Writing My Wrongs

A Questionable Existence

“Man is the only animal for whom his own existence is a problem which he has to solve” - Erich Fromm

I wonder what it means.

Why is my son so obsessed with the idea that he would not have existed if I had been allowed to keep his sister?

He asks this quite frequently. Lately at least four times a month. This means to me he is thinking about it alot.

I wonder if it is some typical developmental milestone or is it some affect of being collateral damage to his sisters adoption.

Is he feeling I love her more?

Is he feeling neglected? Do I talk too much about her?

Is he wishing she was here but has no way to express that?

Does he feel like he doesn’t exist because she does?

Does he question his role as the first born in our family but not the first born to me?

Does he feel any envy or animosity towards his absent sister?

Does he simply just miss her and want to know her? Is that why she appears in all his school projects?

Or is it, again, just general developmental stuff?

Mr. Gunther was my third grade teacher. As the smartest student in the class (I was labeled "gifted" in the 3rd grade), I often finished my work early and was left with hours to kill and nothing to do. Mr. Gunther would send me to the Principals office and I provided clerical backup and assistance to the school receptionist, Mrs Kmetzo. I was an 8 year old receptionist.

"Good morning, Franklin School, how may I direct your call?"

Yes, I really did and said those things.

In between answering the phones for Mrs. Kmetzo, I sat behind her and pretended to sort papers. Most often I found myself staring out the window musing over the jungle gym and the kids out at recess.

A common thought, a pervasive, intrusive, disturbing thought for me during that time and at that age was:

"Where do I go when I die?"

I was obsessed for my entire third grade year with my own mortality. Growing up a conservative Catholic, I was taught (but never believed) heaven and pearly gates and St. Peter welcoming me and all that magical religious stuff.

I never believed it.

I could accept that my body would die and turn to dust but where did I go? Me? My voice? My personality? My spirit?

Yeah, I was an intense kid (not much has changed in that regard).

I was reminded of that phase in my life when I recently began pondering my sons obsession with his own existence in relation to his absent sister.

Of course it is possible he might not have existed. However, it is also possible he may have but his father would have been my daughters father. It is also possible he could have been born to his father and another woman.

We simply cannot know.

But for some reason, something is bugging my son and he has a need to know. Clearly, my answer of "we cannot know for sure, Nikolas" is not comforting him.

I don’t know what to say or how to help him.

And I don’t like that feeling.

I also despise that my son has to even ponder these things. They surely don’t tell surrendering mothers that our future children will also be traumatized by the loss of their siblings to adoption.

I wish I could make it easier for him.

With Intent

"The degree to which you accept your limitations determines the degree to which you find you're unlimited." - Unknown

Someone asked me how it is that I am able to achieve balance in the parenting of my children. When so many mothers who lose their children to adoption become either overprotective or distant, how do I find the middle ground?

The short answer?

With a lot of work and living with intent.

I am painfully aware of how much the loss of my child has damaged me as a woman, as a mother, as a human being. As such, my subsequent children are damaged as well.  Maybe damaged is the wrong word, but for me, it is obvious that they have gotten less of a mother. They deserved better.  I am NEVER fully theirs, never with them, never completely dedicated to them because part of my energy is focused on my daughter, their absent sister. Again, they deserved better. If my daughter had no say in her adoption, my sons are similar. They had no say in being born to a mother who was damaged by loss. All my children have lost.  We have the wonders of adoption to thank.

You can take the child from the mother but you cannot take the mother from the mother.  I am a mother in my heart and soul 24 x 7 to my present and absent children. My mind is regularly split between upstate CT and NY, or NJ, or whatever part of the world my daughter may be in.

However, as noted, I am aware of this. What is that? The first step is awareness?  I am aware that I am more likely to be a distant mother to my sons than an overprotective one.

Important to note that I felt I had no right to additional children after what I did to my first. I spent nearly 13 years with a hardcore belief that I would never have more children.  I intentionally sought men who did not want children. I even married one (who later changed his mind on me and said he wanted kids after all). 

I couldn’t fathom giving myself to another child. I was convinced the world was right and I was not a good mother, did not deserve children, should never have another since I abandoned my first born to strangers.   I built a shrine to my daughter in my mind.  I worshipped at it daily. I gulped up that Catholic guilt and adoption kool-aid like it was nectar of the gods.

