I've been hesitant to write this post because this blog isn't about motherhood. It's not about adoption. It's not even about idiots, although perhaps it should be. Think of the possibilities! This post is about the intersection of the three, and I hope you'll forgive me for taking this moment to be a parent. A parent of an adopted child. A parent of an adopted child, born into a world of idiots (and wonderful people, too; but this isn't a story about them).
Any member of a biracial family has a story (or twenty) about some less-than-thoughtful question, posed by a complete stranger, as to how this particular grouping of people came to be a group. "Is she adopted?" is the question I get most often. I'm not sure why the lady behind me in the grocery store line cares, but sure, she's adopted. I'm proud of her heritage and I want her to be as well. So when people (inexplicably) whisper that question, I'm happy to smile and answer with the full volume of my voice. "She's Ethiopian." It's a way to answer the question, but re-situate her identity as a specific race, rather than a stack of paperwork and a pile of money.
Now you have to know, no nosy lady in the checkout line is willing to leave it at that. I've fielded all manner of strange inquiries, and politely listened to more stories of adoptions than I really care to hear. Mostly because people are, for whatever reason, inclined to tell you the worst of what they know. There are, sadly, more than enough failed adoption stories to fuel a whole boatload of ladies in lines, just looking for a captive audience.
If being stuck between the candy bars and the People Magazines, fumbling for my debit card underneath the diapers and DumDums, isn't bad enough, enter McDonald's Playplace--a specific kind of hell for non-traditional families. At least the kind who aren't trying to talk to complete strangers about their reproductive organs.
Factoring inflation into the old saying, if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me if I wasn't able to have "my own" kids, I'd could afford to adopt again tomorrow. That's a lot of people I don't know inquiring about the state of my womb--all in the first 30 seconds after making eye contact. I'm not sure because my journey has been different, but I'm willing to bet there are a lot of parents out there who struggled with infertility, and aren't particularly keen to discuss it with someone whose only shared interest is a crummy cheeseburger.
Infertility questions don't hurt me, but they're rude. Really rude. The implication that my child is a product of other failed ambitions bugs me. First, because it doesn't happen to be true. But more importantly, because NO adopted child is a product of anything but a labor of intense love. To adopt isn't to settle--it's to make a choice. A choice to redefine family as a matter of the heart, not one of genetics. Anyone who makes that choice, regardless of the journey that brings them to it, is a person who understands family and love at a very deep level.
Blah, blah, soapbox blah. Ok, I get it. Back to the Playplace.
It's my birthday, and I'm spending an hour of it at the Playplace because, honestly, Ayana's in a loud phase. Loud kind of bugs me at home, it really bugs me in stores and restaurants, but at the Playplace? Loud belongs. I pretty much take her there (on rainy days) so she can holler with a pack of wild littles and we can both enjoy it.
At least that's the plan. And it would have happened too, if not for the mother of a seven year old boy who took a shine to my Moosh and shared his happy meal toy with her. That was all the encouragement she needed. She, being of McDonald's size, waddled my way. And with literally NO introduction whatsoever, she asked, "Is that your real child?"
What I should have said was, "I mean, if you can see her too, I suppose she isn't imaginary." Or maybe just the simple but direct, "F off," would have been appropriate in this particular instance. In truth, there are at least 3 dozen clever and appropriate responses that would have sufficed.
But at that moment, I was flabbergasted. Speechless. My real child? "Um, yes?" was the only thing I could muster. Of course, she took the opening and blathered on and on for the better part of 15 minutes. I have no idea what she said during that time, because all I could hear was the phrase "real child." Like a broken record, it played again and again, to the point that when Ayana ran by on her way to somewhere, I pulled her in my arms and just left--the McDonald's sized idiot still talking away.
My real child. My real child. My real child.
This morning, she's making some very real noise with her barbies. She made a very real mess with her cheerios, and I gave her a very real ride around the couch 27 times--the only fake thing being my attempt at being a happy horsey.
I am her real mother and she is my real daughter. I have the documentation to prove it, but I wish people would stop asking for it. Who but a mother takes her child to the Playplace on her 28th birthday? Who but a child begs her mother for one more ride around the couch? Who but a family stands in line at the checkout together, smiling at strangers even though we know it invites their comments, their questions? Who but a family is proud to be a unit, even when people challenge their validity at every turn?
And to all who wonder but have never been a big enough idiot to ask, adopted children are NOT unicorns. They are as real as our love for them.
