Sometimes adoption weighs heavily on my mind. It’s not something I typically talk to or share with friends and even family. I think my mother and the readers of this blog probably understand it best having either lived it or watched adoption unfold in our lives.
When I decided to adopt a few years I made a conscious decision to adopt a boy. I can’t say why exactly—it just felt right. We don’t have any boys in our family, my dad and the neutered dog were the sole males in our home growing up so I knew there were going to be struggles that I likely would not experience with a daughter. Perhaps it was because there were no boys in the family that I wished to add to ours, but I will admit, as the last person in my family bearing my family name, I really wanted to pass it on. It’s an unusual name and I think of the Irish that came before me and how after thousands of years walking the planet my line lead me here. 
At some point I will die and it will fall to my son to tell our family stories. At some point it will be the job of my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren to carry the name (I hope) and to share the stories of our family. At some point years from now someone will do a genealogy study and wonder why a family with an Irish name has Asian heritage. I can’t help but laugh when I think of my father’s father. I wonder what he would think about the sole heir of his family name and how our family is permanently changed a result of this one action. 
It makes me smile. I think he would throw his head back and laugh.
2 comments:
Very interesting thoughts. My grandfather actually changed his name (and my father's name) when my father was about 8. So, while we are the last of the [insert maiden name here]... it's really as though it died out decades ago. It makes me a little nostalgic.
I love this story. It made me smile.
Post a Comment