Writing My Wrongs

My Friend C

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born." - Anais Nin

Her skin.

It reminds me of caramel. Light caramel. It is clear and has the slightest hint of brown.   

Upon looking at her for the first time you may think she is Caucasian. But then you look closer and you see the kink to her hair, or the extensions she is wearing and you realize that she is black. But you question yourself.

Perhaps she is Dominican? Puerto Rican?  What is she?

I can tell you.

She is one of my oldest friends.  We met in the maternity home in 1986 and we have stayed friends since then.  Months, even years, can go by before we see each other but when we do it is like we were never apart. Conversation comes easily and hugs are openly and easily exchanged. 

We laugh like teenage girls. We rehash stories of our times at the home in Chicago. She tells the story of my silver shoes, my flowered pants, my chronic hair coloring and beer cans lining doorways.  She will remind everyone in the room of the time when I told a mutual friend (that had overstayed her welcome at our apartment) that it was time for her to leave.

My friend C. 

She is coming to visit me this weekend. I am hosting a Lia Sophia jewelry party and she is driving over three hours to see me.

I don’t have the words to express how happy this makes me. The smile on my face shows it all. Perhaps words are not needed.

I know, without question, that one of the deep bonds of our friendship is rooted in the fact that we shared the same trauma at nearly the same time in the same location. Her son was born and lost to adoption one month after my daughter was.  We later became roommates and struggled through paying the rent, finding jobs, and finding food. We went through boyfriends, Clubland, Romas, Leonas and navigated the Chicago El together. We dined at my favorite Mexican place in Lincoln Park. We had our hair cut by Joseph, the cute gay guy, in a salon in Boystown. We joked about our gay neighbors making out on the elevator as we carried our groceries to our apartment. We smashed cockroaches together. We made mac and cheese with jalapeno pepper cheese. We bought furniture from Clyde, the drug dealer on Sheridan Road.

Amazing how deeply connected you can become to a person who shares the same soul wounds. 

My dear friend C.

She just knows.

She has seen me at my worst and seen me climb out from under it. She has been my friend through it all and I know, without question, she would do anything for me, as I would for her.

Don’t we all need friends like that?

Did I mention she is not only a first mom but an adoptee? Yup. Presumably given up due to being a biracial child born in the early 60s.  She hasn’t found her roots yet. She is thinking about it again. She has a name but she is a bit anxious to do much with it. What if mom is deceased? What if the biracial status is indeed the reason for her adoption? How will she, as a “halvsie”, be received by a possible white mother? Does she dare open that pandoras box?

She is also contemplating finding her son. I am sure we will discuss both searches this weekend. Of course I will help her.

She is amazing. Her mother and her son deserve to know what a big heart she has. 

I know. I have held it in my heart for over 20 years and I will hug it extra hard this weekend. I will hug her for me, for the son she is missing and for the mother she lost.

My friend C.

Housekeeping

"This mess is a place!" - Author Unknown

I was asked to do a bit of housekeeping on my blog. Specifically, I was asked to make my archives available and consider using categories. 

I am in the process of retagging old posts under categories and also working on archives. 

While I was attending the Ethics Conference I had several readers delurk and give positive feedback on my posts. (I even had one demand I publish a book so she could read my entire story from beginning to end).

It was quite validating and rewarding for me to meet them and hear their thoughts. This blog was created for two reasons:

1. to give myself a creative outlet to process my adoption related feelings; and
2. to allow the general public to "meet" a first mom and to ideally see the pain that we endure when we lose our children to the American adoption industry.

It is important to note that the information I share here is a tiny subset of my entire story. I intentionally exclude a great deal of information to protect the privacy of my daughter, her father and others involved in my surrender experience. It would be a gross mistake to assume, based on what I choose to publish, that this is my entire story. It is not. My primary filter for what I write is my daughter and her feelings. There are certain things I believe she should know first, or only know, and they should not be found on the Net.

Naturally, this does cause me some challenge. The reality is my daughter may never want to know these things. She may never ask. Our relationship may not progress any farther than it has.  Should that be the case, I may have to adjust my approach  but until I feel more comfortable, I will reserve some content. That being said, if there is something someone wants to know, a question they have for me, I encourage my readers to write me privately.

Through this blog I have made some wonderful friends. I have met many face to face and others I have only emailed with or spoken to on the phone. I have always believed that from all things negative comes something positive. My traumatic experience of losing my daughter has introduced me to wonderful people that have loved me, cared for me, supported me and validated me in ways I never expected.