Any member of a biracial family has a story (or twenty) about some less-than-thoughtful question, posed by a complete stranger, as to how this particular grouping of people came to be a group. "Is she adopted?" is the question I get most often. I'm not sure why the lady behind me in the grocery store line cares, but sure, she's adopted. I'm proud of her heritage and I want her to be as well. So when people (inexplicably) whisper that question, I'm happy to smile and answer with the full volume of my voice. "She's Ethiopian." It's a way to answer the question, but re-situate her identity as a specific race, rather than a stack of paperwork and a pile of money.
Now you have to know, no nosy lady in the checkout line is willing to leave it at that. I've fielded all manner of strange inquiries, and politely listened to more stories of adoptions than I really care to hear. Mostly because people are, for whatever reason, inclined to tell you the worst of what they know. There are, sadly, more than enough failed adoption stories to fuel a whole boatload of ladies in lines, just looking for a captive audience.
If being stuck between the candy bars and the People Magazines, fumbling for my debit card underneath the diapers and DumDums, isn't bad enough, enter McDonald's Playplace--a specific kind of hell for non-traditional families. At least the kind who aren't trying to talk to complete strangers about their reproductive organs.
Factoring inflation into the old saying, if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me if I wasn't able to have "my own" kids, I'd could afford to adopt again tomorrow. That's a lot of people I don't know inquiring about the state of my womb--all in the first 30 seconds after making eye contact. I'm not sure because my journey has been different, but I'm willing to bet there are a lot of parents out there who struggled with infertility, and aren't particularly keen to discuss it with someone whose only shared interest is a crummy cheeseburger.
Infertility questions don't hurt me, but they're rude. Really rude. The implication that my child is a product of other failed ambitions bugs me. First, because it doesn't happen to be true. But more importantly, because NO adopted child is a product of anything but a labor of intense love. To adopt isn't to settle--it's to make a choice. A choice to redefine family as a matter of the heart, not one of genetics. Anyone who makes that choice, regardless of the journey that brings them to it, is a person who understands family and love at a very deep level.
Blah, blah, soapbox blah. Ok, I get it. Back to the Playplace.
It's my birthday, and I'm spending an hour of it at the Playplace because, honestly, Ayana's in a loud phase. Loud kind of bugs me at home, it really bugs me in stores and restaurants, but at the Playplace? Loud belongs. I pretty much take her there (on rainy days) so she can holler with a pack of wild littles and we can both enjoy it.
At least that's the plan. And it would have happened too, if not for the mother of a seven year old boy who took a shine to my Moosh and shared his happy meal toy with her. That was all the encouragement she needed. She, being of McDonald's size, waddled my way. And with literally NO introduction whatsoever, she asked, "Is that your real child?"
What I should have said was, "I mean, if you can see her too, I suppose she isn't imaginary." Or maybe just the simple but direct, "F off," would have been appropriate in this particular instance. In truth, there are at least 3 dozen clever and appropriate responses that would have sufficed.
But at that moment, I was flabbergasted. Speechless. My real child? "Um, yes?" was the only thing I could muster. Of course, she took the opening and blathered on and on for the better part of 15 minutes. I have no idea what she said during that time, because all I could hear was the phrase "real child." Like a broken record, it played again and again, to the point that when Ayana ran by on her way to somewhere, I pulled her in my arms and just left--the McDonald's sized idiot still talking away.
My real child. My real child. My real child.
This morning, she's making some very real noise with her barbies. She made a very real mess with her cheerios, and I gave her a very real ride around the couch 27 times--the only fake thing being my attempt at being a happy horsey.
I am her real mother and she is my real daughter. I have the documentation to prove it, but I wish people would stop asking for it. Who but a mother takes her child to the Playplace on her 28th birthday? Who but a child begs her mother for one more ride around the couch? Who but a family stands in line at the checkout together, smiling at strangers even though we know it invites their comments, their questions? Who but a family is proud to be a unit, even when people challenge their validity at every turn?
And to all who wonder but have never been a big enough idiot to ask, adopted children are NOT unicorns. They are as real as our love for them.
Love, love, love this post, Kimberly!!!! You have nailed so many issues! Kimberly was 'speechless'? .... that proves how ignorant that woman was...!!! Love you so much!!!
ReplyDeleteAunt Melanie (BTW...when are you flying EAST?)