Love Child

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

When his doctor said, "You can’t make any more babies”, it was welcome news.

Around that time a little swimmer intent on breaking rules squeezed her way into mom. It was me. I didn't get the doctor’s memo. Pandemonium broke out as I jostled and battled other swimmers to be the first one 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 inched past the pack of other swimmers, and 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 and negotiations stopped. They were at an impasse.

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 in silence.

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 put her tiny frame inches from dad and wagged her finger at him. “Wake up. Don't be stupid. You are going to be a father. You're having another child, or you are losing your wife.”

He woke up.

Mom and dad reoccupied the same territory, Auntie Inge flew home, and I got a family.

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, and I ingested that story 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.

A warmth spread through me so fast that I almost fainted 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 tiny fists and punched the air. “I told him he was being a stupid, stupid man. We didn’t talk or sleep in the same room for months…”

This story of a love child was a version I hadn’t heard.

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 ever occur to me to ask my dad to find a word to replace 'mistake', because when I arrived with a giant dazzling smile reserved just for him, he loved me on sight.

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.