The least I could do for those folks is make this blog easier to navigate.

So I shall.

Real Mothers, Real Loss

Adoption Magnet

“Our minds become magnetized with the dominating thoughts we hold in our minds and these magnets attract to us the forces, the people, the circumstances of life which harmonize with the nature of our dominating thoughts.” - Napoleon Hill

There was a time in my life that my girlfriends jokingly called me the “weirdo magnet”. If we went out clubbing, to dinner, to any event I was sure to attract some interesting characters. It was uncanny how of all the people at a large event a strange person would find me.  My girlfriends used to beg me to try and attract stray animals instead of stray people.

When I lived in Chicago, I was regularly followed by homeless people. I was once assaulted by a young woman who had stopped her car in the middle of traffic, got out and followed me to my apartment. This was after she had grabbed my right breast and attempted to stop me from walking out into traffic when I was trying to get away from her.

We joked that it had to be a pheromone or something in my beguiling eyes. We could not explain why I was consistently befriended by the interesting members of society. I did not make eye contact. I did not talk to strangers. I did not go looking for the fruit loop of the day. They easily found me.

Over the years, that weirdo magnet seems to have morphed into an adoption magnet. I am consistently amazed how I can attract individuals traumatized by adoption.  I am further amazed at the synchronicity that has occurred between my life and that of many of my friends.

Consider my friend Hilly. I facilitated Hills search and reunion with her mother. Hilly now lives in the same apartment I lived in 20 years ago.  Spooky.

My friend Karin. I was drawn to her mother. We just clicked. Imagine my surprise when Karin learns in her early thirties that she is not her mothers’ first child but her second. The first child, a brother, had found her mother. Karin called me to discuss her feelings and shock at her newly discovered sibling.

My newest neighbors W and S. A couple I really like.  We hit it off and spent a fair amount of time chatting at a cocktail party. Towards the end they tell me they are adopting from China.

It’s all around me. Everywhere I look. It is there. It finds me when I least expect it. I can run but I can never ever hide.

I recently made a new friend.

A great guy. Brilliant, sensitive, attractive. We had been corresponding and becoming friends. He is well read, well spoken, educated and expressive. I enjoyed talking to him. He was easy to talk to.

I admit part of me was somewhat attracted to him as well. Who wouldn’t be? Smart, sensitive, perceptive and knowledgeable of trauma. We had great conversations.  To quote a word from Oriah Mountain Dreamer he had “touched the centre of his own sorrow”.

He was just neat.

Was I crushing? A tad bit.  But more than that I was enjoying him. Our talks. I liked him as a person.

He shared some of his personal trauma with me and I in turn shared mine. I felt safe to do so.

Imagine my surprise sometime later when he tells me he is an adoptive dad.

Did this surprise me? Not really. 

Did it punch me in the gut?

Yes.

This is not about him.

He is still a great guy and smart and sensitive. I am not throwing this new found friend into the rotten adoptive parent bin.  It’s not my style. To stereotype him, to judge him, for adopting a child would be putting myself into the slut or nut crack whore birthmother bin.  Who would I be, but a hypocrite, if I were to say don’t judge me yet I was to judge him.

But I admit it was hard for me.  I was somewhat disappointed. Not in him or his choices but in myself.

It was like walking into a minefield only you don’t know you are in a minefield. Or even more harsh, it felt like I was a rape victim being told that my newest best friend is a former rapist. (That’s a harsh analogy and not stated to make my friend look bad but rather to show how I felt - exactly how I felt.).

His sharing ripped open wounds I thought I had healed.

I was disappointed in me. In my recovery.

I have enough adoptive parent friends to know that I am not anti-adoptive parent (Margie, Mo, etc. can attest to that). Many of them were taken in, lied to and used by the agencies just like I was. The agencies saw that desire for a child in their face and took as much money from them knowing many parents would pay any price to obtain a child. Many adoptive parents I know took out second mortgages, borrowed money from family or went into serious debt to pay off the agency.

It’s not about my friend as an adoptive parent. I am sure of that. It’s something with me. Something undiscovered, something unhealed, something still festering.

I wonder if its about my daughters father? Since this is the first adoptive DAD I have gotten to know? What did he trigger in me?

Why, I ask myself today, did this punch me in the gut like it did?

Indecent Disclosure

"Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.  - Jane Austen"

One of the presenters at the Ethics conference that spoke at the Accountability to Prospective and Current Adoptive Parents session had some rather, um, interesting, views.

