I used to wonder about baby mix-ups. It seems it could happen so easily (unless one does a home birth). The baby is born, taken to the nursery to be washed, the mother stays in the labor and delivery room for post-pregnancy business. Then, the mother is taken to her room and the nurse returns with a baby. Nowadays, to avoid ‘misconceptions,’ they typically slap a hospital band around the baby’s wrist before wrangling them out of the mother’s oriface, but back in the day, medical staff just hoped that good intentions were enough.
With all of this on my mind, and my library membership in good standing, I decided to checkout Mix-Up ou Méli-Mélo, a documentary about babies who were given to the wrong family. It was filmed in England, about English people, however the entire film crew/production company was French. Talk about a méli-mélo of film. The documentary topic, alone, made it interesting to watch. The staging and edits made it like a train wreck with magicians onsite.
After watching the documentary, my histrionic early childhood dream of being switched at birth quickly switched to my histrionic mid-childhood dream that my mom hooked up with the milkman or mail carrier – a theory proposed to me by many of my childhood friends who, like me, were sure I was genetically different from the rest of my family. When we were able to ruleout these possibilities they would tell me, “Maybe you were adopted.” Maybe.
Regardless of my ‘roots,’ the family with whom I grew up still let me go with them on vacations, sleep in their house, eat their food, and, most recently, take one of their vintage snowsuits.
Sometimes, as an adult, I’ll see people and wonder if we’re related. For example, I was watching Foul Play the other day and couldn’t help but think, “Goldie Hawn and I have a lot in common.” Later in the week, I was watching The Sarah Silverman Show and wondered if she is missing a twin sister. My last theory, however, is probably the closest to the truth. I was listening to music and ran across my Jackie Brown soundtrack, when it hit me. I might want to do some geneology, research it a little further. So, I’m off to the library to checkout Foxy: My Life in Three Acts, Pam Grier’s memoir. This could get pretty crazy, or as the French would say, this could be a major méli-mélo!