Battles against terminal illness, anxiety, and life!

Adoption

A recent comment:

“Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much! I have been reading some pretty rotten stuff in the last few days. A lady putting her son back on a plane, a one-way ticket back to orphan life, because she deemed him “too damaged” to keep. Adult adoptees who wish adoption was illegal, and really who can blame them after reading about the abuse they suffered at the hands of people who were supposed to be caring for them…
The love for your beautiful son is so evident. It is so refreshing to find someone who isn’t turning their back, but embracing their child and doing everything possible to help him. You get it. Someone else actually does get it! I don’t know anything about your religious background, but I thank God for sending me to your blog tonight, and your family is in my prayers!”

This is just one more reason why I firmly believe that adoption is not for everybody.  You must know in your heart, mind, and soul that you are willing and able to love the child that is to become the embodiment of your very heart walking around outside of your body with every fiber of your being.  My husband and I knew that it did not matter how our family came to be, it was becoming parents that meant the most to us.  We had no visions of what our child would look like.  Oddly enough, all we knew of our son before picking him up was his age, that he was biracial, and that he was male.  He’s was pure perfection when we laid eyes on him.  We fell more in love with him with each passing moment.  Besides, children don’t come with instructions or return policies.

We adopted domestically through social services, and during that process we had filled out several forms of what we thought we could or could not handle.  I looked at the sheet the other day, and I literally laughed out loud.  Never in a million years would we have ever thought we could handle this situation.  Yet, here we are.  The thing is, we wouldn’t trade Braden in for anything.  There is nothing you can offer me, that would make me want any other children than the ones we have.  We fought hard to have them, and we would do anything to make them healthy, safe, and happy.

We encountered a few, “How does it feel to have one of your own?” type comments upon our daughter’s arrival.  It nearly made me spit fire the first time, but I’ve learned that anger won’t get me far.  Instead, I approach it with a you have six heads look and a matter of fact statement that our son is our own.  Adoption is a very tricky subject, and it’s often portrayed all kinds of wrong in the media.  Between tasteless adoption unfriendly plots to horribly inaccurate language.  So, I will state now, for the record, that Braden owns a part of my heart.  He is just as much my son as any child I could deliver.  We in this house do not believe that blood ties you together.  It is your willingness to love, forgive, and protect each other that counts.  I am always hesitant to point out that our daughter is the product of donor eggs, because whether or not she is genetically linked to me or my husband has no bearing on the amount of love we have for our son.  We love our children equally.

If you scour the internet you can find many many adoptive parents who love their child beyond measure.  They have immense respect for their child’s biological family, are just as appalled at poor adoption practices as adoptees or biological families, and who hate what has happened to the Russian child not just for his sake but for the countless parents waiting to bring their child home from Russia.

So, while I thank you for your comment, it’s really me who is lucky.  We forget that he’s adopted, because it’s something that happened in the past.  He was adopted, and he is our son.

I’m lucky to have a little boy who gets to drive me crazy by simply being a two-year old every day.  I get to watch him sniff his own feet and tell me how much they smell.  What a typical boy!  I get to watch him grow, smile, laugh, and throw temper tantrums.  One more day.  That’s all I ask for every day.  Just one more day, please.

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