I will be candid and state that I greatly disliked this person views and the material presented. The individual was clearly pro family separation and even more so pro prospective adoptive parent. They seemed to be unaware that just because something is legal does not make it ethical.

The use of the “birth” term was used to refer to expectant mothers and a few interesting suggestions were made to prospective adopters when considering those birthmothers. When language was addressed to this person, they were asked to refer to expectant mothers as expectant mothers and not birthmothers. To me, the person appeared to find that suggestion amusing and appeared to mock the requestor and the terminology.

A list of things she suggests PAPs consider prior to placement:

• Obtain a criminal background check on expectant mother or father. Purpose is to find out if the parent might be in jail or prison at the time of the planned consent.
• Conduct a financial background check and obtain credit reports on expectant parents.  Check for bankruptcy filings – prior to placement.
• Obtain prenatal care records and speak with the obstetric attending physician (she cites the need for a HIPAA release, how knowledgeable of her!)
• Present the expectant parents with detailed questionnaires and tell them that they must be signed under oath and carry a penalty of perjury.
• Test the fetus, in utero, prior to placement, for drug or birth defects.
• The list goes on.

Additionally, to obtain this information, the presenter gives suggestions as to how the prospective adopters can “compel, cajole, persuade, coax or threaten” the expectant parents to provide the information.

Not surprisingly, many of us in the audience struggled with these suggestions. Sitting around me were both first moms and adoptive moms and even the adoptive moms were horrified at the suggestions. One adoptive mom sent me a text message on my phone that said “I don’t like her”.

When several of us started quietly objecting, I was approached by a nearby attendee who objected to our objections. 

“There is nothing wrong with what she is suggesting. She is merely doing the best she can to insure her adoptive parent clients obtain a quality product. Please quiet down.”

Yes, he actually said that to me.

Let’s flip this around. I wonder if we don’t have the cart before the horse here. It would seem to me that the person requesting bank, financial and drug test data should be the expectant parent. 

At a minimum, if such testing and checking must occur, on the “product” prior to placement, it should go both ways. 

Natural parents should be provided the same. Can we get our own psychological assessments on prospective adopters? How about legal filings? Credit reports? Family history data? Health history? Maybe a statement from a marital counselor on the chances that their marriage will survive? How about we send them through an obstacle course to see how nimble they are? How quickly can they run to a crying child?

Oh, I know many of these are part of a homestudy but is that information shared regularly, or upon request with expectant parents? I can tell you that I never saw anything like that on my daughters adoptive parents. I had a hand written profile that was later determined to be partially incorrect. I trusted (haha) the agency.

I understand the need to protect the interests of the parties involved but can we protect the interests of ALL and most importantly, can we protect our CHILDREN from unnecessary risk due to amniocentesis?

I realize the chance of miscarriage due to amnio is believed to be minimal (or exact risk unknown) but um, hello, why take the chance? Imagine an PAP paying for an amnio, the mother losing the child, what then? Can the mother sue the PAPs for wrongful death? Can we focus on protecting the child FIRST and not the PAPs?

Better yet, can we protect our mothers and children so that the need for adoption doesn’t event exist? And if it MUST exist can we please make it a bit more ethical?

And for gosh sakes, can we please, for the love of god, stop referring to our children as PRODUCT?

The Same but Different

“The most important of life's battles is the one we fight daily in the silent chambers of the soul.” - David McKay

I don’t remember the exact question she asked me. I believe it was something like:

“What make us different?” or “What makes us speak up and fight back?”.

I had never thought about it. Yet something in the question struck me. What did or does make me a bit different from some moms? Why do I see, so clearly, what was done to me and to them and why am I a just a tad bit stronger to speak up?

I have thought about this a great deal since the conference.  I pondered my childhood days where I was the black sheep of the family that could never conform. When my siblings were passive and bowing to the abuse of an alcoholic father, I was fighting back. I always challenged, always sassed with my mouth, always stomped my feet and expressed my anger.

I vividly remember one evening when we were all gathered around the television. There were several loads of laundry in front of the girls, myself included, and we were folding dutifully. My brother was kicked back, along with my father, enjoying himself and not lifting a finger.

My father had already retreated to the “dark side” and was abusive, antagonistic, mean and confrontational. No matter what he said, my sisters and mother looked the other way, turned the other cheek or folded the clothing faster. It was a crazy scene to me. At one point he uttered something to me and I blew.

“STFU! I hate you. Why don’t you just shut up you a-hole!”.

