What was your childhood fantasy?

When I was a young girl, before I turned sixteen and was awarded a room of my own, I would lie in bed at night and squint across the crevasse of lime green shag towards my twin sister’s matching canopy bed.  I watched her sink into the early stages of sleep, her chest heaving ever so slightly. The sighs she whispered were from our day at an over-chlorinated pool, a mile-long bike ride, and too much candy from the five-and-dime. Her shaggy braids and willowy bangs dusted the pillow top; her tummy warmed the white cotton sheets; one long, narrow foot escaped the white eyelet comforter, her perfect toes pointed as if hurling an accusation at the thick, gnarly carpet. 

This roommate, my twin sister, I knew nearly as well as I knew myself.  I recognized her reactions before she reacted, her moods before they lifted or plummeted, and her temperament before it broiled or soured. Her shy smile meant she was annoyed or just waiting, waiting to see what happened next. I appreciated what would make her laugh, her head turn, her eyes roll. I knew also what she and I would save to talk about when we could be alone in our bedroom with the canopy beds and green carpet.  Because I know all this about my sister, I suspected that she too indulged in fantasies before she drifted off. Fantasies about the parents that gave us up, placed us for adoption, and who were still ‘out there’ living their life. 

As I studied my sleeping womb mate, I let myself invent lives for this other set of parents.  I imagined them as the cool people I looked up to in my own limited world. I was certain our birth mother was one of those hot, popular girls, a cheerleader headed off to a good college who snagged the dreamy, sweet physical specimen on the football or basketball team.  Their relationship, admired and coveted by their peers was too intense for their age, resulted in the making of not one, but two ‘mini-me’s’. Convinced of this scenario, I imagined my birth parents heading off to college and careers as my twin and me were adopted by folks desperate for an instant family.

In retrospect, I must have heard this scenario somewhere in the news, or read about it, because these were not suggestions made by my adoptive parents or facts disseminated by the adoption agency.  These were fantasies; ideas that made me feel better or gave structure to the wonder as to why two beautiful girls would be offered to another family to raise.

 My pre-slumber musings took several tracks, an elaborate trail of paths that I picked up at random when the house was still, the day was done, my twin slept, and my mind allowed me to consider what might have been.  There was the who-were-these people route as I mentioned above. I never considered anything but the cute cheerleader/star stud scenario. Mostly, my pre-teen mind prevented me from going down the one-nightstand, married-male-boss-female-secretary/assistant, rape and incest rabbit holes.  I liked the idea of a passionate young couple who were at the top of the heap, copulating and making my twin and me. These fantasies satisfied the answer to the question: Why was I adopted.  

The question, why was I adopted, did not haunt me. It nagged. Nagged like homework on Sunday night, like dishes in the sink, like a burned-out light bulb. The mystery of my birth parents pestered me when I studied my kids, wondering where they got the freckles, thick limbs and athletic prowess to play college sports. It hassled me when I had a breast biopsy at 48, when my uterine fibroid flared, when my colonoscopy produced polyps. Finally, when I turned  50, I resolved to get the monkey off my back. 

I got lucky. The same year I decided to search for my birth relatives, Illinois’ adoption statutes changed. I was given access to my original birth record. The information led me down several difficult paths but after intense sleuthing, I discovered my truths. My existence was not a result of a coupling between a cheerleader and a football star. Instead, two twenty-something consenting adults, elementary school teachers, who couldn’t agree on religion or marriage launched my life. 

There were other fantasies that my pre-teen brain dithered with when sleep failed.  Similar to other adoptees, I wondered when-will-they-come-back-for-me and what-are-they-doing-now? I assumed, hoped, and expected that my first set of parents worried about whether my twin and me were happy, whether we were adjusting well to our new families, and that we were healthy and being well cared for. I wanted my biological parents to worry about these things. I expected that they did, and I wondered if at some point they would come back to find my sister and me.  

That’s as far as my young mind allowed me to wander.  I don’t recall worrying about their visit, whether they’d attempt to reclaim us, or whether I would have to choose to go with them or stay with my adopted family.  That’s the thing about fantasy, your mind only goes where it is pleasurable to wander. True musing doesn’t deal with conflict, that is what nightmares are for. And that dear readers is a topic for another day and another blog.

What were your childhood and teenage fantasies?

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