Adoption Part III

   It’s time for another serious post I think. And by serious post, I mean adoption. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.


   I went to a play on Tuesday night, called Rita and Douglas. It was a play about the somewhat steamy love affair between the artist Rita Angus and the composer and pianist Douglas Lilburn. This is all entirely irrelevant, aside from the fact that I came home in a rather thoughtful mood. I grabbed myself some cheese and flicked the telly on to see if there was anything mindless and boring so I wouldn’t have to think so much that night. (I was tired.) Sadly, the only thing I found that was worth watching was Missing Pieces.

   Don’t get me wrong. I love the show. I really do. Sometimes I think about writing in to them to see if they can find long lost members of my extended birthfamily. I’m certainly curious. And I like how the commentary and their portrayal of the stories is refreshingly uncondescending. It’s not judgemental of the situations that have led to the absence of a family member, but it’s not overly soppy and emotional either. Also, they don’t use an excess of puns, which are well over-used on television at the moment. Especially by Mark Sainsbury. But I’m biased against him, mostly due to the fact that the “stories” he presents are not things that I would consider particularly note-worthy. For example, a woman that is working a job in what he would generally consider a male domain. Like anything to do with cars, for instance. Come on Sainsbury. Get with the times please.

However, Sainsbury and his endearing nose aside (Google it if you must), Missing Pieces is a damn good show. For those of you unaware of the concept, it’s a show that presents people looking for long lost relatives that they may have not seen due to adoption, divorce, or relationship breakdowns. They record a short video message for the relative, the Missing Pieces team try and find said relative, show them the video and ask if they want to get in contact. From what I’ve gathered, the answer is generally yes. Cue scenes of an emotional reunion. Or the first time two people have met, even. It’s quite touching, without being overly so.

On Tuesday evening, a man’s father said no about having contact with his son.

He was only a teenager when he discovered that his girlfriend was pregnant. However, her parents were about to immigrate to New Zealand with her (from Britain) and although the couple tried to stay in contact through letters, the girl’s parents wanted her to have nothing to do with the boy. When he was seventeen, it seems he had every intention of doing whatever he had to get to New Zealand and help her look after this baby, but he was only seventeen. She had a son. He was adopted out.

Thirty-something years later, the son is in contact with his birthmother, and through Missing Pieces, is interested in finding his father. They did find him, yes.

Things change, over time. People change. They grow up. They grow old. The boy who dreamed of following his girlfriend to New Zealand had become a man, with a wife now. Children. A job. Decades of responsibility.

“This is why it had to be put to rest all those years ago. I can’t do it. My wife knows. But my children don’t.”

I understand that, a little. I understand how situations change. My own birthmother is proof of that. I don’t really know what she was like when I came to be- it’s not something I’m ready to understand at this stage of my life. But at the moment, she’s just- normal. She’s married and has a normal job, and three sons and two houses, and she doesn’t look like the sort of woman to have had a secret, adopted daughter. A daughter who, in a sense, was also put to rest all those years ago. Of course she hasn’t forgotten- I know she can’t have. But she just continues, I think, like someone who has pretended to have forgotten. I imagine it must be easier that way. People ask questions. They’re curious. But people are also capable of being extremely insensitive in their curiosity. Sometimes it’s easier to just avoid that completely.

When the Pieces team explained to the son about why his father was choosing not to have contact, his reaction was nothing less than dignified. He said he wasn’t putting on an act, and that he wasn’t about to go home to have a cry (“I might have a few gins though,” he explained with a gentle chuckle) but that he understood and accepted that it could have happened. He’s not like me. I wish I could be more accepting of situations. But he’s an adult- well, so am I, but I’m not an adult adult yet. I’m still a teenager, too. But what watching it has made me realise that, although I have no idea where to start, I do want to find my birthgrandfather this year. Wish me luck.

In happier news, the next story was about a woman who found her birthfather, and he was keen to stay in contact. That cheered me up a lot.

That Awkward Moment When You Think Your Boyfriend May Be Retarded

   Look, boyfriend’s not that mentally challenged. (Although he’s injured himself enough times that it is entirely possible- I blame the bikes.) But occasionally he has moments where I wonder about him. Yes, he did consent to be written about in this blog post. Which almost says enough. Good god I love him.


   We regularly bicker like an old married couple. This may be just as well considering we will never be an old married couple. This is mainly because his surname is Bell, which is rather unfortunate when you take my first name into account. Annabel Bell. Oh god.

   But sometimes, he just does weird things.

   One day he was at mine, and he just casually wandered up to my dresser- upon which I keep my makeup.
“What’s this stuff?” he enquired.
“Oh, those ones are eyeshadows, that one is blusher, and those are- OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” He turned around and I discovered he had applied sparkly blue eyeshadow to his cheeks like war paint. He looked like a homosexual Red Indian drag queen.
“Oh Jordan. Look at you. Come here, let me do it properly,” I insisted. I reached for the eyeshadows.
“No, no! Not the purple one!” he cried out. I giggled and attacked him with it.
“Why not? Will it insult your masculinity?” I asked. He turned to look at me with a face full of glittery makeup.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it will.”

   He stayed the other night, and got all excited about my new iPod. (I have to keep an eye on it in case he steals it/breaks it, which unfortunately makes me feel as though I am babysitting my twenty-five year old boyfriend. Great.) He was actually quite impressed to find music on it that he didn’t hate.
“Oooh! Nirvana! You know, I have a box set at home. All the obscure songs.” It was now my turn to be seriously impressed. Nirvana happens to be my true love. I even offered to marry him, provided I didn’t have to have Bell as a surname. He continued flicking through my iPod.
“Oh wow. You have good music. For a girl.” Ah, just when I thought we were making progress…

   The other night, he was also excited to discover AFI on my iPod, because as far as he was concerned, they sounded exactly like The Bleeders. And he happened to be wearing a Bleeders t-shirt. Well. Actually it was lying on the floor because it was stinking hot and I wouldn’t let him open the window in case some creep came in and got us. Yes, I am that paranoid. Really? Anyway. If there is anything I associate with AFI, its Davey Havok in sparkly blue eyeshadow. Where have we seen sparkly blue eyeshadow before?

   That same night he also tried to convince me that “alot” (which Word just auto-corrected!) was actually a word, and that it always has been. I tried to direct him to Hyperbole and a Half but he wouldn’t believe me.
“Look Annabel, I didn’t drop out of high school in year 12 only to find out that “a lot” is two words,” he protested. Oh dear.

   Recently, he has also decided that I should become a lesbian. This is a brilliant idea, except for my lack of sexual attraction for women, and the fact that I like men. Nevertheless, he persists in his plan, mostly by threatening to give me a lesbian haircut. I don’t let him near scissors anymore.

   Also, he’s in a relationship with me. He’s clearly retarded.



Somehow I find this sexually appealing.