Yeah, imagine having your teenager daughter scream that at the top of her lungs.

That was me.

The entire room stopped breathing. I am fairly certain for a second even the clock stopped ticking.

He just stared at me.  Shocked.

A few moments later everyone begins to breathe again and more drama ensues. I end up in my room – but still alive.

Sadly, in my house, all my strength brought was more abuse and anger. I learned recently that in a dysfunctional family it is quite common for one child to be the sponge for all the family anger. I took in and acted out all the anger of those around me. I was the physical, human manifestation of my families’ problems. They walked around in the denial of lalaland and I was the tazmanian devil.

While problematic at the time and in later years, I do believe somehow, that fighting nature of mine contributes to my present day voice and ability to speak out against injustice. I also believed it allowed me to survive the days following the loss of my daughter.

I have difficulty reflecting on those days. They were dark. Lonely, full of nightmares and suicidal ideation.

And the split occurred. It may have been occurring all along but following the loss of my child it was completed. I walled off parts of myself in order to function and deal with the trauma of losing my child.

On the outside, I appeared to be a rather together person. I was surviving on my own, doing all the proper things on my own. Finding a job, finding a place to live, enrolling in school in Chicago. I was trying to afford to live and trying to eat. I had friends. I shopped. I enjoyed Chicago. Present day friends would probably call this my “thinking self”.

Inside, I was an emotional wasteland. I can still see myself, sitting in the corner of my Sheridan Road apartment, rocking like an autistic child, crying, aching for my child. It frightens me to ponder that time. Again, present day friends would likely call this my “feeling self”. This was the woman that wanted her baby back. This was the woman who held her leaky breasts in her hand and had hallucinations of breastfeeding a child. This was the woman who woke at night to the sound of a baby crying and searched frantically for that child.  This was the woman who would wake in the morning under her kitchen table with a table cloth as a blanket – uncertain how she got there.  This was the woman who put herself into therapy and was told by a psychiatrist that she was making it all up and she best “get over it’ and go on with her life.

I put on that mask I was told to wear. I pretended I was okay and that it was perfectly acceptable to turn over your first born child to strangers.

Inside, I knew better.

I always knew that what was done to me was wrong, that I should never have surrendered my child. In those days, I blamed myself. I turned the anger inward and played games of “shoulda, coulda, woulda”. I told myself they were right and that I did not deserve her and that I was worthless. I told myself she was better off with out me.  I played the Catholic tape of the sins of sex outside of marriage. I heard my father over and over again tell me I was nothing and no good and just a problem child. I heard the agency caseworker remind me that no on had called me at the maternity home and that my boyfriend had no interest in me. I heard the agency caseworker tell me I would never qualify for state aid as my parents made too much money. (???). I heard her voice remind me of the promissory note my mother so willingly signed. No one wanted me. They surely did not want my bastard child.

I tried to drink as much adoption koolaid as I could with the hope that I could drown the reality that I never wanted to give my child away, was too weak to fight the powers that be and I had committed a crime against her soul and mine. Like my father drank years before to drown his own pain, I ingested virtual adoption koolaid to try and drown mine.

It did not work.

I did not drink enough. Perhaps I drank the unsweetened version. For no matter how much I tried, I could never accept that giving away my daughter was ever a good thing. How could something so good hurt so bad? 

I believe clinging to this thread of truth is what fueled my desire to find her. It is also what fuels me to help others, to speak out, to work towards stopping the insanity. I fight for them and in some parallel universe; I am fighting for myself – for the 18 year old version of me that no one stood up for.  Even if only a spiritual level, I am attempting to keep my daughter with me when I work towards keeping other babies with their mamas.

Many speak of the thawing of natural mothers…or waking up. I, for one, was never completely frozen and was always awake. I tried to freeze. I did. I tried to completely shut down my feelings but always there was a dim ember of love and loss of my daughter. I never extinguished the flame that she was mine and should have been with me – not strangers.

To answer her question, why am I different, requires me to look at many aspects of my life.  In doing so, I realize I was different all along.

And that isn’t a bad thing.

November is National Adoption BEWAREness Month

From my friends at OriginsUSA:

Some "celebrate" National Adoption Awareness Month in November.

Adoption, however is not a "win-win" for all. For every family added to by adoption, another experiences an irrevocable and painful loss.   

OriginsUSA, an organization dedicated to Natural Family Preservation and justice for families seperated by adoption, cannot "celebrate" adoption as a "positive way to build families."