Coupled with those beliefs was living the day to day trauma.  The mere thought of having another child would send me into the fetal position, hiding behind a radiator, quivering. It doesn’t surprise me at all that mothers who have been torched by adoption suffer secondary infertility. It is THAT damaging to us.  It is as if our ovaries fight back and demand they will never be used again to give a child to another woman.

However, unlike many of my sister/mothers, I did have subsequent children. After at least a year of soul searching (pretty much on my own, I did not share the thoughts with my husband), I agreed to bear his children. At that  time in my life I felt he was the best thing that had happened to me, why wouldn’t I want more of him? 

I don’t regret for one second having my sons. They are angels on earth, just like their sister. They have made me a better person, just like their sister has. They soften me. They educate me. They keep me young and laughing and happy and hopeful.

But staying engaged requires constant work on my part.  As noted from my various blog posts, every encounter with my sons pours sea salt into the wounds of loss. I cannot avoid it. I do something with them and while doing it I contemplate how I could not do it with her.  She is ever present. She may never want to physically be part of this family but spiritually, energetically, virtually, she is and always has been. 

A few years ago, I read a book titled Birthmothers: Women Who Have Relinquished Babies for Adoption Tell Their Stories by Mary Bloch Jones. Many of my sister/mothers don’t like this book (presumably due to the use of the birthmother word). For me, at that time in my life, I found it HUGELY validating. It had so many case stories that just screamed my name. Women who talked about how adoption loss affected their friendships, their social life, their marriages, their parenting. The stories in that book made me feel less of a freak and more of a human who had suffered a horrible injustice. I saw myself in nearly every page and I was comforted. Somehow I felt normalized. I wasnt alone. There were legions of women the world over who had suffered what I had.

Without question the nugget of gold in that book for me, was indeed the split that occurs in mothers – how we become obsessively overprotective or distant.  Becoming aware of that, knowing it existed in myself, knowing what caused it, has allowed me to embrace it and therefore, it has less power.

How do I achieve the balance?

By being constantly aware of the need for it and the possibility of the pendulum swinging one way or the other at any given moment and not wanting my sons to suffer or lose out any more than they already have.

That is how.

Clipped Wings of Adoption

"The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings” - Unknown

Sarah is a relatively new parent. She is single and her child is a little over a year old. Sarah and her child are doing very well together. They live in a quaint little home in an adorable southern town. She has frequent contact with her family and many friends. Having chosen an extended maternity leave for herself, she busies herself during the day with mothers groups, walks in the park and visits to the library for story hour and completing crafts at home.

If you were to meet Sarah, you would have no idea that she suffers from an incredible amount of anxiety. Sarah is terrified that something will happen to her child. She is extremely overprotective. She worries about everything and everyone and is expecting to find danger around every corner. Sarah has not left her child with anyone for the past year. Just thinking about leaving her child in the hands of a babysitter, even a trusted one, sends Sarah into a full blown hospital visit worthy panic attack.

Many of the mothers at the playgroups have criticized Sarah and told her she is too overprotective. She is smothering her child. They tell her that her parenting style is not healthy for her and certainly not healthy for her child.  Relax they tell her. Chill out. 

Sarah does not take this advice in the spirit with which it is intended. She doesn’t see the other moms as trying to help her. She finds them threatening. They are a danger. They are suggesting she is not a good mother. They are questioning her. They are talking about her behind her back. They are going to report her overprotective mothering style to the authorities.

Sarah stops going to playgroup. She is afraid of those other mothers. They represent a danger, a terrible threat to her and her child.  They want to take her baby from her.

What is wrong with Sarah?

Sarah is a first parent.

Almost fifteen years ago, Sarah surrendered her first child to adoption. Her parenting of her second child is strongly affected by the loss of her first child to adoption. Sarah is terrified, often to the point of paralysis, that someone will take her second child.  Even though Sarah has her PhD, has been a highly paid and successful professional, it makes no difference to her.

The grief, the trauma, the pain of losing her first child to adoption is with her daily and is significantly affecting the parenting of her second child.

=====

Corrine’s eighteen year old daughter just moved out of the house.  Her daughter, like most girls her age, is attending college. Daughter moved out to her own apartment not far from the university campus. She is working two jobs, getting decent grades and she has a boyfriend.

And Corrine won’t leave her alone.

Corrine stalks her daughter. She calls her constantly on her cell – often as much as ten times a day. If her daughter does not answer, she begins texting her. If she doesn’t answer the text messages, Corrine will contact daughter’s friends via their myspace, their cell numbers or even go out looking for them.

