#AdoptionIsLove & All the Other Things

“Did my birthmom give me up because my head is shaped like an oval?”

My son Harper was only six years old when he asked me that. I was shocked for so many reasons. First of all, because his head is perfect. Second, and more importantly, he was using language we hadn’t ever used. We never once said that she “gave him up.” We always said that she “placed him in our family” or that she was “not able to parent him.” Our careful word choice was not enough to change how he felt and how he felt was rejected, declined, discarded…

given up.

Four years ago on this day, we finalized Jay’s adoption. It took 19 long months of tedious paperwork, home visits from our case worker and jumping through legal hoops before this day became a reality. When I look back at the photos from that day in court, there is so much beauty and joy captured there.

I remember the peace the kids felt when they knew that Jay’s place in our family was sealed and solidified. That his sonship was sure. There was a palpable sense of reassurance knowing that this little boy was ours forever. As our friends and family gathered with us in that courtroom, our hearts took a collective sigh of relief. We have an open adoption, and a great relationship with Jay’s first mama, so it was not as if there was some crazy custody battle. Quite to the contrary, The Lovely Miss N. - as we affectionately call her in the blog - was walking through this part of our journey with us. She too rejoiced when the adoption was finalized, because she also wanted Jay’s place in our home and family to be permanent and sure.

The fact that nobody was contesting either of our boys’ adoptions technically made things “easier” for us. Yet, as I continue to listen to and learn from the powerful voices of adult adoptees in my life and community, I can’t help but anticipate the dismay that my sons will likely experience as a result of knowing that nobody contested their adoptions. Nobody tried to stop it. Nobody fought us for them. The set of circumstances that created relatively obstacle-free finalizations are the same dismal circumstances that will cause our boys to process feelings of rejection and abandonment for the rest of their lives. Whether they were “lovingly placed” or “given up” almost doesn’t matter if their little souls question their worth and their place in the world.

I happen to know for sure, with 100% certainty that my sons were (are) both fiercely loved by their first moms. Because we have the luxury of an open-adoption with Jay’s birthparents, we have it on pretty good authority to say that they are absolutely wild about him. Due to situations that are not mine to disclose, my boys’ first moms made an impossible decision. Their choices were made out of anything but rejection or indifference. Still, we cannot possibly know how a child will interpret the actions or inactions of the adults in their lives.

And while we are entirely committed to facilitating healthy relationships between our boys and their birthfamilies, we know that there will be times of strain and hurt no matter how hard we try to prevent it. We know that there will come a time when they will confront the harsh awareness that they were “free to be adopted.” And knowing that their heartbreak is inevitable, I find these photos and memories equal parts joyful and disconcerting. The more I learn about the adoptee’s experience, the harder it is to celebrate these moments without also acknowledging the layered grief and loss involved in a day like this coming to fruition.

#AdoptionIsLove is a popular hashtag in the adoption community. And it is so true. From every side there is this imperfect, but unending love for a child. Adoption IS love. But a less popular truth is that adoption is also loss. It isn’t as trendy a hashtag and it isn’t as pleasant a view of adoption - but it is just as real, just as true.

Adoption is love. Adoption is loss. Adoption is wondering if there is something inherently wrong with you. It’s looking in the mirror, wondering who you look like, and thinking maybe your head is just too oval to be loved. Adoption is feeling given up, even when you were lovingly placed. As I tucked my boys in to bed tonight, I asked Harper if I could share this story from when he was a little boy with all of you. I said that I think it’s important to tell the truth about the good things and the sad things about adoption so that people can understand all of it a little better.

He gave me his permission. And then he added this,

“You can tell them that I said that when I was a little boy, but it’s okay to tell the things I worry about now. Like... I don’t think it’s because of my head anymore, but I still think it’s because of something. I just don’t know what it is yet. Maybe knowing that I still wonder will help people to understand the sad parts.”

