What would the ten year old you think of your life?

When I was ten, sitting in my mom's car while she ran into my aunt's house to get something during a snowstorm, a song was playing on the radio. I decided at that moment that it would be the song I'd dance to for the first dance of my wedding. The song? Chicago's "You're the inspiration". It gave me chills and was the most romantic thing I had ever heard.

I was driving home the other night, listening to the radio and that song came on. I smiled as I felt the nostalgia creep in. It still kind of gives me goosebumps and stirs the romantic in me. I thought about ten year old me, in love with being in love, believing in romance and dreaming about someday getting married. I felt a little sad; I wondered for a moment if I had let her down by not getting married. And it got me thinking - what would the ten year old me, think of the almost forty year old me?

Being ten is a cool age. You aren't a little kid anymore, but for most ten year olds, you have no idea about the angst-filled, possibly awkward years just around the corner. Ten year olds start to want a healthy distance from parents and family and gravitate towards their friends - and greater independence, but it is still pretty balanced. You have some pretty solid ideas and dreams about the future based on what you see in the world around you.

When I was ten, I knew for sure I as a grown-up I was going to be a journalist with a weekly column where I'd write about my life and anything I found interesting. It was going to be a funny column, similar to what syndicated columnist Dave Barry did (which I read religiously). I was also going to be married although the groom was undetermined and changed frequently, alternating between Toronto Blue Jays, actors and the occasional boy in my school (I had a phase where I loved any boy name Troy, followed by a similar phase where I loved any boy named Kevin).

Shannon a.k.a Shanny

As a ten year old, I loved animals. We lost our family dog that year, at the ripe old age of 15. I vowed to one day have many pets that I would love with all my heart and soul. I was definitely a kid who loved a lot of things deeply and felt a strong need to protect the things that I cared about, to make sure they were always okay. I had strong opinions about fairness, justice and people doing the right thing, being good to each other. I often shared my passionate opinions on current events with my mother and grandparents which frequently lead to my mother remarking that I had such a strong sense of right and wrong and views on justice and she wasn't entirely sure where those came from.

Nothing made me happier at ten than to be reading. If my mom told me to go play outside, I'd often bring a book and read outside instead (probably not what she had in mind). I devoured books, magazines and newsletters. I read books about serial killers (my mom was a little concerned), studied the criminal code of Canada (my mom was a little relieved) and read every Saturday Star from cover to cover. I loved politics, law, medical and lifestyle stories. I also enjoyed fiction and became quite emotionally involved with the characters.

A close second pastime to reading was riding my bike. I had an awesome sparkly blue ten-speed that I'd cruise around the neighbourhood on. I especially liked doing it after swimming as my hair, in the wind created by my super fast bike riding skills, would poof to epic, lion's mane proportions. Which I thought was super cool.

So what would this ten year old kid think of me and my life now?

Well she'd be bummed about the marriage thing. Although she wouldn't have wanted to be divorced either so she'd probably think a good thing I didn't marry any of my previous long term partners. That said, I think she'd be confused as to why I'm not "better" at love and relationships, given how much I care about the people in my life and how deep my feelings often are. She wouldn't want me to settle though, and she'd want me to keep looking for a person who loved me exactly as I am. Because ten year olds are both cheesy and wise.

She'd be over the moon about The Zoo. She's think two cats and two dogs are awesome and that I am very lucky to have them to love. Ten year olds have a knack for overlooking litter boxes, chewed things and would probably like the idea of getting a dog paw in the head at 7 am like I did this morning.

Ten year old Lauren would love the fact that I've lived downtown in a couple of cities. I know when I was a kid I always pictured being that independent career woman living in the city, working in an office building. She wouldn't understand my job, although with some explanation she'd approve given the writing element and the chance to "be in charge" and lead people. As a-super-ultra-mega shy kid, I always admired those who had the confidence to lead and be outspoken and I hoped someday I'd get over my shyness to do the same, as I knew I had it in me.



Other things she'd like? She'd think social media is awesome. And the Internet. I remember being in a music store mid 80s, the era of the mixed tape and thinking, why can there be a machine in the store that lets you buy all the songs you like off of albums and put them onto one or two cassettes. You know, instead of trying to make badly recorded compilations at home. I know; I could have been rich if I got that idea to market first. But I digress.

I think generally, ten year old Lauren would be okay with forty year old me. She'd think I'm really old, but that aside, she'd judge me a lot less harshly than I judge forty year old Lauren. When we were ten, we were more okay with mistakes and failure. Actually, while I knew what the word meant, I am not sure I really knew what failure felt like at ten. Making a mistake was more acceptable, because we were supposed to be learning and we weren't supposed to know everything about everything. We focused on that learning rather than dwelling on the errors.