There have been many arguments between Corrine, her husband, her daughter and her other children. Corrine’s husband resents her behavior towards their oldest daughter as he is confident that the reason daughter left home was to escape from Corrine.  Even now that she is gone, Corrine will not leave her alone.

Husband feels there is something wrong with Corrine. She needs help, medication, or something. She just “aint right”.  Husband has stopped coming home from work on time to avoid having to deal with Corrine and her obsessive behavior.

What is wrong?

Corrine is a first mother who lost her first child to adoption twenty five years ago.  While she was able to raise her second child with little emotional interference from the loss of her  first child, her daughter leaving home triggered flashbacks in Corrine.  Releasing a now adult child to the world is far too similar to leaving your child in the hands of strangers.  Corrine cannot function. Unresolved grief and trauma has surfaced due to the very normal departure of her second daughter from her home.

Corrine is struggling separating the loss of her first child to adoption from the perceived loss of her second child to life, growth and maturity.  In some odd way, by smothering her second child, Corrine is finding a way to love the child she lost to adoption.

=====

It is said that parents first give their children roots and then wings.

What if your ability to give your child roots was taken from you? What if you gave your infant child wings at far too young an age?

How can you possibly consider allowing a subsequent child to fly?

Ten Year Old Processing

“Wisdom doesn't necessarily come with age. Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.” - Tom Wilson

"Shotgun!" my son screams joyfully as he jumps into the front seat of my red Honda Accord.

I smile and let him sit in the front seat as the back is taken up with his brother, his brothers car seat and several large boxes. He is old enough and tall enough to sit in the front. It is a rare occurrence and I know he finds it to be a special treat. I let it go considering I have no other options.

I start the car and begin to wind my way through the university campus towards the main road. I am caught up musing over the programs that my children are exposed to since their magnet school resides on the grounds of a large college campus. I am about to ask my son about his music instruction (thank you Hartt School of Music, also on the campus) when he interrupts my thoughts.

"My friend John is adopted" reports my ten year old son,  Nikolas.

"Oh?" I respond.

"Yeah, he told me today but I could have guessed that even if he had not told me." he continued.

"Why is that?" I ask. "Is he a different race than his parents? Korean? Chinese or something?" I inquire.

"No. He is white like me but his parents are OLD!"  my son exclaimed.

"Huh? Why does that make you think he was adopted?" I asked.

"Well, I guess it doesn't mean he is adopted but it seems weird to me to have parents that could be your grandparents. I talked to John and he told me his parents waited too long to have babies and that made them old" my son explains.

I swallow hard.

"So, you are saying waiting too long to have babies made them old?" I asked.  I knew what he meant but I wanted him to think through a bit what he was suggesting.

"No, no. I mean, well, kinda. John said they tried to have their own REAL kids for a long time. But then they decided to adopt him instead"  he explains.

I am momentarily struck by the "own, REAL" kids statement.  I have never said such things and I am curious (fascinated maybe) that my son and his friend somehow realize that adoptive parents often want their "own, real", biological kids first and they adopt as a second choice. How far did he go in that thought process?

"You know, technically, I am an old Mom" I inform my son.

"I gave birth to you when I was 31. And your brother when I was almost 36. Your brother has friends  who have mothers that are in their mid- twenties. I am like the crypt-keeper compared to them."

"Well, yeah, but Ma, Johns' parents LOOK ancient. White and grey hair... and they act old. Like Mr. Burns on the Simpsons. They are OLD. Even John says so.  And you, well, you are a cool mom.  All my friends say so. And you might be an old mom to me but you had sister when you were young." he says as he smiles at me.  His honey colored eyes appear yellow due to the sunlight shining upon them.

I smile.  Somehow his logic makes sense to him.

"Well, age doesn't really have anything to do with adopting a child. That was kind of my point" I inform him.

"But sisters parents are old too, right? Aren't they as old as Grampa and Gramma?" he asks

"Well, yeah, kinda. They are a few years younger. But yes, they are close in age to Grampa Jack and Gramma Ronnie" I say.

"So, see only old people adopt. They wait too long to have their own kids so they get old and then take someone else's kids." he insists.

"No, honey, that is not true. " I state as I turn left into a Starbucks parking lot and ponder how I am going to explain this.

I wonder if this adoption talk with his friend John started after he brought his sister to school that day.  What did he say to his friends?  Internally I am pleased he is so open and discussing this stuff but my own feelings and confusion are colliding with his and I am struggling to respond in a way that a mother NOT torched by adoption would be able to. Do I get into a discussion of infertility with a ten year old boy? Should I just drop it for now and revisit if it comes up again?