I am thankful, beyond thankful, that I have the joy and responsibility of raising these two little crazies. I am thankful for the days that the states of New York and New Jersey said that they could be ours forever. I am thankful that I know - even when they don’t - that their first mothers would die for them in an instant. I am thankful and overjoyed, to be sure, I just don’t know if all the other feelings we have about adoption will ever quite fit into a hashtag.

Are Kids "Lucky" to be Adopted?

I have never been so thoroughly pursued by a man in all my life as I have been by my four year old son. I am telling you, this child proposes marriage - not daily - but hourly. And those are on his weaker days! Sometimes the professions of love and desperate proposals come incessantly. When he kisses me goodnight, it is with both of his sweet, almost-always-sticky brown hands pressed on each side of my face (a romantic proclamation of my beauty is usually involved at this point) and then he kisses me in a frenzy of uncontrolled emotion. With these bodacious lips.

It is the most adorable and unnecessary display of passion I've ever been the recipient of. And it happens all. day. long. Quite simply, the boy is in love. But, there is something peculiar about the urgency and intensity of his affections for me. It has taken me some time to put my finger on why exactly that is. He seems almost desperate in his expressions of love, to the point that he seems almost exasperated by it.

"I'm gonna marry you so much!" and "I'm just lovin' you, UGH I'm just lovin' you so MUCH." He picks flowers for me every time we step foot outside - one bunch of dandelions "for now" and the other handful "for our wedding tomorrow, or yesterday." I have never met a four year old boy so preoccupied with getting married. So, I decided to get to the bottom of his romantic shenanigans.

After several long discussions, I think I have come to a place of understanding. He is afraid.

Jay was about 24 hours old when I first met him in the hospital. His first mom, the lovely Miss N., and I had been in contact over the phone during the weeks leading up to his birth. Tom and I developed a fast connection with her, and because we had already had a previous adoption fall through, we knew that the child she was carrying may not end up being part of our family. And while common sense, previous experience, and all of our loved ones told us to be cautious, we loved her. We weren't thinking about "protecting ourselves" or "not getting too attached." Our relationship with her was developing not because we hoped to parent her child, but because she is adorable and not loving her would be impossible. We made a promise to her that we would be there to help and support her in any way she needed, regardless of the decision she ended up making. She invited us to come to the birth and seemed firm in her decision to place Jay with us when he was born. Still, we reminded her that giving birth is an unimaginable game-changer, and we wanted her to have plenty of room to feel free to change her mind if she felt at any point that she wanted to pursue parenting opposed to placing him with us. We tried to be supportive and encouraging throughout the emotion. To be completely honest, as much as we loved Jay from the first moment we laid eyes on him, we were pulling for her to parent. We really believed she could do it. 

For her own personal reasons - reasons that are hers to tell, not mine - she allowed us to be his parents. It was a gift, a great responsibility and an honor, of course. But it was also a tragedy. 

For a baby and his mother to be separated from one another is always an utter tragedy. The grief that Tom and I experienced on their behalf was minuscule in comparison to what they endured. This is true for both of our children who came to us through adoption. And while it looks so different for them both, every single day I see the primal wound that this separation has inflicted upon my babies. And their first mamas.

Since realizing this, Jay's romantic advances, while precious, have become just like every other aspect of adoption. There is a bitter-sweetness underlying every kiss, a complex fear of being apart from me that drives every impassioned sentiment, a child's desperate attempt to guarantee that he will never lose another mama drives every marriage proposal.

Both of my boys are perfect, but they are both hurting in their own way. They both long for the security that comes from a mother's love. People often downplay the pain that adoptees endure, assuming that a child who was adopted in infancy "never knows the difference." These same people will watch nature documentaries and marvel that a sea turtle can travel all over the ocean and make its way back to it's home. (I don't actually know if sea turtles do that, but you get my drift.) If an animal has a primal instinct to find it's way home, how much more does a human child have that same pull?

And I may not know much about sea turtles, but I do know this... my boys, in some sense, will always be longing for home. And people say that they are "lucky to have us." But, when my nine year old son wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest because he dreamed of meeting his beautiful birthmom for the very first time, lucky isn't how I'd describe him.

