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Forty Three

Tomorrow is the 43rd anniversary of the day that I was born, which was back on October 8th, 1969.

I haven't liked my "birthday" in several years, and I don't know that it is just because I'm a few years past 40 years of age.

Tomorrow has nothing to do with me.

I was born William McLhinney to single mother Carol McLhinney, who lived in Hinsdale, Illinois with her mother Adelaide. Carol was a young model, and was having an affair with a married dude. He apparently had other children. I was given up for adoption shortly after I was brought into the world, and became Michael Thomas, the son of Don and Mary Ellen Greifenkamp.

There were a lot of important decisions that were made around that time, and none of them by me. A young model made one of a couple of choices. A young family made another choice. I don't know what was going on with the married guy, and probably never will. Do I owe him thanks?

Alex and Mary Ellen (kids!) are both first in their respective classes. They are truly brilliant. I think even though he's a junior in high school now that we have Alex's scholastic and career future well in sight, involving computer engineering at my alma mater. Em is still making some decisions, but I envision a brilliant future for her as well.

Not to put any pressure on them, but these snotrockets may just very well make a significant difference in the world that we all live in. And they are here because I am here, and I am here because Carol McLhinney made a pretty important decision many years ago, and my parents made just as important a decision to pick me up from waivers. (Sorry, watching football...)

Tomorrow isn't about me. It's about mom and dad, and Carol McLhinney, and the offspring (Alex and Em, not the band).

And lest anyone think this post is about "pro-life" it most certainly isn't. I'm pro-choice. Or pro "woman's right to choose." I don't have a uterus, and certainly don't want to speak for anyone that has one, least of all an unmarried young woman who made a small (huge?) mistake by having an affair with a married older dude.

Oh, and in case anyone cares, she actually died before my mother did. Sorry, Mary Ellen is technically my adoptive mother, but she's my mother. My natural mother is my natural mother.

I know, naming offspring number two "Mary Ellen" hasn't helped make sense of all this, and even that is all screwed up (that's a post for another day--maybe I'll make it when I'm standing in line at the social security office fixing her name there...).

Tomorrow isn't about me. It's about a lot of other people, many of whom are no longer alive, and some of whom have little idea of the ramifications of what happened all those years ago.

I wish I'd write more, but the 170 letter Tweets and the slightly-longer Facebook posts have really made the days of page-long musings extinct, in much the way that e-mail made the art of the handwritten letter mostly unnecessary.

Tomorrow might be an okay day. Maybe I'll play golf. Hopefully mow the back yard.

But tomorrow isn't about me.

Posted: Monday, October 08, 2012, 1:51 am
Mood: None


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