(I ordered a quad venti caramel macchiotto and dropped it.)

Son a Poet and I did not know it.

"Writing a poem is discovering” - Robert Frost

Her eyes were a brilliant turquoise blue and seemed to reflect off of her equally blue shirt.  In contrast, my son’s freckled cheeks were the most adorable pink due to his full blush.

My ex-husband and I had just shared with my sons’ blue-eyed teacher the name of his classroom crush.  My son quickly gave me the “MA!” look and then blushed a deep pink.

We all chuckled.

As we left the parent-teacher conference, I marveled over my son. I am so proud of him. He has done so well since we took him out of the alleged blue ribbon public school system in our town and transferred him to the Magnet school a few towns away. As his teacher said, he has “blossomed”. Even in light of his parents’ divorce, his father moving out to a new apartment and us entering into family therapy, his grades have improved and his smiles have widened.

His teacher reports he is extremely well liked, well rounded and has a great sense of humor. (All true).  His reading, comprehension and spelling have greatly improved and where he was once a B’ish student he is now an A and A+.  (Bless you Howard Gardner and your theory of multiple intelligences.) And oh yeah, the teacher adds nonchalantly, he will likely be invited to join the Math Olympiad next year. His CREC assessment for math noted him the highest in his class. If his CMT’s come back supporting that result, he will be asked to join the Olympiad next fall.

And did I read his poetry his teacher asked? Poetry? What poetry?  My son writes poems?

I noted I had not seen any poem and she informed me it was hanging on the bulletin board in the hallway. It was so good they did not want to let it go home yet.

My son writes excellent poetry.  My son who two years ago was in remedial reading at his old school is now reading at or above grade level and writing poetry. Be still my writer heart.

We walked by the poem inspired by Ode to Night. I was moved to tears. He writes. He has talent. He and I have something in common.

And for the first time ever, a visit to my sons’ school, a viewing of his project and work did NOT include a reference to his absent sister.

Of course I thought about her – but only in relation to the fact that she was finally not making a star appearance in his school work.  I am not embarrassed to admit I was relieved that I was able to finally focus on my son and his wonder and not get the emotional interference of the loss of my daughter.

Crayons and Comprehension

“While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.” - Unknown

Setting:

Extended day program, local Magnet school. Children abound. Noise exceptional.  Parents struggling to find sign out sheet while others pick through bags and coats.

My youngest son is seated at a round table playing Connect Four with another child and a care provider.

As I approach, he jumps out of his seat, grabs a paper and starts to talk to me. Simultaneously a care provider begins to explain to me how my son hurt himself on the playground and was given an ice pack. As I try to comprehend what she is saying to me, my son is getting louder and louder demanding my attention.

I start to turn my attention towards him when his little friend, DeSean, grabs me from the other side demanding I look at his green plastic frog.

A tad bit overstimulated, I smile at DeSean and turn toward  my inpatient son.

"What, Stefan?" I ask.

"Mom, do I have a sister?" He asks with large brown inquisitive eyes.

"Um, yeah. Yes, you do" I respond with a vague awareness that there are several staff members and parents looking at us strangely. I suspect they are a bit intrigued why he has to ask if he has a sister.

"Oh, good, I thought so.  Seeeeeeeeeee, I drew a picture of you and sister. Can I give it to her?" he says as he shoves a crayon drawing in front of me.

Startled, I review the masterpiece.  I am amused at the bow on the head and then I get a little concerned at what looks like a black cloud above us.  Clearly I am reading far too much into this kindergarten artwork.  However, this is my youngest sons first unprompted expression of his lost sister. Like his older brother before him, he draws pictures of her and thinks of her during his school time hours.

"Oooh, I love the picture. Which one is Mom and which one is Sister?" I ask.

He informs me that the "girl" on the right is me and the other girl is his sister.

"Love it. Now get your coat, sweetie" I respond. For once I am  thankful for the short attention span of a six year old, I realize I have dodged the "can I give it to her" loaded question.

And so it finally begins.

My soon to be six year old is finally consciously aware that he has a sister that is not present in our home.

I wonder how his processing of this unusual fact  will be different from his older brother. He is a bit more vocal than his brother. He is also more emotional with more obvious ups and downs. I suspect he could be even more challenging for me in the absent sister explanation department than his older brother.

Sigh.