Whether they can understand all the nuances at this point or not, they will always know that in our home, they have the right to feel sad about their adoption. And they have the right to feel happy about it too, and angry, and confused, and relieved and all the things. Even... unlucky. 

My prayer is that as they grow and mature, and really begin to feel the weight and implications of their adoption stories, that they will forgive us for all the ways that we could not meet their needs, for every shortcoming and every imperfection. My prayer is that our flaws will only make them long for another home, and eternal home, where our perfect Father waits to hold them and love them and meet every need they ever had. 

Life in the Tension

Sometimes I like to imagine what my kids will remember me teaching them throughout their childhood. What will stick? Will they remember all the "I love you's?" Will the "you're so brave's" and "tell me about your day's" be the words that become fastened to their memory? Or will something else overshadow the sweet and encouraging sentiments? One thing I frequently tell them that they find less favorable (but I am certain they will remember me saying) is "that is not a real problem." Let's run this down so we are all clear on what a real problem is in our house.

Scenario 1: You are four years old and you have no food to eat. At all. Ever.

Correct, that's a real problem. 

Scenario 2: You are four years old and you do not like "beet taste." 

Not even close to a real problem. (Also, beets are delicious.)  

Scenario 3: You must spend a half a day walking to a source of (questionably) drinkable water. 

Yes, this. This is a real problem. 

Scenario 4: Your food touches.  

No. Having your hot, nutritious food touch other bits of hot, nutritious food? That is - comically - not a real problem. 

You can see how they might remember me saying this. Because it is said frequently. And trust me, we are a big 'feelings' house. We talk about our feelings, we validate each others feelings, we use lots of expressive feeling words. There is no shutting down how they might feel about beets. This is a safe space to feel strong dislike for "beet taste." While I strive to always hear and even affirm their feelings, I don't pretend for a second that this is a real problem. 

I was discussing this with my friend Megan the other day. (Some of you might remember her from previous #AdamsActs posts about the heartbreaking loss of one of their sweet little twin girls, Zoey.) Megan and I were discussing our very low threshold for problems-that-aren't-really-problems. I think that low threshold is directly correlated with experiencing great and tragic loss. It changes you. It changes your perspective on what suffering is. It changes your capacity to tolerate complaints about that which is not a real problem. 

When facing challenges of various kinds, the leaders at our church will often use this phrase, "This is a tension to manage, not a problem to solve." Ugh... I love this, and oh how I wish that this concept would go ahead and just embed itself in my memory already! There are some challenges in my life that I have viewed as problems I desperately need to solve. Or avoid. Or feel sorry for myself about. These "problems" are not really problems to solve, they are simple tensions to manage. 

Instead of graciously managing the tensions, I have tried to control the tensions. I have tried solving the tensions. I have attempted to escape or avoid or blame the tensions. Shoot, I'd punch the tensions in the face if I could. Yet, nothing changes... the tension remains.

I recently shifted my definition of a problem to something more like this: a problem is only a problem if there is an actionable step one can take to work toward a solution. If no actionable step can be taken, there can be a lot of tension. That tension needs to be managed in a healthy way.

Parenting a child with a pretty severe behavioral disorder can feel a heck of a lot like a life-consuming problem. Except for one thing... there is no actionable step that I can possibly take to work toward a solution.

I must live in the tension. 

I can pray in the tension. I can cry in the tension. I can seek wise counsel in the tension. I can adjust my attitude about the tension. But I cannot solve it. I must accept it. 

The focus then is not on how to "solve" my son's disorder, but on how I can remain emotionally, physically and spiritually healthy enough to manage the tension that surfaces in light of my son's disorder.   

You may be wondering, "Who cares? What's the difference?" But the difference is everything. It's the difference between overwhelming shame that I cannot heal my child, and accepting him where he's at in his process. It's the difference between feeling exhausted and infuriated by the sheer volume of time spent supervising every little move, and recognizing our family's need for respite in order to prevent that fury and exhaustion. 

