The Mamahood

The Truth About Adoption

In the wake of all the recent horror stories about adoption in the news, several adoption advocacy groups have asked bloggers to share their stories, their truths. Here is mine.

The truth is that we talk about adoption a lot, but still often forget that our children were adopted. Note the "were"—past tense. Adoption just happens to be how they joined our family (as marriage was the route for me)—now they're just family. No modifier required.

The truth is that when things go wrong in the adoption community, the naysayers take it as an opportunity to paint everyone associated with adoption in broad strokes of bad—damaged kids, self-absorbed and unloving parents. Yet  when biological parents abandon, abuse and kill their birth children—or the birth children grow up to become serial killers—we don't take that as an indictment of families.

The truth is that despite the innumerable hurdles and checks you have to go through to adopt a child, sometimes bad parents get through. (And I'm hoping I'm not counted in that number.)

The truth is that, in a perfect world, I wouldn't be a mom to these wonderful girls. And though it's like a knife through my heart to think of not ever knowing them, let alone getting to be their mother, sometimes I wish it was that perfect world for them. 

The truth is that I get very tired of the stares and the comments because of my family isn't a "matched set." I am glad that people at least seem to have the good sense, now that my girls are bigger, to not say anything too obnoxious in front of them.

The truth is that people we never met gave us the most amazing opportunity—to be able to love and parent these two wonderful girls. And I am indebted to them for every kiss and hug, for every smile and moment of joy.

The truth is that it doesn't matter how  you get to your family—all that matters is love. And we have that for each other—the bold, you-can-do-anything-and-we'll-still-love-you, rescue-you-from-a-burning-building kind of love. To all the people who think that blood is thicker than water, and birthfamily is stronger than adoptive family, I ask you if you love your husband or wife or life partner less than your kids—even though you didn't give birth to them, and you don't share genes with them. I rest my case.

The Long Wait

One of my friends finally saw her daughter's face last week, as China's slow-as-molasses adoption program finally hit the April 2006 dossiers. Referral days always seem like a miracle to me—I can still feel the tingle of nervousness and excitement I felt on the days when I first saw my amazing daughters.

For my oldest, I knew the referrals had already started arriving, and jumped every time the phone rang at work. Finally, I saw the number for my agency, and the tears started to flow. I wrote down every beautiful detail, and asked how soon we could come in to see her picture. A few hours later, my husband and I were at our agency, staring at three photos of the most gorgeous little baby in the world, who had adorable ears that stuck out like my grandfather's. We found out she was stubborn, loved TV and music and was a sound sleeper. (All true!)

For my youngest, we would still be waiting in the unending line of China adoption right now—log in date of April 11, 2007—if we hadn't told our agency that we'd be open to kids who had known medical needs. Out of the blue, in the middle of a conference call, my social worker e-mailed to see if we'd be interested in hearing about a child. My husband was home from work, so we insisted she call right away. She told us about our youngest, who has unilateral microtia/aural atresia (a small "nubbin" ear and no ear canal on her right side). We couldn't work it out to go see her pictures until the Monday following, so we spent the weekend excited beyond words, and researching the best and worst case scenarios of her special need like crazy.

On April Fools Day, we went into the office, and our social worker took us through the entire file before showing us the pictures—a somber-looking little girl with big, gorgeous eyes. And I knew right then that she was ours. The miracle of miracles there is that she is nothing like the quiet, shy girl I imagined she was from her file and her first few months home. She is a boisterous, vivacious and mischievous little girl. Definite class clown material.

I know what my friend is doing now—poring over every detail of those precious few photos, looking for anything she can read into her daughter's personality from a gesture in a picture or a few words in the file. She is falling in love with the face and memorizing the facts. And when she finally meets her daughter, it'll be all she dreamed of—and so much more.

Why We Adopted

It's happened many times—when friends share the news that they're expecting, they seem almost sheepish. As if I'd burst into tears at the memory of years of infertility and inability to produce a biological heir. But that is not the story that brought us to adoption—and for us, adoption was never a last resort.

I have a medical history that excites every new doctor I see—I have survived an illness that most people in the world don't. And since then, I have been at the mercy of a malfunctioning immune system, the kind that decides to go full-bore against things like grass and my kidneys, and somehow, fails to catch the stomach viruses and other illnesses my daughters bring home.

I have known for most of my life that pregnancy would be a long shot—and more than a little dangerous. So when I pictured motherhood, I imagined ballet classes, kissing boo-boos and homework help—but it never involved maternity clothes and a baby kicking from within (which always sort of creeped me out, in an Alien sort of way). And if I think about it, I don't know that I ever imagined a child with my eyes or my husband's smile.