Take Your Sister to School Day

Children of the same family, the same blood,  have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply...  ~Jane Austen, Mansfield Park, 1814

My son completed his Student of the Week Project. He decided (after some additional discussion) to put a picture of himself in the center. He asked me for help in finding a picture and I located one in my home office. (The house is currently down to its bare bones due to the fact that it is on the market).

I wondered what he would do with the picture of his sister ("She is so pretty Mom") but I did not press the issue. It was obvious he was struggling with something as it was. No need for Mom to go poking at his already wounded heart.

As I tucked the boys into my bed later in the evening, my son grabbed the photo album of my daughter off my bedroom bookshelf.

"Mom, there is a picture in here of sister that looks EXACTLY like you. Its freaky. Here, let me show you" he says

I lay on the king sized bed on my stomach and watch my son flip through the purple album I have stuffed full of pictures of his sister.

He finds the picture he is looking for and flips the book around, holding it up to his chest, just beneath his chin.

"See? See this picture. Oh my god, Mom. I  thought that was you!" he screeches.

I review the picture and note it is a very nice picture of my daughter. She is around 19 yo, and she is spinning on one of those whirly playground toys. I dont know what it is called. You know, the big discs with bars on them that you spin and get very dizzy from?  It appears she was being silly with her college friends. I know from other pictures in the series that she and her friends spent an afternoon shooting photos on a playground.

She looks happy in the picture and is laughing. Her long red hair is blowing behind her.She has a huge smile.  Her full lips, like mine,  are rose colored.  I really don't see the resemblance, not in that picture, but others always do.

I smile.

"Yes, it is a nice picture of her, for sure" I tell my son as I take the book from him.

I start to flip through the pictures. My youngest son jumps on my back and peers over my left shoulder. He has very little understanding of his absent sister. While he has known since he was 2, he does not yet have the intellectual or emotional capacity to truly understand who she is. He just stares at the pictures as his older brother and I review and comment on them.

My son comments on my daughters many hair colors ("Just like you mom!"), her green eyes ("They aren't quite as green as yours Mom"), her tattoo and finally how thin she is. He is happy. Jovial, enjoying the one dimensional version of his older sister. After a few moments, it becomes too much for me.  My eyes hurt from holding back tears.  I cannot break down in front of the boys.

I swoosh the boys into bed and leave them. I return the purple album to its earlier location on my bedroom bookshelf.

This morning as we left for school I noted that the picture of my daughter was sticking out of my sons backpack. It appeared as though it had fallen there or was placed rather haphazardly. 

"What are you doing with that picture? Are you still taking it?" I ask my son.

"Yes" he responds very flatly.

"Oh" I answer.

We drive to school and as I take the backpacks out of the trunk, I express concern (again) over the picture.

"Don't lose that picture. It looks like it is falling out" I say

"MOM! Its stuck there. I taped it.  I added it to the side of my Student of the Week poster. Sister is not going anywhere. She is fine. Well she IS going to school with me but otherwise she is fine." He says with a smile that causes his freckles to spread wider across his face.

"It is a very pretty picture" I say quietly as I struggle with a lump in my throat.

"Oh yeah, my sister is a hottie. Wait till I show my friends. See you later, Mom." he says as he walks away from me towards the magnet school.

What will he say to his friends? How will he explain he has a sister but he doesn't?

I get into my car and start to cry.

I guess it is "Take Your Sister To School"  Day.

I am adopting.

“Some people think that if they change the names of things, the things themselves will have changed, too” - David McKay

Last night, while sharing a plate of Texas cheese fries at our local Chili’s restaurant, it was decided that my sons and I would get a cat.

We don’t currently have any pets at home. I have had cats in my past lives but my ex-husband was not a fan of the felines so during my marriage we had none. I am not a canine fan and as such, dogs were also not an option.

My oldest son once had a goldfish named Nemo but we found Nemo floating in his bowl one day. That ended our family pet experience. (And really, is a fish considered a pet? I don’t know about that. That seems akin to a pet rock to me, but, whatever.)

Regardless, over the cheesy fries, two sprites and one cosmo martini, it was decided.

We shall adopt.

Rather than hunt for a newborn, we will visit our local humane society and see if we can adopt one from there.

In discussions over names, I informed my oldest son that the cats at the humane society generally already have names.  He looked a bit downtrodden at that since he had spent some time musing over Max, Puma, Hermione (that was my suggestion) and Bella. 

He asked why we would could not rename him or her. It was just a cat after all, who would know?  I started to comment but he interjected.