For members of OriginsUSA, November is a time to call attention to the need to prevent unnecessary adoptions by providing families in need the resources they need to remain intact.

We thus declare November as National Adoption BEWAREness Month.

• BEWARE of claims that surrendering a child to adoption is noble or selfish or best; that it will guarantee your child a "better life" or afford you an opportunity for a better life.
• BEWARE of those who tell you that adopting a child is "the same as if" you gave birth.
• BEWARE of those who tell you that your child will go to a "forever family" as the national divorce statistics hold true in adoptive families as well, and a high percentage of children are victims of "failed adoptions", a phrase the industry coined to cover children returned to the agencies. 
• BEWARE of those who speak of your current situation as reason to surrender your child to adoption.  You will get older, you can get work, colleges are full of non-traditional students, and your current situation is temporary, but loss to adoption is forever.

During this month, on November 10th, we will participate in Reg Day to bring awareness to the loss suffered those adopted by the denial of their truth with the issuance of a false birth certificate.

The month will culminate on November 31 with Strange and Mournful Day!  Wear your Strange and Mournful Day ribbon on that day and throughout the year, to recognize the sadness of mothers losing their children to adoption. 

Using a phrase taken from the "Mother and Child Reunion" by Paul Simon, the name of the occasion is intended to stress both the unnatural (strange) nature of adoption separation and the accompanying "mournful" grief.

Silence is not golden.

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter" - Martin Luther King

“I will assume that silence indicates agreement” stated the instructor.

I chuckled and mused about this statement.  She could be very wrong. 

Working in an IT department largely populated with introverts, I have learned that silence should NEVER be construed as agreement. Additionally, having worked over seas with our friends in Tokyo, I also know that cultural norms often dictate that silence is appropriate – even when you disagree.  It is quite common for certain individuals to nod in what appears to be in agreement or to utter the Japanese “Hai”.  This does not mean I agree. It often simply means “I heard what you said”.

The silence in the room concerned me and for some odd reason I was brought back to the Ethics conference. There was only a handful of first mothers in attendance. As at previous conferences, Claud and I asked ourselves “Where is everyone?”

We know we are not the only first mothers. Between the two of us we must know hundreds of them. Why are we consistently one of the few that come out of the woodwork? Is it shame? Embarrassment? Fear? Lack of funds to attend? Lack of knowledge? What can we do to get more of us to speak out, appear and share our stories? We know there are many of us online but online does not have quite the same affect as coming out face to face. You can make a connection in person that you simply cannot make in cyberspace. We need more of us. How can we help our sisters to come out and help make that connection?

I have told my story of promissory notes and threats of lawsuits many times online and in email.  At the ethics conference, I mentioned it and people literally gasped. Several put their hands to their chest in that “OMG” gesture.  They were shocked. Someone asked me afterwards “That really happens?”

Yes, it’s true. It really does happen. It happened to me.  Will they remember me? Will they remember that chunky red head?  Did I make an impression? When someone wants proof or experience of what is wrong with adoption, will they call on me? I hope they do. 

We must come out. We must speak out. We must put real faces and real pain and real anguish in front of those that hope to make change (and even those who don’t!).  Unless they see it, touch it, feel it with us, they can easily – too easily – disregard it – disregard US and the pain of the children we bear. For many, ignorance is indeed bliss.  Out of sight, out of mind as the saying goes.

Sure, there were other moms there (Mirah, Bernadette, Jacqueline and others) but as is often the case we were clearly outnumbered by the adoptive parents.  I highly doubt that the ovaries of the few of us in attendance have been feeding this billion dollar industry.

I urge my sisters that are working towards reform to consider trying to attend a local conference. Write your congressman. Offer to speak at a conference. Record a video and put it on youtube. If you are frightened or nervous, I am sure Claud or I or many others would be willing to help. Don’t allow what was done to you in the years past dictate what is done to you and your daughters going forward.

We need to be the change we hope to see in the world. If our voices are not heard, if we don’t object, LOUDLY, to what is being done to our sisters and our children, we can be confident that it will continue. 

Silence is assumed to be agreement.

It most definitely is NOT.

Quid Pro Quo

"Relationships based on obligation lack dignity.” - Wayne Dyer

He was angry at me. I could tell. He disagreed with my statement and my experience flew in the face of his attitude with an angry rage.

I did not care. He was wrong. He knew it. He was angry at me because sharing my experience garnered support from the rest of the session attendees and made him look like a selfish cretin.

