Nature vs. nurture — there's still no escape

As a kid, I remember hearing kids taunt other children with cries of "you're adopted! That's not your REAL family" to children both adopted and biologically linked to their parents. To me, part of a family with many adoptions associated with it, this made no sense on any level. Was "you're adopted" supposed to be a slam? Or a gift, meaning that woman in the plaid poncho you call mom could in no way pass on the damaged fashion gene she so clearly carried?

As often as I have wanted to distance myself from my family, I have realized that there is much I have inherited by nature or nurture. From my dad, I have problematic teeth, a Roman nose, bad knees, a fear of large groups, a contradictory command of public speaking, the will do my best in any and every situation regardless of personal cost and a painful need for perfectionism that has lead to both my success and my downfall. From my mother I have inherited the designer gene, minus the latent desire to put dolls on one's bed, my height, an appreciation for dark humor, allergies, asthma, a stubborn streak and a need to have a seemingly neat house with sloppy closets and piles of crap hidden just outside of public view.

I look at my perfect, meant-for-me son and am amazed by both our similarities and our differences. Never at three did I demand my mother come back to my room after lights out to fold my sweater and PUT IT AWAY IN THE CLOSET. NO, IN THE OTHER DRAWER. I was not compelled by any inner voice to straighten all my books before being able to settle in for a nap. I have never had to categorize my books by night-night books, sunny-day books, daddy books and mommy books. But I have, and still do, need to organize my CDs by both genre and artist, and have even gone so far as to split jazz into modern, freestyle and classic oldies. I do not fold my sweater up, but I also do not want to see it so I have conveniently stuffed it behind the pillows I have tossed off the beautifully coordinated, artfully constructed mix of linens that comprise our bed.

We share a love of the outdoors, disagree on the joys of bare feet, enjoy cheese and all things that can possibly be wrapped in a corn tortilla, both think that Dr. Seuss's Cat in the Hat Comes Back SPANKS the original book and should be read at least once a week, and agree to disagree on the benefits of getting really, truly muddy and letting the dirt just bake in. We both laugh loudly and often, much to the chagrin of our very nervous dog. On vacation, we both enjoy sitting for long periods of time reading our respective books while eating snacks and occasionally sharing conspiratorial glances and loving pats, and one of us thinks there is nothing better than digging one's toes deep in the sand while the other one yells I NEED SHOES! I NEED SHOES NOW! THIS IS NOT GOOD!

Our nanny Wafa has been with us since the beginning, and she and I have known each other now for nearly 10 years. She credits me with Shawn Joaquin's calmness and love of books. I credit her with his need to put all things away and straighten them much like the products at the video store. I credit his birth mother with his beautiful appearance and the old soul that he was born with, and his foster family with his love of being be just outside of the raucous fun but never too far away from it. Those things with which we can credit Gregg are still emerging, and may be his avoidance of parties with large numbers of small children and an ability to figure out how to fix almost anything, almost perfectly. The one thing we all share, nature vs. nurture be damned, is a deep and lifelong love for each other and the family we have created through determination, adoption, online dating and a willingness to put our preconceived notions of family aside and just be one.