For the first few years of this blog (back in the MizFit days when the tagline was …at the CORE we’re all the same.) I never mentioned my daughter’s adoption.
A smattering of readers had come here with me via my previous Guatemama blog.
More than few readers (Id imagine? no one ever said anything) noticed our personalities matched a bit more than our outsides.
I never mentioned her adoption because she was so very little.
I never wrote about her adoption because it’s her story to tell.
to my dismay, she grew older.
Even though she’s always known she was adopted (pictures of our time together in Guatemala are hung around the house) it was as she grew older she began to fully grasp the reality of how we became a family.
She would ask to hear the story about how I moved to Guatemala to be with her.
She’d gasp appropriately (and, as the years went on, more habitually than anything else) at how I moved to Central America for a few weeks to return to Texas months later as we hit snag after paperwork-snag.
She’d grow contemplative as I’d detail how her dad would fly down and visit bringing her gifts (and beef jerky for me).
Finally she reached the age where she was old enough to grant me permission to share.
We’ve chatted before about the challenge of deciding if we should blog about our kids.
Now that she’s older for me it is all about getting her permission.
(which, given how much I share, begs the question: What does she say NO to? The answer is A LOT.)
personal but not PRIVATE.
As she’s gotten older her adoption story has grown more complicated.
Her questions, as expected, have shifted from Tell me how we met! to the more challenging Why would my mom give me away?
I knew these were coming yet, each time she initiates the conversations (invariably moments before sleep), I feel powerless to offer any real answers.
Our conversations, which she’s not granted me permission to share, are filled with guesses and hypotheses. I can offer her no real certainties other than the fact we chose adoption.
We chose to add her to our family this way.
(This has been a confusing conversation for her. Surprisingly in 2015 the more “make sense to child” answer is Yes Mama couldn’t grow a baby in her belly so we adopted you. A younger her took a long time to grasp we chose this path.)
The other night as we lay in bed she turned to me, pointed out a faint birthmark on her arm and asked:
Mama, does this say anything?
At first I didn’t understand what she meant.
I mean is there a message here? I think it’s a message from my birth-mom.
What followed next was a short conversation about what the message might say (Gotta love 9. She was on to the next thing within moments whereas I was left pondering the very concept of birthmark messaging).
This interaction (which Ive been granted permission to share) has weighed on my mind ever since.
I know I think of her birth-mom daily.
I assumed she thought about her frequently as well and now know for sure.
I wont tell you a tale about how I believe she & I were meant to be together.
About how she and I are so flipping alike I believe it was divine plan for her to be mine.
I’m all too aware there’s a thread of sadness to the fabric of her story we are only now beginning to unravel.
Instead, I leave you with this.
A lyric snippet from both of our favorite musical, Wicked.
A snippet which, for me, captures the complicated concept of adoption in a simple–yet still complex–way.