My Two Dads

I have two dads.  

The first one, the one that created me, I call that one, “Nature Dad.”  I prefer the term, “Nature Dad” over “Biological Father.”  Everyone has a biological father but being singled out as a person with an uppercase, “Biological Father,” makes me feel like I’m a high school science project.  I never met Nature Dad in person but I did speak to him on the phone once for 53 minutes.  Nature Dad’s name was Jim and from everything I’ve been told he was a very kind person except for the ghosting-me-after-one-phone-call thing.  Nature Dad was an extrovert. The friendly type.  A chatty fellow that could tell a good story and never met a stranger.  Nature Dad wasn’t afraid to speak publicly or look a little silly to get a laugh. My personality is a lot like Nature Dad.

My other dad is “Nurture Dad.”  Nurture Dad’s name was Fred. Nurture Dad is the one that did all the heavy lifting on parenting me.  Nurture Dad is the dad that carried toddler-me to bed, witnessed the birth of my first child, and who I often rolled my eyes at as a teen.  Nurture Dad was a big, strapping fellow. The sort you might take for the “he-man,” macho type. You know, the kind of man that hunts wild animals with bows and arrows or drags women around by the hair but you couldn’t be further from the truth.  Nurture Dad wasn’t afraid to change diapers or feed babies and he’d cook the family dinner most Sundays.  Nurture Dad loved and watched a lot of sports; something he had in common with my three older brothers. Nurture Dad didn’t talk much and didn’t extend himself socially.  People thought Nurture Dad was a bit dull in social situations. When I say “people,” I mean my mother.  But he was perfectly fine the way he was.  Quiet. A sports fanatic. Not a person with a lot of opinions.

Nurture Dad and I had a difficult relationship for most of my early life that I previously chalked up to him being kind of an a-hole.  When I would succeed in things that didn’t interest him, like winning an Impromptu speech contest or getting a part in a play, he’d act excited about it but he wasn’t a very good actor.  I could tell he was struggling to show pride in something he didn’t particularly value.  I give him huge kudos for doing that.  That’s an act of love.  The problem wasn’t Nurture Dad’s poor theatrical skills.  The problem was we were mismatched.  Nurture Dad and me were like a pair of socks: he, a no-show athletic and me, a purple knee high. We had absolutely nothing in common. 

Despite the fact I could pass as his child, I struggled to find anything about myself in Nurture Dad.  Seeing your own physical traits, interests, and similar personality styles in other family members is called, “genetic mirroring.”  It’s an important form of bonding and connection within a family structure. Looking at old photos and seeing that you got your curly hair from your grandfather or sharing a love of music with your mom are forms of genetic mirroring.  Failing to have that genetic mirroring connection with a parent for no reason, like an adoption, makes a person feel like they’re inherently odd.  Like something about them is off for no explicable reason.  

While growing up, periodically I’d ask my mother, “Are you sure I’m Fred’s kid? It’s totally fine if I’m not.  You can tell me.  I don’t care.”  She would laugh. Perhaps nervously, now that I think about it in hindsight.  She’d say, “You’re too much, Laurie!  (Hahahahaha!) Yes, yes of course Fred’s your father!” (Hahahaha!)

I’d look at him.  His mannerisms.  His interests.  I didn’t see it. 

When I was obsessively searching for my then-unknown Nature Dad, my daughter asked, “Why is this so important to you?”  I replied, “Because I need an explanation for me.”  I didn’t mean I needed to know how my parents got together.  I meant I needed an explanation for how I am the person I am.  I didn’t quite make sense in my family.  I felt like one of those Instagram videos that you see where the goat is raising the puppy.  While yes, it IS adorable, I can tell you, that puppy is going to have some questions.  

My dad and I repaired our relationship when I hit my early 20s.  We talked about our differences and how we weren’t very kind to one another and put it behind us.  And while we didn’t ever have common interests, we loved and appreciated each other immensely.  Later in life, when he was in the recovery room after an emergency procedure, he was asked to pick one visitor that could come in to check on him.  He said, “I told the nurse, ‘I can’t pick between my children but I already know who is going to be the first one through the door.”  

People think themselves kind telling me that Nurture Dad is My Real Dad but doing so suggests that what Nature Dad contributed to my existence is not important.  Discounting all the physical and personality traits I got from Nature Dad is telling me what inherently makes me, me is meaningless.  Excuse me, but what am I without…myself?   

Someone can have a shitty dad, or a mean dad, or an absent dad, but isn’t telling someone that their actual, physical dad isn’t their dad at all some kind of weird, gaslighting bullshit? 

Of course, I could be wrong but I think the urge to immediately slap a cheerful bandage on someone’s NPE discovery comes from a place of our own unhealed NPE trauma. I think it would be more helpful if we would just be willing to sit with folks in their pain and/or their struggle to come to terms with reality. After all how can anyone begin to process the NPE discovery trauma if we tell them that who their father is doesn’t matter at all?