Tenth Musee

My whole life, I’ve considered myself an only child. Even when I had step-siblings — especially when I had step-siblings — I considered myself the one and only, my parents’ sole offspring.  And that part is true — I am their only child.  But at 15 years old, I was told that my dad — the last of the famous international playboys, apparently — had other children before he married my mom.  My mother knew, but they kept it a secret from me in fear I would spill the beans to my well-to-do maternal grandparents, who didn’t know — understandably.  She passed away with that secret kept.

There’s more to this story, but none of which I feel is the business of the Internet.  Maybe a book someday (man, it would make a good semi-fictionalized memoir), but not the Internet… not yet, perhaps not ever.

To say that I have little experience with traditional “family” is an understatement and it shows in how I’ve dealt with the recent online reunion between myself and my two half-brothers, D. and M.  I’ve spent the last 19 years of my life winging it on my own and accountable to no one but myself for my choices or my actions — even the overall idiocy of my early 20’s.   Suddenly, this insta-family had me up in arms, feeling the need to not embarrass them, to somewhat censor myself, worrying about what they’ll think of me.   I realize we’re just three people who share DNA and we’re not technically “family”, but having spent so much time without one, I rather like the idea.  It gives me heartburn, but it intrigues me.

Both brothers seem like very kind, funny, intelligent, upstanding men. They have lovely families and what appear to be successful and happy lives. They’re both handsome and have traits that remind me of my…er… our dad.  It’s kind of nice to know I’m not the only one left with a bit of Dad in them. It’s been sort of fun to note similarities between the three of us and differences, as well.  I’m happy to be getting to know them as people — not necessarily as siblings — even though it’s been interesting at times.

I ‘reunited’ with one brother, M., through this very blog a few years ago and panicked accordingly.  Just because he found me didn’t mean I wanted to be found, blah blah blah. What gives you the right to barge into my life, blah blah blah.  This is not the Waltons, yadda yadda yadda.  I eventually got over that — ok, I’m working on it — but it’s still a little weird for me sometimes.  We have similarities — probably more than we realize.  He’s genuine, honest and pretty patient, but much like me in temper.  We bicker like siblings… which I find oddly comforting.

The other I thought I would never, ever meet.  I really truly thought he would just be some mystery — like a unicorn — but thanks to the Internet, he recently found a post I made a decade ago on a genealogy website and now… well, now I follow him on Twitter.  Ah, technology!  Bringing people together one tweet at a time.  He’s great, though, and I like his sense of humor… it’s sort of familiar in a way.

What hadn’t occurred to me until this morning is I’m no longer an only child. In fact, I’m not the only, nor am I the oldest.  I’m the youngest of four children. (There’s an eldest half-sister, V., whom I’ve met a couple times, but who didn’t seem interested in staying connected… which is fine, whatever — I kind of get it.)

Being single with no husband or children of my own and without any immediate or extended family really in my life for the last couple decades, it’s been a lot of information to take in.  A lot.  While it might take some time (if ever) before we’re fighting over a drumstick at Thanksgiving,  I’m glad we’ve sought each other out.  I’ve never been a little sister before.