The topic?

Paying for the expenses of an expectant mother prior to surrender.

I emphatically disagreed and said so.  Never, ever, in my opinion, should the expenses of an expectant mother be paid for by prospective adopters or the agency.

I am not suggesting NO ONE should pay those expenses. That would be plain silly. If a mother is unable to obtain payment for proper medical care for her and her unborn child, someone should surely help her. Her family,  the father, the state welfare system, etc. But it should never be the adopters or the agency.

Doing so creates a sense of obligation and is, in my opinion, a prime example of coercion and what is wrong with our adoption system.

So he continued…

“I have a real problem with you suggesting I should not be paying expenses so that my child gets proper care in utero”

I really had to hold back my laughter. Did he hear himself?

Most of the people in the room heard the flaw in his argument.  Was I going to counter?

I had to.

“Well, see, until that child is born and surrendered by his or her mother it is NOT YOUR child.”

He looked at me like I was an idiot. It was clear he could not grasp the concept.

“Let me ask you” I suggested “If that mother had NO intent of surrendering her child, better yet, if she was going to give it to another adopter, would you still be paying for her expenses?”

“Well, uh,…” he stammered.

He realized I had trapped him in his own ignorance. He was drowning in it.

At that point the moderator had to cease the session.

But I made my point.

And he knew it.

The Big Deal

"How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four; calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg." - Abraham Lincoln

The yellow king sized comforter was too hot for my oldest son. He kicked it off and his younger brother, clad in nothing but sponge bob boxer briefs, objected. I pulled the blanket closer to my youngest and me.

“So, Mom, ask me more questions. I like this game” said my oldest son.

“Um, I think I have run out of questions” I replied.

“Come on, I know one you haven’t asked and I am surprised” he insists.

I continue thinking. I agree with him. I like this game too. I like this kind of time.

It is late on a Friday evening. The kids and I watched E.T. together and retired to my large king sized croscill clad bed. The lights are off and a slight breeze is blowing in the window behind the bed. Rain is falling on the drying maple trees creating a light crackling noise.

For the past thirty minutes I had been querying my oldest on his class mates.

Who was the fattest? Tallest? Shortest?

Who did he not like? Who was his best friend?

Were any of the kids poor? Did any of them smell badly?

We discussed parents from single families, poor families and treating the lesser privileged children with the same respect he would like. We talked about kids that have holes in their shoes and dont bath regularly and why.

We discussed Qu’n, the Jamaican girl (“She doesn’t say “HEY MON”).  We discussed the fact that Hunter had “anger issues” and that his mom was “HOT!”.  We talked about ADHD and my son stated that he thought Hunter might have ADHD.

I had really run out of questions.

“Come on MOM! This is a question YOU should ask me.” he demanded.

Tired and really wanting to end this game, I begged for a hint.

“Mom, you did not ask me if any of my classmates were ADOPTED!” he said in surprise.

Heh. He’s right. I did not. It did not occur to me. Why would I ask that?

But my son, the son who knows how the loss of his sister to adoption has affected our family, HE asks. It is on his mind. He expects it to be on mine as well. Clearly since learning of his sister lost to adoption, he has a new qualifier for his class mates.

“Oh, right. Well, is anyone?” I ask.

“Yup. John.  He told the class once and no one believed him. I mean, I have seen his mom. They look alike. Usually adopted kids are not the same color as their parents, you know?” he replies.

“Well, that’s sometimes true and sometimes not. Your sister sort of looks like her adopted mother. Sometimes they try to make matches based on looks so they can pretend that the child really was born by the adoptive aprents. Do the kids make fun of John for being adopted?” I asked.

“Nope. It’s no big deal. No one really cares. But wait, why would anyone pretend a child that was born to another mother was theirs?” he replied.

“Yet they did not believe him? That must have made John feel kinda bad. And I really don’t know why anyone would pretend a child that is adopted was theirs.” I responded.

“Well, once, when his mom came in the class, Kanija asked her if it was true” he told me.

“Oh? What did she say?” I asked.

“She just said “Yes” really short and then walked away. She was kind of rude about it” my son informed me.

“Oh, maybe she thought it was no ones business” I responded.

“What’s the big deal?” my son responded as he rolled over on his side and began to tickle his younger brother.

I rolled to my side and feigned sleep so the questions could end. There are some major big deals in adoption I thought. It was however, not the time to educate my son.  He knows the pain his mother carries daily. I suspect with time he will have a better understanding of the big deal as well.