When we decided to start a family, we figured we'd talk to my nephrologist, just to see what she thought. My wonderful doctor said she would get us through a pregnancy if we wanted to try, but the potential issues—significant kidney damage, bed rest, the constant talk of "we'll get you to 30 weeks"—made us wary.

We tried one last-ditch effort to correct my haywire immune system. But a few months on high-dose steroids brought me nothing but 40 extra pounds, acne and a little internal bleeding. So before the prednisone cleared my system, we were talking with our adoption agency. 

And six years later, I have exactly what I always dreamed of—two amazing girls who make our family  complete, two amazing people who I can help grow up and fulfill their own dreams. And that is why I adopted.

"I'm Not Shy"

I just realized I failed (completely!) to mention another big (HUGE) milestone we had—my youngest daughter started her first week of preschool. And did amazingly, thrillingly well there.

Note for newbie readers: This is nothing short of a miracle in my eyes. My youngest daughter came to us with some really, really severe separation anxiety (not exactly unexpected, given the fact that she'd spent 18 months cared for in an orphanage, likely cared for by different workers over the space of her time there). Her separation anxiety was so bad, in fact, that I ended up having to drag my laptop over to my daughter's day care and try to work there for several months, because she was so bad about letting me leave her. She wouldn't let other adults go near her, and cringed if they tried to touch her.

We've been trying to work with her on this—showing her that she can trust others, letting her take baby steps toward trusting other adults. And it has paid off, tenfold.

After months of begging to be able to go to school like her big sister, it was finally my youngest's day to shine. I carried her into the classroom, but it took less than a minute for her to slide down to play with the play dough, then check out the classroom's fish, then whip up a little something in the kitchen. I lingered for a few minutes, but my daughter never looked back. 

We used to feel like we had to tell any new person who came into her life, "Oh, she just has a hard time with new people" as my daughter tried to burrow into my body to cringe away from the new person. Now, my daughter proudly proclaims, "I'm not shy." And she's completely right.

Language Lessons

My oldest daughter started Chinese School this past Sunday. And so, I joined the ranks of several hundred other parents of Chinese children who brought their children, all polished and eager, to the local Buddhist Temple to start the year's worth of lessons in Mandarin, Chinese culture and dance.

Of course, the fact that I was one of the only Caucasian parents there made me stand out a bit. And I made it worse by misreading the notices the school sent home. They said that we should attend class with our daughter, since the bulk of the Mandarin we know we picked up from Ni Hao, Kai Lan, and they said that everyone attending classes needed to have the uniform. And so, I dutifully ordered shirts for my daughter and myself, picked them up at the school. Only after I donned the school's pristine white shirts did I discover that I was the only parent there wearing the gear.

My daughter's sweet teacher got a huge kick out of the fact that I was wearing the uniform (she felt it showed my commitment to my daughter's education), and even gave me a folder to carry home for my "homework." And since my daughter did as well, I may be forced to keep wearing it every week.

I don't really mind. My daughter and I both found so much to love in our first day of Chinese school—and we can't wait to go back for more.

They Don't Know What's Good For Them

My youngest daughter should be wearing a hearing aid, to help her overcome her unilateral hearing loss. But generally, she'll wear it for about a half hour at a time before she says, "All done," pulls it off and if we aren't fast enough, chucks it clear across the room. (Considering this is a $5,000, postage-stamp sized piece of equipment, we don't want it to get lost or stepped on.)

The problem is, she first got her BAHA at the age of 2, when most kids (who don't spend their newborn years in an orphanage) are given them near birth, so they're used to wearing them and accustomed to the feel of the headband around their head. My 2-year-old wants to be stubborn and seems to itch and scratch at it.

We've tried offering incentives (bribing with candy) to get her to wear it longer, but no matter what, it seems like after a half-hour, she's reached her max.

Anyone have any ideas (that don't involve superglue)?

Why I Hate the Orphan Movie

That evil little preview seems to show up every time I turn on the TV, in the middle of the Tour de France coverage, or right after a cute little lifestyle segment on the Today Show. I have to switch the channel quickly, so my two impressionable daughters, who spent the first year of their lives in the care of orphanages, don’t start to wonder what’s supposed to be wrong with kids from orphanages.

I guess I should be happy that adoption groups have raised enough stink about the film that they removed the original tagline, “It must be hard to love an adopted child as much as your own,” from the preview. But I’m not. As an adoptive mom first, and as a horror movie fan second, I’m tired of the old “adopted kids are evil” trope that’s been beaten to death in movies like The Omen, The Ring and numerous lesser flicks. Can’t evil spring from your own body, after all, a la Rosemary’s Baby?

