The Baby in the Blue Blanket

Story time at home offered a vast menu. There was the usual storybook, Irish myths, stories of my parents’ childhood, or tales that came straight from Da’s head. There was a schedule about the venue. Monday would be in my bedroom. Tuesday would be at Don’s; Wednesday at Jim’s. Then mine again on Thursday.

On that night, Don and I were snuggled on the bed with Da between us. It was his turn to tell a story. Jim plonked himself on my easy chair. Though my brothers considered bedtime tales soppy by then—Jim was 13 and Don was 10—they couldn't resist the inviting tone of our father’s voice. He is a gifted storyteller who could capture the attention of people in whatever age.

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Once upon a time, there lived a family in a Dublin suburb. The father and mother had two little lads. They wanted another baby, so that the lads will have a sister to care for and play with. And they would have another child to love. But the doctor said that the mother cannot have babies anymore.

Incidentally, a tiny baby in an orphanage had no family. The lady who took care of her wanted the baby to have a da and mammy, just like any other child. When the family in the suburb heard that, they prayed hard.

“Was it long before they got the baby?” I ask.

“Not too long,” my father replies, “the baby lived with the family when she was three months old. Like this,” he demonstrates with his hands how little the baby was.

“The lads helped their parents buy clothes for the baby. Right, Da?” pipes in Jim.

“And a baby blanket too?” asks Don.

“Yes. It was blue.”

“Why was it blue? My teacher said it is for lads,” I say.

My father chuckles at my love for details. "You're like your mammy," he says.

“It doesn't really matter, love,” explains Mam. “When the family got things for the baby, everyone helped. The da painted her room. The mammy bought bottles and shoes. The little lads helped choose clothes. And one lad chose a lovely blue blanket.”

Da goes on, “The brothers kissed her before they went to school and when they got back. The family loved the new baby very much. The mammy would read to her. 

"Does she know about Oisin and Tir Na nOg?”

“Tomorrow,” my father would say with a wink. Then he would sing me to sleep.

The baby was the only thing I could think of for several days. As I come home from school to cookies and milk, I’d try to worm it out of my mother.

“It’s your da’s story, my love,” she would say, “let him tell it, do you think?”

She would tell me instead another story and keep me company in the kitchen. And I’d tell her about school. My brothers would join us later then it was off to play then homework. I would look forward to bedtime with more excitement than I ever did. My brothers would be in my room during my bedtime.

“Does the da sing to the baby and the lads?” Don asks.

“Yes,” says Jim. “I think he sings ‘For Baby’ for the little baby and reads Oisin McFinn to the lads.”

“How do ya know?” Don demands.

“Oh, I know. I just do,” says Jim with the air of a wise older brother.

Mam enters with glasses of milk and sits beside Jim.

“What can you say about the baby, mammy?” I ask.

“She has beautiful brown eyes and a beautiful smile. And her da and mam were very happy when she arrived. It was one of the best days."

"How about the lads?" I ask.

Mam thinks. "When the eldest was seven, he carried his baby sister to his room. He loved having her there. He would tell her about his school and what he wanted to be when he grew up. The younger lad loved to see her drink milk. He tickles her toes when she drinks milk. Now why don’t you let da continue?”

“The baby is already eight years old,” says my father. “Her favorite colour is blue, and she loves to read. She’s here, in Dublin. She loves to listen to her da tell stories.”

Mam adds, “She loves to stay in the bench in the yard, just like her mam. And she enjoys watching her brothers draw and play the guitar.”

“Just like me!”

“Yes. Just like you.” A knowing wink is given to Mam, who smiles as if she knew something I didn't.

As the story progressed each night, I noticed that the baby and I had things in common. Two brothers and a lullaby. Same hobby and favourite colour. We both loved adventure books and Irish myths.

“What does the baby do now? Does she eat ice cream too?” I ask, curiosity peaked.

My mother nods. “Cookies n cream is her favourite.”

“Me too!”

"Yes, like you, my wee love."

“Does she know that her ma and da are not her ma and da?” I ask, wondering if that child knew her story.

“One day, she will,” my mother says as Da plants a kiss on my head. “And I hope that right now she knows that her da and ma and brothers love her so much.”

“Even if she didn’t come from the mammy’s tummy?” I wonder.

“Yes. Because what matters is that the mammy and daddy love her. And her brothers have the sister they want so much,” Mam says.

I couldn’t hold the suspense. “Where is she now, Da?”

My father’s blue eyes find mine. “She’s right here in my arms.”

I suddenly put the pieces together. I realize that the baby and I had things in common, because I am the baby. So that is how I came to the family. That is how I was told of my adoption. Though I didn't know the word itself at that time, my parents guided me to the truth—as always—with creativity and a gentle hand.

My brothers and I closed our eyes that night engulfed in our blankets, listening to our da’s song. And I am sure, my face was split by a smile.

Twelve years later, I find solace in that story. Every time I think about it, I smile. My family’s nature and nurture is where I flourished. People might define me as an adoptee, Asian, Chinese, or Korean. It doesn't bother me. At the end of the day, only one thing defines me. I am my parents’ child. I came from their heart.