In her seventh year of life, a girl of Chinese descent asked her adoptive American parents a question.  She knew a bit about her transitional infancy, at least as much of it as her parents knew, but her question was spoken with sincere curiosity of her own welfare in a world long from being understood.  She knew she’d been found on the doorstep of a light bulb factory, and she just wanted to know.

“Was I cold?”

Only two people in the entire world could answer her question with certainty.  One had set the girl down and walked away a short lifetime ago.  The other picked her back up some moments later and helped her survive.  Neither were the parents she’d known for the past six years, and although they assured her yes, of course you were, they really couldn’t know.  There are many aspects of foreign adoption – any adoption, really – that tug at the strings of one’s heart.  This particular aspect of this particular adoption ripped those strings right outta me.

Adoptions find loving homes for children that have encountered great misfortune, some from literally Day 1.  Understandably, all experience grief or anger or some emotional response when they find out there ain’t one iota of Mommy or Daddy’s DNA in ‘em.  They question the decisions of those they’d love had they the chance, and there are precious few answers to help them understand that it’s never what they fear it is.  Or that those they’d love love them, too.

Nothing about the coming and going of my 41st birthday this past Wednesday made much of a difference to me.  I went out with some friends after work, I sang until midnight, I woke up feeling less than stellar, but that wasn’t exclusively a 41st Birthday Wednesday – in the life of the Spitmaster, it could’ve been any given Wednesday.  I did receive an early-morning phone call (thanks, Jules), my yearly “congrats” from a good college friend (thanks, Mel) and many-a fond wish via Facebook (though one of my high school alum did get my age wrong – seriously, dude?  We’re the same age!).  Still, those weren’t exclusively 41st Birthday greetings – they could’ve been any Nth Birthday greetings, Facebook or otherwise.

What made all the generic anys into solid 41st’s was that seven year old adopted girl’s three-word question.  I’ve never even fathomed asking such a thing about any aspect of my upbringing, things we were all too young to remember, and for good reason – there’s been nothing that’s made me think otherwise.  My parents, my relatives, my close friends and even my ex-wife have all been people that I’ve known and trusted.  I’ve never had to wonder if I was cold or hungry or abused or unloved.  Why?  Because I wasn’t.  That I can answer with complete and utter certainty.

So how does one celebrate not only a birthday but a self realization?  With helium, of course.  Lots and lots of helium¹.  Come on down to Erv’s Mug this Saturday, 9PM for the Spitmaster’s Helium Birthday Karaoke and Beer Bonanza.  If you’ve ever wondered what Rob Zombie would sound like after inhaling a balloon, then jot it down, grab a mic and find out for yourself.  This is Effects Processing Gone Wild, where inhibitions are stripped bare and wrapped around a pole of self-indulgence.  It’ll redefine birthdays as we know them.  You’ll never look at karaoke the same way again.  Whether you like a little of the baby talk or you’re more of a Chipmunk kind-a person, they’ll be squeakin’ their squeakers ‘til they can’t squeaks no more.  And it’s gonna be squeakin’ awesome.

Just try not to drool.