Because I’m so angry that this movie even exists, I have discovered Esther’s (truly bizarre) secret, and I’m sharing it with you all, so you don’t have to lay your good money down on this waste of celluloid. Here it is: Esther is actually a 30-something “proportional dwarf, who looks like a small child. She has been a prostitute servicing wealthy pedophiles and arranges the adoption to take revenge on someone. Yeah.

Happy Familiversary

Four years ago today, I became a mom in a crowded, chaotic room in a Chinese civil affairs office. Our oldest studied us for a minute before breaking out in heartwrenching sobs, like the children of the other six families who became parents within the same short span of moments.

And two years and eight days later, her little sister joined us—a silent room, and no tears from her or her orphanagemate, who was joined with the family we traveled with. And so, July is a very special month for us, as we celebrate the creation of our family, get together with the other families who traveled the same path with us, and reminisce about the origins of our family.

Today our girls got special dolls we'd bought for them in China, each dressed in the traditional clothing for their province. Tonight, we'll have a Chinese feast. And we'll watch videos and page through photos, and celebrate the amazing luck we had, that China was willing to share these two amazing girls with us.

"Real" Sisters

I knew it was only a matter of time before we got the question we'd been dreading. On the way out of the audiologist's office the other day, the office manager stopped me. "Your daughters are so cute," she said. "Are they adopted?"  (There'd have been no question if my husband had been with me. Neither of us are Asian—or as cute as our daughters.)

Then came the zinger: "Oh, are they real sisters?"

I answered truthfully: They are. It was love at first sight for these two, and my oldest is actually a much better big sister than I ever remember being (I recall feeding my sister and brother soap and dog biscuits, respectively). They spend hours playing with each other, hugging and just adoring each other. They have their squabbles over toys, but those are short-lived—it's mostly laughter and love between these two. They were simply meant to be sisters. "Yes, they're real sisters, and I'm their real mother."

But that answer wasn't enough....so she interrupted me and restated the question: "No, but are they real sisters? Like are they natal sisters?"

And so I felt angry and uncomfortable. Angry that someone would feel that this very personal question was their business after knowing my family for about 10 minutes. Angry that someone would feel it was okay to question the validity of my daughters' relationship, right in front of my daughters. (My oldest definitely understands the concept of "real" and not...and would equate "not real" with "imaginary.") And uncomfortable that the woman was blocking my exit like some sort of bridge troll, so I'd have to come up with an answer before I'd be allowed to pass.

"As far as we know, they are not biological sisters, if that is what you're asking," I said, trying hard to express my anger in my eyes, without my daughters noticing. Our girls come from two different parts of China, and they do look different—our oldest, tall and lanky with classic Han Chinese features; our youngest, delicate and petite, with more rounded eyes like the people from Southern China.

Our daughters already have so many questions to ponder in their lives: who their birthparents are, why they aren't still living with them in China, whether they do have birthsiblings in China (pretty likely), and how they ended up halfway around the world in our family. Do they really need to have the bonds they've made questioned? Do they really need to have our family bonds called into question regularly—as if their sisterly love is somehow lacking, because their genes aren't a match?

I'd like to think not, but apparently, that's not how the world views it.

A once-in-a-lifetime day

Four years ago today, I became a mother. At least, on paper. The adoption agency called me at work, and my heart skipped a beat (or 20). I started crying as the social worker told me that she had good news...and proceeded to give me the bare-bones info on our oldest daughter. When she was born, where she was found, her name, and where she'd been living. And that we could swing by the agency that night to get our first glimpse of her face. I spent the rest of my hours at work in a frenzy, hunting down my husband to give him the good news, calling friends and family, and finding out all that I could about our daughter's province and orphanage.

I was shaking as I walked up to our agency, and paced frantically in front of it, waiting for my husband. For the first time in our nearly two-year journey to adoption, we both admitted a secret fear that we'd been harboring—that somehow we wouldn't find our future bundle of joy beautiful.

That fear was laid to rest when the photographs were produced. She was breathtakingly beautiful, from her rosebud lips right to her ultraprominent ears. We barely heard a word as our social worker went over her details—her excellent health checkups, her penchant for TV watching, her ability to tear paper and love of books. We were both focused on those beautiful photos, on wondering how we'd been lucky enough to be matched with the most brilliant, beautiful and bright baby on the planet (we could tell all that from a 2 x 2 photograph).

Today, many other families are getting that same once-in-a-lifetime day, as agencies around the world received that same package of photographs, tiny pictures that these parents-to-be memorize over the coming weeks as they wait for the go-ahead to travel to China and meet their new children. I never get tired of reading the blog posts of future parents as they share these tiny details (loves to eat! a deep sleeper!) and those beautiful photos. I have first-hand experience with that nearly unattainable level of joy, and I can hear it in every word they post.

And some days, even though my husband and I agree that our family is finished (and China has decreed it so), I wish I could live it all over again.