When I was young, other kids, upon finding out I was adopted, would wrinkle their noses and ask two questions: “How does it feel to be adopted?” and “Don’t you ever wonder about your real parents?” The first would send me into an agony of squirming until I figured I could ask them how it feels not to be adopted and watch them squirm. The second one generally made me cross my arms, growl “NO,” and maybe hit the asker. I was a smaller urchin, but plenty spiky.
When I grew up–and about the time adoption searches became “a thing”–the question changed. “Real parents” now, and always, refers to my adoptive parents. So here, for the record, is the Official Composition of all four of the Snurchin’s Parents:
First mother: Cardboard, small amounts of baling wire.
First father: Unknown, possible zombie, golem, robot, poppet, or one of dozens of deities known to have a taste for knocking up human women and disappearing.
Adoptive mother: Predominantly clay, with some “magazine slick” paper filler.
Adoptive father: Ash wood, leather.
If the first two aren’t real, then neither are the second two.
Guess who this makes feel unreal?
Snurchin: Yarn, copper wire, brass (see Gravatar).
What are you made of, anyway?