a lot of ramblin’

I was thinking about adoption this morning . . . well, our adoption specifically. That’s not very unusual. After all, adoption is a huge part of our lives, so like anything else that’s a huge part of our lives, it flows in and out of my thoughts.

It’s an interesting thing, this belief that people have that Energy Boy was “meant for” us or that God lead us to each other. In some ways, I bought into that in the past, but if I look at it totally intellectually, I know that’s not really true. A twist of fate, perhaps, but nothing more. He was next, we were next. He could fit into any of a dozen of families . . . . and yet he became our son.

If I’m going to be totally honest, part of the reason that we chose international adoption was that I thought it might be “easier” to be a step removed from being chosen by a first mother. I felt uneasy not only “selling” myself to first moms (don’t be haters; I’m being brutally honest here), but also . . . I don’t know. I wonder if I knew that taking a baby from his mother would be gut-wrenching for me. I almost wasn’t able to take him from his foster mothers. The memories came to me this morning for some reason, unbidden, me, at the orphanage, crying to Absent Minded Professor, taking him aside and saying

I don’t know if I can do this.

I was torn because EB’s caregiver’s were crying so hard and obviously loved him so much. AMP’s face looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights; he didn’t know what to do.

But this is all in hindsight, and a person who wants a baby as much as I wanted a baby . . .

it’s not like I would have done anything (I shudder at some of the anythings that some women/couples have done), but I would have done a lot.

Like I said, this is in hindsight, and this is brutal honesty.

I love EB with all of my being and I can’t imagine my life without him. Yet, somewhere, someone is living that life — having loved him with all of her being, she’s living without him.

That’s the tragedy of adoption. My gain, her loss. Our gain, his loss of his family of origin.

He loves us, I know that. He’s a happy kid. But I’d be lying if I said that he didn’t already experience loss. That I haven’t already seen his sadness.

Some people say that he’s so much like me, it’s almost like he is my biological child. I know they mean well . . . . but that feels like it negates who he really is. He’s not, he’s just not, and that’s OK. He’s his own person with his own past, his own history. We share some personality traits, but not all.

Adoption is so darn complicated. It’s not just helping out some poor girl in a crisis pregnancy and a couple (or single) who want a child. It gets so much more complicated than that and lasts throughout the lifetime. Don’t get me wrong; I can’t regret adopting EB. I love him too much. But I also can’t put blinders on to what adoption does to the first family and the adoptee. It hurts my heart . . . but not nearly how it hurts theirs, I know . . . but yet don’t know.

thankfulness?

I’m doing a short “thankfulness” series on my Facebook page, every day writing, “Today I am thankful for: ________” until Thanksgiving.

It made me wonder if there was anything I could say about Energy Boy’s first mother without being condescending . . . and I decided NO, there’s nothing I can say. I can’t be thankful that she gave him up, for that caused her great pain, I’m sure, and I know it’s caused (and will cause) him pain and loss too. I can’t be thankful that we “have him” because, OH. MY. WORD., that smacks of Ownership, and we don’t “own” children. I can’t even be thankful that God brought us together because that insinuates that his mom was merely a vessel for his dad and I, some pre-ordained breeder for another couple.

So, no, while I respect and honor her, I don’t know how to word any thankfulness to her unless I can just say that I’m thankful that she’s alive? *sigh* Then, sadly, very very sadly, I have to count on that fact and that just takes me to a place I’d rather not go, but, well, have to, if I say those words.

So I can’t say “thank you” to his mother. Even if we met, I don’t know what I’d say to her. I guess I’d say something like,

I’ve loved your son so very much. We honor you. We respect you, we miss your presence but feel it all the time in T— (EB)

and of course I hope EB would have his own words for her and I’d step out of the way for that.

Sooo . . . thankfulness? No. I’m thankful that he is who he is. I’m thankful that he’s healthy (now that he’s over the flu!) and happy and funny and smart and energetic and fun and so many things. I’m thankful that he has his own strengths: math; science; a love of putting things together, of monster trucks, of camping and fishing and doing things outdoors.

But, I can’t quite be thankful to her. It’s not quite the right word. And I don’t know if I can find one word that is right.

I haven’t been writing . . . .

this month . . .

for part of it, I was still recovering from my breast reconstruction surgery. I’m glad I had it, but man, did it kick my butt! I had more than one infection afterwards and taking care of those really knocked me out and set my recovery behind. I ended up taking five weeks off of work instead of the initially projected three.

I was back at work part of the time this past week, mostly because I was home for part of the time with an H1N1 sick child.

But I put in a few full days so I was able to see what “full-time” is going to be like, and I think I’ll be able to hande it. I hope so anyways.