“Oh, but wait, its adoption, right? Sister had a name and was renamed. That’s confusing to her, right?  Maybe it is better that we keep the cat’s original name after all. That is after all its name.  We don’t have the right to change it.“

Gulp.

Yes, my son. I agree.

Through His Eyes to His Heart

"Adoption Loss is the only trauma in the world where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful" - The Reverend Keith C. Griffith, MBE

I wonder, often, what is like to look at the world through my sons eyes.

His eyes are this lovely yellow, caramel, hazel color. They aren’t quite green yet they aren’t quite hazel and they are most definitely not brown. Think cat’s eye color. That is the color of my oldest son’s eyes.

What does he see when he looks out from those yellow cats eyes, through his Zac Efron like shaggy bangs, past his freckle speckled nose, just beyond his cupids bow top lip?

More importantly, what does he feel inside when he sees those things? How does he process his world?

What is it like to be the first born son and child in a family but not the first born child to his mother?

What does it feel like be a first and simultaneously middle child? If you believe birth order contributes to your personality, what type of personality type do you get when you hold two roles – if even symbolically in your family?

What does it feel like to learn at 7 years old that you have a sister and she is 12 years older than you?  How do you process that? 

What sort of explanations does your little mind find to justify why your sister does not live with you, does not want to meet you and does not respond to the cartoon pictures you mail her? 

How do you reconcile the fact that your sister, for some reason, regularly makes your mommy cry and be sad?

How do you develop as a young man, an older man, knowing your mother was impregnated before your birth and presumably left by the man who helped concieve that child? How does that impact your view of your own gender?

How do you view your grandparents and those that should have helped mommy in her time of need? How do you feel when your fathers mothers says negative things about mommy due to sisters existence?

When all this and more is swirling inside him, does he let it out some how? Does he talk to friends about it? Surely, he struggles to talk to mommy about it. Even though she welcomes it and is open about it, it makes her cry. He doesn’t want to make mommy cry so it is best to keep it to himself.

He cannot talk to Daddy about it. Sister came from some other Daddy. Daddy doesn’t like Sisters Daddy. Mommy loved him before she loved Daddy.  Daddy gets all funny and angry when Mommy talks about Sisters father.  Sister is a bad topic with Daddy too.

He cannot talk to little brother about it. He doesn’t even understand yet what it means to have a sister. He hasn’t really grasped it either. He understands even less. Silly questions like “I have a sister?” prove that. Even though Mommy has pictures up of sister in the house, little bro doesn’t quite understand yet.

So what does he do?

---

My ex husband and I recently began attending family therapy. The motivation behind it was to provide support to our ten year old son who is struggling with processing our recent divorce AND the existence/lack of presence/lack of contact with his sister lost to adoption.

Some would suggest that I have no proof that he is struggling with this.  To that I would produce reams of school work and projects that have a common theme – his missing sister. To that, I would recite the litany of questions and comments that my son will express at any given moment. The comments are getting a bit harder and the words he is choosing a bit harsher and angrier. I am not foolish enough to believe there isn’t a reason behind that. I can choose to ignore it or I can, like I do much in my life, attack it head on. 

My son, my amber eyed son, is collateral damage to his sister’s adoption. If he were injured on a sidewalk in Tel Aviv, due to a nearby suicide bomber, someone would assist him and tend to his wounds.  His adoption related soul wounds due to the lack of his sister need to be tended to as much as the wounds caused by the divorce of his parents.

Unintended victim or not, my son has been injured by the fact that his sister was adopted out. His life path is dramatically different than it would have been had I not surrendered his sister. When prompted with that family tree project in school – how will he choose to respond? When others ask him if he has brothers and sisters how does he explain that he does have a sister but he doesn’t?

My son has emotional shrapnel to deal with that the average kid doesn’t.

I won’t deny that and I won’t deny that I am part of that – a huge part of that. But I can also be an enormous contributor to him being okay with it. (Whatever “okay” might be in his world). 

I can choose to do what my parents did and others did and look the other way at my son’s pain (as was done to me). I can make it easy on me and leave him to figure it out all on his own (also done to me).  Or I can take his hand, squeeze it tightly and walk into the fire with him. I can stand by him and tell him its okay to be hurt, to be confused, and just because mommy is crying and sad it doesn’t mean he should keep his feelings to himself.

His feelings are valid. They are real and he, like his sister, never asked for adoption to be part of his life.

I cannot help her with the challenges it poses for her, but I can help him.

And so I shall.

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.