For the first 22 years of my life, my family history was a mystery to me.
I’ve never felt like my parents weren’t my parents, but I did feel like I couldn’t claim their heritage as my heritage on account of they look nothing like me.
Not even a little bit.
My father is Middle Eastern and my mother is Russian and Polish.
One look at my family and the song “one of these things is not like the other” plays.
I always wanted to meet my birth parents because I wanted to know my family history.
My DNA, as it turns out, tells me that I’m Norwegian and Portuguese on one side while the other side is French, German, and British.
Quite the hodge podge of DNA.
I’m about as blond and blue eyed as they get.
Well, I had NO IDEA where the Norwegian came from until I talked to my PATERNAL aunt who reminded me that my birth mom’s father was Norwegian.
What a roundabout way to find out where you came from!
I had a great-grandmother named Engaborg (Ingeborg?) who loved the Lawrence Welk Show and giving sugar eggs for Easter and was actually full-blooded Norwegian.
So, if any of you wonder why I look Nordic but cook Middle Eastern food like a native and can make pierogis and stuffed cabbage like a true Polish mother, it’s because I get to claim ALL OF MY HISTORY NOW.
I think the best part about being an adoptee is getting to be a blend of a little bit of everything from your birthfamily to your adoptive family.
In a way, I feel like the patchwork quilts I make: a little of this, a little of that, and a whole lot of love packed into a nice bundle.