When we were ten, we did things because they were fun, because we were interested in them and sometimes because our parents said you have to. We loved unconditionally. We had lofty dreams. We were excited about the future. We trusted. We thought going for ice cream was a fun night out. We were also a hell of a lot better at living in the moment and appreciating what we did have, rather than what we didn't. I'm not sure at what age we change the rules on ourselves or why, but it's kind of too bad that we do.

I think I'm going to make more of an effort to try to view some of life's ups and downs from the perspective of 10 year old Lauren. She might teach forty year old Lauren a thing or two.

Calgary

Nine years ago today was one of the biggest days of my life. I got on a plane with two suitcases and a heavy carry-on in tow and left Toronto for the final time as a "resident". (Note: do not try to accidentally take a wrench through security at an airport. They don't like that and the moving excuse doesn't help). My furniture had left three days earlier, and would eventually (and I mean eventually) make it's way west as well.

I often get asked the question "Was it a job or a man?" that made me move out here. It wasn't either. Sure, my employer at the time was looking to fill a position out here and they had asked several times if I would consider moving, but it wasn't ever something they were going to make me do. In fact, I had said no a good solid six weeks in a row to the suggestion. Why would anyone want to move to Calgary? I had never been west of Windsor and will admit I was the typical Ontarian, believing the world revolved around Toronto and its placement in the Centre of the Universe. (Most Ontarians don't realize they look at the world this way until they go and live somewhere else). I had no interest in moving, let alone to Calgary. All I knew about Calgary was that they had cows there (or nearby) and had hosted the Olympics in 1988.

Then I started to give it more thought. All of my friends were coupled and/or getting married, moving to the suburbs and talking about having kids. I wasn't there yet at all. I was a couple of years into being single after two serious relationships. My few remaining single friends seemed to be busy all the time with other things and I felt like my social circle was really shrinking. I was starting to feel like I was in a bit of a rut, and wondered if maybe a change of scenery might help. I recognized that it would push me well outside my comfort zone, but it also could be an adventure. Still, Calgary was far and I didn't know anyone.

It was summer and I had the routine of occasionally packing my laundry up in my car and driving out to my Mom's house to do it. This was mostly because I could sit by the pool on a nice day and swim while the laundering was in process. It was also because I could "shop" for things in her house like paper towels, toilet paper and bottles of wine (sorry, Mom). She was rarely there in the summer, and it was a pretty quiet, relaxing way to spend an afternoon. One particular weekend in early August I had such a 'Laundry Day". As I sat by the pool, my thoughts drifted to the whole idea of Calgary again. That particular weekend I was pretty fed up with a few people in my life for canceling plans. I sat and contemplated what life in a new city would be like. I still wasn't sure if the move made sense or if I was up to the challenge. At some point in the afternoon I got a little bored and decided to go through this box of memorabilia and documents my Mom has. I had been through it a million times before - it had things like my adoption certificate, her marriage license, my Dad's death certificate. It also had things like our old family dog Shannon's hairbrush and small keepsakes my brother and I had received as infants. As I rummaged, I noticed a small white box I had never seen before with my name on it. Weird. I was nosy enough I thought I had seen everything. Inside the white cardboard box there was a velvet box. I opened that up. And in that box I found a coin - a commemorative coin from 1975 that someone had given my parents to mark my arrival. Here's the kicker. The coin was commemorating Calgary's centennial.The following Monday I went into work and sent my boss an email: "Let's talk about this Calgary thing.".

Days later, they had me on a plane to visit Calgary for the first time, to help get a new food service account set up (SAIT, which is where years later, I am now working in a different capacity for the actual institution). My first trip out, my plane touched down on a runway with cows along one side of it. Yep, they indeed had a lot of cows in this city (I don't think they have them by the airport anymore though). I made several trips back and forth between Calgary and Toronto for a couple of months while planning the move, which officially happened the Tuesday after Thanksgiving.

And here we are, nine years later. So much has happened. I can honestly say I would not be half the person I am today had I not made the move here. To say (as I did earlier) that the move would push me outside of my comfort zone was a huge understatement. I had to find my way in a new city, make new friends and establish a new life. I gained a confidence and knowledge that far exceeded my expectations. I knew I'd be better for making the move. I didn't realize how much better. Career wise, there is no way I'd be doing as well in Toronto for a variety of reasons. The move also lead me down the path to becoming a kidney donor, which was another life changing, confidence boosting, learning experience of an event. So much has happened in the last nine years, from people to changes to accomplishments. I'm very proud of myself for taking a chance, for believing that this was something I could do, and do well. For believing in myself.