The difference is the understanding that I cannot play the Holy Spirit in my child's life. In the tension, I can only manage my own reactions, my own health, my relationships. But in the tension, I can know that I did not cause my child to have Reactive Attachment Disorder any more than I can cause my child's aversion to the glorious taste of a perfectly roasted sugarbeet. 

I did not cause either of these phenomena, and I cannot "cure" them either. I can only manage myself in the tension. 

It's hard to suffer well. And the greatest suffering occurs when there is no actionable step to take, because we cannot solve our way out of our pain. We cannot bring back the child that died. Or the parent who left. We cannot heal the primal wound that is left within the child who is separated from his first mother. 

We must simply learn to live, and accept, and love, in the tension.

So, when my five little ones are all grown and they reflect back upon their childhood, I hope that what they remember most is all the expressions of love, encouragement and adoration. Yet, I don't mind if they also remember me clarifying the difference between a real problem - real suffering - and something that is simply a tension to manage. Not only do I hope they remember hearing me speak these truths into their life, but I hope they remember me living, and loving, in the tensions... and teaching them to someday do the same. 

Jay, age four, confronting his greatest fear, a beet.  

How I Met the President of the United States

When I told London, my six year old, that we would be meeting President Obama, she desperately begged us to bring her along. When I told her that would not be possible, she desperately asked that at the very least could I please, please, please cut off just a little bit of his hair and bring it back for her. If you think that is odd and creepy, just wait.

Because it gets worse.

When I inquired as to why on earth she would need some of the President of the United State's hair, she replied condescendingly, "ummm, so I can put it in a baggie to compare it to Donald Trump's when I get some of his." She said this with the full confidence of someone who has been diligently harvesting politicians' hair for comparison for years, and has no intention of letting me or anyone else prevent her from doing her life’s work.

I am not known to have the best filter, so I am not exaggerating when I admit that NOT telling President Obama this story was possibly the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Still, I didn't want to be escorted out of the United Nations because I was a perceived threat to Obama’s sideburns, so I kept that wonderfully strange 6 year old's request for presidential trimmings, all to myself.

Here's what did happen though.  

My friend, Melissa, works for the State Department in Manhattan and does really important and official government things. I could go into detail about her job, because I totally understand what she does for a living. I'm not being evasive because I don't understand, that would be ridiculous and super embarrassing. It's more that I'm afraid that others won't understand because of all the big words that I would have to use, and I don't want to exhaust my readers with my deep and impressive knowledge of the inner-workings of our government offices.

Okay fine, I have no idea what she actually does. I think maybe she's a spy?

But she's more than your run of the mill spy friend. She's also a super thoughtful, generous and wonderful friend... so she snagged tickets for my husband, Tom, and I to join her at a St.Lucia concert. The concert was Tuesday, but we were able to arrange for my mother-in-law and my friend Lexi (two other super thoughtful, generous and wonderful, non-spy, women in my life) to tag-team watching our five kids so we could visit with our favorite spy for a few days. Before we left, we had this text exchange:

--

Melissa: Hey I threw you on the guest list to meet Obama, so I need you guys to pack one professional outfit for your visit.

Tom: Ok, I'm already panicking.

Me: It's hilarious that you think I own professional wear.

This is how we found out that we were going to be meeting POTUS.

--

So Monday afternoon we were going to meet the president. Tom and I spent Monday morning very close to the epicenter of the bomb that went off on Saturday night, so navigating that part of the city was much slower and a bit more high-intensity than we have experienced during previous visits. There were heavily armed law enforcement all around the active crime scene, as well as throughout the city because Obama and all the other important people were in Manhattan for the UN General Assembly.

Tom and I had to sit in our car for an hour and a half waiting to move it in case the street sweeper came through, and we passed that time watching The Blacklist on my phone.

My friend Julie got us completely hooked on the show because she thinks my husband Tom looks like the character from the show, who is also named Tom. We have been binge-watching it on Julie’s recommendation ever since. So, there we are, sitting in our car watching this intense crime-thriller about an FBI profiler who is working with a notorious fugitive as covert operatives for a secret counter-terrorism unit. And we are basically in the middle of a live episode unfolding around us, complete with an active bombing site and snipers on the roof above us. The only thing missing was Agent Navabi kicking some terrorist tail.