I’ve felt quiet this month, unusually quiet. It’s a good thing I didn’t sign up for NaBloPoMo, huh? I also haven’t quite known what to say about National Adoption Awareness Month so I just chose not to say anything. It really belongs to those who are pushing for foster care and foster-to-adopt and I can’t speak to that personally . . . . so I just didn’t say anything. Previous years I’ve said some things and I suppose as those posts become unprotected, you can read them .

I haven’t put much time into unprotecting previously protected posts either. Part of me wonders if I’m being a complete egomaniac, thinking that anyone cares much about my story, and part of me wants to do it so that I remember. So right now I’m in kind of a standoff with myself, you might say. No guns are involved, though.

Sooo, that’s where I am. Pretty boring, huh? Boring, but fine. Alive. Healing. Looking towards the next step in the ol’ breast reconstruction saga because it’s not over . . . . but it won’t be like this last one, I do know that. The next surgery is a one-day, not-overnight deal and I believe the healing is supposed to be much easier than what I had with my recent 3-hour surgery healing. (yep, 3 hours, a huge scar on my back where they took muscle and tissue to help form a boob, and three drains.)

I’m here, all. Just in my quiet place. Come knocking if you get concerned — thanks OneWeirdOne, I appreciate it, I really do. It helps to know that people notice and care.

Until the next post . . . .

a favorite adoption photo

3/22/2002 — the day we adopted Nate. Hands

Originally uploaded by Mom2One

You might think that I’d pick the photo of the first time that I held Energy Boy — and that is one of my favorite photos. Or you might think I’d pick a favorite first picture of EB and his dad together, and there is one that’s especially sweet to me. But when I thought about what adoption really means, this photo came to mind.

It’s such a simple photo — you can’t even really see EB. This is March 22, 2002, the day that we traveled to Ha Tinh, Vietnam to adopt him. It was a hot day, and we spent the entire day at the orphanage. In this photo, he’s sleeping on his stomach. Unposed, I have my hand on his back on the left side, and his caregiver has her hand on his back on the right side.

This photo speaks volumes to me. Two hands, one that had been caring for him for four months and was sadly saying good-bye. One that had loved him, held him, indeed, mothered him . . . and cried on the day that he left, but also told us through an interpreter that she was glad that he was going to a family . . . . for, what she didn’t say was that there would be more babies coming to care for.

The other hand, attached to a person who had been waiting to mother this child, whose heart was full but was also anxious about everything that mothering this child meant. A Caucasian hand entering into an Asian country, not fully knowing everything that meant at the time. A hand of a person who meant well, but had so very much to learn about adoptive mothering . . . . but who thankfully had her heart and mind opened by this little one underneath her hand.

Love . . . from one hand to another. Mothering . . . passing from one hand to another. Trust . . . from one hand to another.

Open hearts, open hands. Adoption through two loving hands.

the white noise of our lives

Adoption is a part of our lives, always. You really only have to look at our family to see that — Caucasian mom and dad, Asian son. Even with those physical differences, I’ve had people over the years ask me if we were going to tell Energy Boy if he was adopted. “Yes, of course,” I’d say. For even if he looked very much like us, it’s a fact of his life that isn’t something that’s shameful and that he deserves to know. It’s part of what makes him him.

It’s a part of our lives, but it doesn’t take center stage all the time, as I think is appropriate.

ALL ADOPTION, ALL THE TIME

would be wearing on any family, I would think. Let’s talk about adoption . . . again. Let’s draw about adoption . . . . again. Let’s go someplace and somehow link it to adoption . . . even if that’s a stretch.

See what I mean?

For our family, I think of it as white noise. It’s there, always in the background, but only coming to the foreground at certain times. Especially since I got my cancer diagnosis and have gone through various treatments and now am going through breast reconstruction surgery, cancer is what (unfortunately) becomes front and center again. Even though this is what we hope is towards the end of the cancer business in our house, cancer is going to be another white noise of our lives, because being someone with metastatic cancer . . . well, it’s something that will always have to be watched, at any rate.

I so want to be like “normal” families, if there is such a thing. I want to take EB to basketball or other sports practices. I don’t want to be too tired from treatments or recovering from surgeries to do things with him. I hate that he even knows what breast cancer is, that he knows the word chemotherapy, that he’s being put through Mom being out of commission yet again so I can feel normal.

People tell me that he’s resilient . . . and he is. People tell me that it will make him more compassionate . . . and it very well might. But it’s also making him grow up some before his time . . . and while I couldn’t have predicted this and never wanted this, this is what life has thrown at us.

You would think the white noise of adoption would be enough for one child.