I'm not sure I believe that everything happens for a reason, in some arbitrary, fate driven way, but I do think that sometimes the least expected path has the greatest rewards.

From Jennifer to Lauren

Around this time, 40 some odd years ago, a series of events occurred that chose the path my life would take.

My Mom was out of town helping my Dad's sister, who had just had baby #3. My parents had been married a little over five years and were seriously challenged in the reproductive department. My Mom loved children and wanted nothing more than to start a family but it didn't look like it was in the cards for them. I know this had their relationship at a significant crossroads as they struggled with the pressure and disappointment of not being able to conceive.

Family legend has it that my maternal Grandma mentioned my mother's fertility issues in passing to her family doctor during a routine checkup around this time (my Grandma can be quite chatty so the story probably checks out). The story goes on to say that within the next couple of days, that same doctor was golfing (?) with a colleague, an OBGYN who happened to bring up the fact he had a patient who was looking for a family to privately adopt her soon-to-be-born child. Dr. OBGYN asked if Family Doctor knew anyone who might like to adopt. Family Doctor thought of my Grandma's story about my Mom and he made a call.

Within a day or so, my Mother got a call at my Aunt's house, from my Grandma, asking if she wanted to adopt a baby that was due any day. My Mother didn't know what to think - at first she thought it couldn't be real - adoption wasn't really even on their radar and this was coming out of nowhere (in some versions of this story my mother hangs up dramatically on my Grandma, thinking she is playing a mean joke). But it was their chance to have a family. So she packed up and returned home to get ready for the possible arrival of a new baby. They had nothing a baby would need and scrambled to get the basics together.

Meeting my other Grandma
for the first time (not the chatty one)

A few weeks later, on a Monday afternoon, the phone rang. A little girl had been born. Adoption laws at the time stated that infants could not be placed with their adoptive families until they were at least seven days old. The doctor kept me "for observation" in hospital for that first week so that I wouldn't have to go into foster care (something that was important to my Birthmom). The nurse apparently were more than okay with this, because they had a baby that they could snuggle, hug and feed. It was always thought that they had named me (Jennifer) although I now know that my Birthmom did that.

When the week was up, on an unseasonably warm late October day, a "neutral third party" (the adoption lawyer's wife) picked me up from the hospital and brought me back to their home, where my parents were anxiously waiting. From that day forward, I became Lauren to all who knew me, although I wasn't officially adopted until June of the following year. On that day, the judge asked to hold me. He then stood up, addressed the court and said "I'd like to introduce you all to Lauren Elizabeth Herschel".

I always knew I was adopted. I don't remember being told. My Mom said when she was later pregnant with my brother (surprise!) and I was less than a year old, she'd tell me that while I didn't grow in her tummy, I was just as much hers as he was. I was always told that my Birthmom had made a choice to have me and that she took very good care of herself so I would be born healthy.  Adoption for me was always framed in a very positive way - that my Birthmom had wanted me to have the best life possible and that my adoptive parents really wanted me as well. I always had the sense that not only was I in a very loving adoptive family, there was also a Birthmom (and family) out there who cared deeply for me, hoping I was doing well and thriving. Sometimes when you tell people you are adopted, they initially look uncomfortable, uncertain if it is a good thing or not. I always thought I was lucky I was adopted and that I was truly loved and wanted by a lot of people, before I was even born.

My Dad was never okay with me looking for my birth family - he said the family I grew up with was my family and that's all I should need to know. My Mom always seemed to understand my curiosity a little more, and she knew that someday I might want to know more about where I came from. All I knew growing up was that my Birthmom had been in her early 20s, was a student and had nothing significant in her family medical history. That's not a lot to go on but in the 1970s, there weren't many rules around what information had to be collected in a private adoption.

After my Dad died, I decided to look, if for nothing else, updated medical history (watching a parent go through cancer makes you reflect on that kind of thing). In my mid 20s with the help of the Ontario government, I was reconnected with my Birthmom. It was pretty interesting to find out what we had in common (quite a lot) and see pictures of someone I look like. After a few months of letters and emails, we met. The following day, I was introduced to a slew of other amazing family members and family friends. They are all wonderful, kind people and I feel pretty fortunate to have a whole "other" family come into my life. They have always made me feel like I belong, like a long lost relative that just was away for 24 or so years.

I know not every adopted person's story is as sunshine and lollipops as mine. It's always been something I've had a deep appreciation for. Being adopted and all my experiences around it has definitely shaped who I am today, for the better. I was given a great start by a selfless, caring woman, and raised by a pretty awesome family. It doesn't get much greater than that.

P.S. Here is a letter the lawyer's wife wrote years later to my mother, after my dad died, remembering the day she picked me up from the hospital and brought me to them. I guess it was a special day for her too.