Agent Navabi at your service.

By the time we were in the clear to leave our car parked on the street, we got ready to meet the President. We were both excited and a little nervous that I would mention London's strange request. I kept replaying my conversation with her, especially the ending when she panic-added one final plea, "Come on, I'll even take a little pit hair if you can get it!" (How does this child expect that I might happen upon a pit hair sample?) But I digress... the point is that we were already nervous that I would get arrested by secret service for saying/doing something foolish. On top of that, we were just generally amped up about meeting Obama. Then, our anxieties were heightened because there was a terrorist at large who was responsible for planting multiple bombs in the area. And finally, we were binge watching a TV show that depicted all of our worst nightmares coming true. Let's just say we were all on high alert.

Okay, maybe Melissa wasn't on high alert, but Tom and I were losing our heads. 

So, you can imagine my concern for Tom's growing paranoia as we are in a room in the US Mission to the UN, waiting to hear the President speak, when he is suddenly sure he sees Agent Navabi. Except he wasn't being paranoid at all. AGENT NAVABI WAS ACTUALLY THERE.

At this point I don't know what's TV and what's reality because as far as I can tell, I am about to hang out with Barack Obama and Agent Navabi. It was very disorienting. But I pulled it together and went to speak with the beautiful Mozhan Marnò (aka Agent Navabi), who is even more fabulous in person than she is on the show. I chatted with her for a few brief minutes - just to confirm that I was not having a hallucination - and the guy with her took a picture of us with my phone. It was blurry, so we chastised him playfully and realized that us two, tall, gangly women have arms that are basically like selfie sticks, and we took our own pictures. Ya know, how old friends (like Mozhan and I) do.

Shortly after this surreal moment, John Kerry and Samantha Power came in with THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, Barack Obama. I don’t care what anyone’s political views are, you have to admit that it’s pretty cool to be in the same room as the leader of the free world.

I definitely got caught up in the moment, because as Obama was thanking all the spies and other important government people like Melissa and Agent Navabi and their colleagues, I forgot that I was there as a guest just “thrown” on the list, willy nilly, at the last minute. I forgot that I don’t actually work for the government. In that moment, I believed President Obama when he thanked us all for a job well done and told us that our hard work mattered and was noticed and appreciated. When I came out of my fog, I realized he was probably talking to Melissa for, ya know, doing stuff like going to Sierra Leone on the Ebola Crisis Response Team. Twice. So when I came to and realized that he maybe wasn’t talking about all the laundry I do, I felt a little deflated. Still, when he said to give ourselves a round of applause, I let myself participate because it seemed unpatriotic not to feel just a little appreciated by the President. Besides, I do a butt-ton of laundry for this country.

After his little speech, he kissed babies and shook hands and then there, right in front of me, was my opportunity.

So I shoved my hand out to Obama and proceeded to tell him (a little too loudly) the only interesting anecdote about him that I had - that didn’t involve me procuring a sample of his pit fibers. I told him that my son, Harper, used to believe that President Obama and Whitney Houston were his birthparents.

I want to assure you that Harper has joyfully given me permission to share this story with you all because he finds it as amusing and adorable as we do. It’s actually quite common for children who were adopted to fantasize about who their birthparents might be. And for Harper, no fantasy was more impressive than being the love child of Whitney and Barack. Obama joked that Michelle might be irritated to discover this and that he and Harper could at least be buddies. He was a good sport, and basically made all of Harper’s dreams come true by initiating the start of their friendship.

I’d say that although our exchange was brief, conveying to the first black president in our nation’s history that my black son admires him to the point of wishing for his paternity, it was pretty memorable.

Maaaaybe not as memorable as if I had then snagged a hair sample for DNA testing… but, we can’t have it all.

Embed Block

Add an embed URL or code. Learn more