Is Them Your Kids?

Is them your kids?

Standing in the checkout line at the grocery store.  Ordering burgers at a fast-food restaurant.  At the park.  At the museum.  The gas station.  My own front yard.  You name the place and I can probably think of a time that I was asked this question.  Of course, it’s not always this exact question.  There are plenty of variations.  Are you babysitting?  Do you run a children’s home?  Are they (shifting eyes and whispering)… adopted?

The whisperers.  Yes, the whisperers.  They entertain me.  While some would say that I should be grateful for their attempts at sensitivity and discretion, I prefer to have fun at their expense.

Thank you so much for mouthing the word ‘adoption’ because despite the fact that you are a total stranger and it only took you a nanosecond to see the difference, our kids are complete morons and have yet to realize that we are not all the same color.  Thanks for helping us keep it our little secret. Wink.  

Okay, I haven’t actually said this to anyone (because I am much nicer on the outside of my mouth than I am on the inside of my brain) but I have thought it.  Oh, how many times I have thought it!

Our culture puts a lot of emphasis on personal space and privacy.  “Never ask a lady her age” and “Don’t ask when a woman is due unless you are positive she’s pregnant” are bits of wisdom that have been around for decades.  Maybe centuries.  And though social networking has certainly challenged the notion of personal space and what does or doesn't qualify as "TMI" there are still some lines that aren't crossed and some boundaries which are respected, especially face to face.

We would never approach an all white, all black, all Asian, etc. family and say, er, whisper:

“It looks to me like your oldest child was born out of wed-lock, the next two are from a failed marriage, and the baby your holding is your current husband’s but the marriage is struggling because nobody likes their new step-father.  Am I right?”

We would not do this because A) it's completely inappropriate and B) aside from the clairvoyant, the prophetic, and the just plain freakish no one could tell all of that at a single glance. 

Ah, but this interracial adoption thing is a whole different story.

The very visible nature of our family’s design means those boundary lines are drawn with invisible ink.  I don't mean to complain.  Rant, vent, grumble?  Maybe a little.  But outright complain?  Nope.  We had a choice.  We made it.  We accept it for what it is but...we still shake our heads in wonder. 

Ultimately, people’s perception will be what it will be and I don’t always have the time (or energy) to correct misconceptions.  There will always be the young black woman who looks at me with scorn because I’m clearly just another white chic with “jungle fever”.  There will always be the proper southern white woman who looks at me with shameful glares because she assumes that I’ve been intimate with (in her archaic vernacular) a “culluhed” man.  There will always be those who think we have ruined these kids because in our whiteness, we can't possibly keep them connected to black culture, as well as those who think we have saved these kids who, without the presence of our whiteness, would surely grow up to be gangsters and drug dealers.

And that's just what we deal with as parents.  Can you imagine what my kids have to put up with?  It can be brutal but we try to instill in our kids a strong sense of self and a strong sense of humor.  It's really the only way to navigate this beautiful mess we call a family.  Maybe even life in general.

One of my all time favorite misconceptions came after our crew joined one of my dear friends for her family's annual reunion.  We’d spent the day getting to know people and enjoying some amazing food.  Everyone welcomed us and made us feel right at home.  It wasn’t until we left that one of the elderly aunts finally unloaded what was on her mind to my friend.

“Why do you think that poor man stays with her if she keeps having all those black babies?”

 Ha!  Yep.  It seems that in the world of interracial adoption a girl can fluctuate between sainthood and whoredom in the blink of an eye.  Poor, poor Tim. =)

Throw in a generous helping of people who ask about our kids with sincere curiosity and who appreciate adoption for what it is (no more and no less) and maybe you can see how this adoption life requires an extra helping of patience.

Are you babysitting?  Nope.  Parenting.

Do you run a daycare?  Yep.  24/7 without pay.

Is this a home for troubled kids?  Well, that depends on the day.

Is them your kids?  Why, yes.  Yes they are!

 

 

I Might Not Be Snow White

...but I am often surrounded by small, bossy people and I do occasionally talk to animals.

Last week, for example. 

It was Saturday morning and I was at the grocery store.  Not where I wanted to be but life, budget, blah.  So, there I was.  Our usual Saturday morning is having a big family breakfast with bacon, eggs, grits, pancakes...the works!  I was snatching up the last few items when Tim texted to let me know everything was ready and they would be starting without me. 

At the moment, it was no big deal.  I let him know I'd be there soon enough but whatev -it's all good.  Weird thing is, somewhere between that text and getting the groceries loaded into the van, it was not all good.  It was very bad.  I can blame it on some crazy hormone shift or too little sleep but regardless of the source, I was suddenly a flood of "big feelings" and a puddle of tears.

As I was driving home, it occurred to me that the children, who were enjoying their timely breakfast, would be disgruntled at having said breakfast interrupted in order to unload the van full of groceries and thusly the supply of their next breakfast, which made me less tearful and more ticked.  And though I admit that visualizing cartons of milk exploding against the backs of their selfish heads and butter grenades being launched with absolute precision made me feel better, I figured it was best to give Tim fair warning.

I pulled over into a nearby church parking lot to text Tim (because I do NOT text and drive -PSA at no charge).  The message read something to the effect of "if anyone complains, it will not go well for them."  Just as I hit send, I had the strangest feeling someone was watching me.  Like, at close range.  I lifted my head slowly and looked over my right shoulder.

Perched on the side view mirror of my van was a blue bird.  His head was cocked to one side and he made direct eye contact (as direct as any bird has ever made with me) and wore a quizzical expression.  I heard him in my head say, "Really?  That bad?"  I chuckled out loud which of course, startled him to a nearby branch.  I sat there for an extra minute, exchanging glances with my new friend and thought, "Nope.  It's really not that bad."

It all reminded me of the scene from "Ever After" in which Leonardo Da Vinci unrolls the painting of the Mona Lisa and Prince Henry says, "She laughs at me, sir, as if she knows something I do not." 

The blue bird was laughing at me as if he knew something I did not. 

I know it's much more likely he was thinking "hey, can I snag some cheese off that pizza in the front seat?" but I'll take a friendly and mildly delusional reminder that things aren't so bad after all over a yard full of grocery carnage. 

And lest you think this encounter was just a fluke and doubt my fairytale princess-like gift of animal interaction, there was another encounter just a few days later.  This one involved two red finches perched on the electrical wire over the sidewalk I was traversing.  I said to them, "Please don't shit on me." and they didn't. 

Gift.  There's no other explanation.  ;-)