. No life is.

I wonder now, why it didn’t occur to me to ask my parents for replacement words that reflected how they felt about me after I arrived with a giant dazzling smile just for them, - my new family.

Life. It's yours. Go all in.

Have you been labeled in a way that does not serve you and your life? Why not tear off the label, shred it, and toss it away yourself? Don’t wait for someone to give you a surprise gift. It may not come.