When Reality Hits Like a Ton of Bricks

Every night before bedtime, T and I let the kids watch a show.  Monday night, the kids selected Lion King.  We were sitting on the couch, the kids watching the movie, and me watching the kids.  I love to see the pure pleasure on their faces.  A movie they have now seen 50 times, still brings them joy every time.  I sat and stared at TT, her nuki half way hanging out of her mouth and she had a permanent grin on her face.  Then I looked at Nur, sitting erect, with his hands crossed in his lap, and so much hope on his face.  He must have felt my stare, because he turned to me, and with the biggest grin, said, "Hi Mama.  Nur watch Lion King!"  I smiled back, and when he turned to watch the movie, I just lost it. 

The tears started pouring down my cheeks.  I'm sure all adoptive parents have similar moments.  Those moments where you second guess how you're doing raising a child who isn't genetically linked to you.  Moments where you think of your child's birthparents, and what they are doing at that exact moment.  Wondering how often they think of the son you share with them.  Wondering if they think you are doing a good enough job bringing him up. 

The enormity of adoption sometimes smacks me in the face, when I least expect it to.  Most days I live my life like any other mama to two young children.  I try to keep my kids safe, happy, fed, well rested, entertained, and mostly, LOVED.  My family doesn't look odd or unique to me. . . it's my family, and it's all I've ever known since becoming a mama.  Nur is my 2 and a half year old son.  TT is my 2 year old daughter.  I know them both better than anyone knows them.  My love runs deep.

But then there are days when the emotion of the past 2 years catch up with me.  I panic.  I think about going half way across the world to bring my son home.  I think about that 3 month old TT who was left without her mama for 8 days.  I think of Nur, who must have been so scared.  His circumstances devastating, moving from one orphanage to another, before meeting me and being brought on a plane to a foreign place, with odd looking people, who spoke a different language.  I panic that I'm not doing enough for him.  I panic that I'm not being enough for him.  I'm scared that before my very eyes, he is losing his culture completely.  I panic that the African Americans in my community will never accept Nur.  I see how they look at him, and then at me, and try to process it all.  I thank God that he is still too young to put certain pieces together.  Perhaps that will afford me some time to put some pieces together first, so I can better articulate these pieces to him.

A few days ago, I brought my kids over to my sister's house to play with her kids.  We were all playing outside, when an 8 year old African American girl rode her bike up to us, got off her bike, pointed at Nur, and said, "Whose black baby is that?"  My sister and I fumbled with our response to this inquisitive girl.  I explained to her that I am his mama.  "Well, where does he live?"  I explained that he lives with me, just like she lives with her mama.  She didn't get it.  "Well your husband must be black?"  I explained that no, he wasn't.  That Nur is from a country in Africa.  Ethiopia.  Adopted.  For life. "Well where are his parents?"  I explained that I'm his mama, and that Nur's baba was still at work.  She got in Nur's face and wanted him to hug and kiss her.  She couldn't understand his rejection. . . afterall, they are the same race.  I pray that someday I'll have the ease of explanation.  Because right now. . . I don't explain it well at all, not to an 8 year old, and not to grown adults. 

Adoption will be part of my family's story for the rest of all of our lives.  I'm not sure the enormity of it will ever go away.