Chosen Babies

I came home August 8, 1962.

I was a Chosen baby. In fact, I am one of four Chosen Babies.
I have known all my life that I was special.

I knew I was special because my parents told me so.

From as far back in my memory as I can search, I have felt
nothing other than pride in how I came to be a part of my family.

I knew to feel pride because my parents taught me to.

My parents read books to us and one of our favorites was a book named The Chosen Baby. After all, it was all about US and how we became a family. (I remember how surprised I was when I learned to read for myself and discovered that the children in the book were named Peter and Susan instead of having the names of my older brother and sister.) Being a Chosen Baby meant that God worked extra hard to give us to the family that would be perfect for us.

I knew to feel extraordinarily blessed because my parents told me I was.  

My parents did not tell me to feel sorry for children who joined their families in the regular, plain old, boring way.  But I did anyway. 

After all, my parents CHOSE me.

My parents told me that out of all the other babies in the world they wanted me the most. In my mind, they must have walked up and down row after row of cribs looking for the best for the best. I imagined them hugging each other while looking at me and shouting, "She's the one!"

I knew that only the best babies got to be Chosen Babies because my parents told me so.

Only Chosen Babies celebrated an anniversary. Nowadays many families like ours call them Gotcha Days. Shorthand for-The Day We Gotcha.  Mom and Dad called them Anniversaries and we celebrated four of them each year. Anniversaries were similar to birthdays but instead of one kid getting all the presents we all got one. To a child betting presents is the BEST.

I felt sorry for my friends who were always jealous...as they should have been.

I knew that they were right to be jealous because I told them so.

Yes, I wonder about the man and the woman who first gave me existence and then gave me up to give me a LIFE. I wonder what they look like and what brings them joy. I wonder where the red hair I was born with came from and if someone has green eyes like mine.

The one thing I never wonder about is who my REAL parents are.

I know that their names are Billy and Harriett. 

I know that they loved  me from the start because they told me so over and over and over.

And, I know that I came home on August 8, 1962.