One of the comments on Friday’s post left me thinking about one of the paradoxical truths about adoption: that while it can be a beautiful thing, it is nonetheless a thing born out of grief and loss.

Just so you don’t have to flip back to the post, the comment was about how the boys looked happier in their more current pictures than they did in the pictures from the first day we met them.

It made me revisit the story of that day from their perspective.  And of course they look happier now!  There was nothing happy for them that day!  They lost a beloved foster mom, their familiar language, familiar-looking caregivers, familiar food, the bed they’d been sleeping in for eight months, the toys they’d played with, the clothes they’d worn.  Everything changed, all of a sudden.  They didn’t know us.  They’d been told we were coming and had pictures, but they were 2 1/2.  They didn’t understand what that meant.  That they would be handed off to us and never see Xiomara again.  That we’d take them far away on a plane.  They weren’t sure they’d like us or that we were safe.  They certainly didn’t love us.  And here we were, strangers, now changing their diapers and carrying them around, telling them it was time to eat or time to go to bed.  Most of the time speaking in a language they couldn’t understand.

All this on top of losing their birthmother, eight months prior.

I pulled out another picture of that day that really says it all:

I’m smiling.  This moment is the culmination of a year and a half’s worth of a process – eight months of which was spent waiting for these two little boys specifically.  I already love them, and I’m ready to have them.

But Xiomara’s trying not to cry (she broke down in the lobby when I walked out with her).  She really loved them while she fostered them for us, for which we are tremendously grateful. 

Jose’s uncertain but holding on to her, and Bear is indifferent, leaning away from me (because why would he lean in?).

It was Bear who noticed she’d left, Fred said.  He cried while I was still returning from the lobby.  A few hours later, he heard one of the housekeepers in the hallway and went running to the door, calling “Maya!”  (their attempt at her name).  But it wasn’t she, of course.  His big brown eyes stayed “blank” for the whole week as he tried to figure out whether he was going to accept this new Mamá and Papá to whom he’d been handed off.

José, meanwhile, had a complete meltdown about having to take his shoes off at bedtime every night that week – as if he couldn’t take one more thing being taken from him.  He sobbed “zapatos!”  over and over again till we rocked him to sleep.

That’s not to say they were unhappy the whole time.  We have great pictures of big smiles at the Guatemala City Zoo (Day #3 with them), and we did play and run with them all day every day.  And they did follow us around and cuddle up with us.  But it was cuddling up in hope that we were going to turn out to be ok.  NOT the same as now.

So yes, NOW we all look back on the day we met with joy and celebration.  Not only do we all love each other, but we also all really like each other.  But to say “Well, see, it all turned out for the best.”  Or to say  they “have opportunities for a better life here” and to dismiss the Cost… that would be horribly insensitive.  Because we asked for them, we knew what was happening all along, we wanted them.  They didn’t; it just happened to them.  And it was scary, and they will always have little spots in their hearts that miss their birthmom and Xiomara.  They’ll always be Latino men raised out-of-culture, whether they come to care about that or not in the future.

Are they happy and secure little guys?  My goodness, yes, especially considering everything they’ve been through in their short lives!  But does that mean the sad parts of how they came to be here have been erased?   No.

We still brush up against emotional “echoes” of that loss – insecurities, fears, or visceral reactions they have sometimes, when the present situation doesn’t warrant them.  And whenever we talk about traveling back to Guatemala, they always say they want to see Xiomara and their birthmom.  So even though they don’t have a lot of clear memories, they’re still attached to where they’re from and who they’re from.  And I’m fairly sure the four of us will be searching for their birthmom sometime down the road.  Sometime when we’re all ready to handle it if she doesn’t want to see them (we don’t know how she’ll feel).

For them: joy from grief, blessing from loss.  And for us, because we love them: a more mature joy.  The kind that realizes the price of what we have.  And compassion for the birthmom who’s out there and probably wonders if they’re ok.  I would if the story were switched.

So therein lies the paradox of adoption.  Beauty with a little twinge of sorrow thrown in.  Even in the best of cases.  Even years after the fact.  Is it worth it?  Definitely.  But it’s not the “happily ever after” it’s sometimes made out to be.  Much more complicated, but somehow more valuable for all that.

Were they to read that heading, BOTH of the twins would protest that they’re not babies.  But they can’t read much yet; nor are they allowed on the Internet by themselves for blog perusal or any other activity.  So “yea!” for me; I can get away with it this one last time.

Today is our kids’ 3^rd “Gotcha Day.”  For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s the third anniversary of when we “got” them, the day we first met our sons.

January 22, 2007.  Even when I’m old and senile, I’m pretty sure I will not forget that day.  Two little men came toddling into the lobby of our hotel in Guatemala City, clutching their foster mom’s hands with one hand and photos of us in their other.

Tiny two and a half year olds (the size of one year olds by U.S. growth chart standards).  Huge brown eyes, chubby cheeks, dark brown hair, bow-shaped lips.

And when they stopped in front of us, they looked down at their pictures, up at us… then up some more, since we’re so tall compared to what they were used to in Guatemala … and declared “Mamá.  Papá.”

And so our names were assigned to us by our own kids.

It’s the adoption equivalent to the just-after-birth moment.  Not everything sank in right away.  We felt like we were just the babysitters or something for the first week.  And they didn’t know what was going on.  No, it was a long while before “We + They” equaled “Normal.”

But that was the day that we became a united family.

So every year on January 22^nd, we look back and celebrate.  We let them pick how we celebrate, each time, so this year we’re going to Medieval Times, since they’re really into knights and battles… and eating. 

And every January, I pull out their “treasure boxes” which I filled with souvenirs from that trip, pictures, the outfits and shoes they were wearing, and the first toys we gave them that day.

Then we grab their scrapbooks and re-read their stories.

Amazingly, they can still fit into the outfits.  Yes, the pants are way too short and their tummies show, but the only ridiculously-tiny items are their old shoes.  Any year now I’m going to have to settle for the “hold them up in front of you and smile!” shot, but not yet.  Still, how quickly three years have passed.

On the other hand, though, it seems like they’ve been with us forever.

“Happy 3^rd Gotcha Day!” to two of the greatest loves of my life.  I’m so glad God gave us the privilege of being your parents.  You are more than we ever could have dreamed of in sons.

Los amo con todo mi corazón,

- Mamá

Stopped off to grab a gallon of milk on the way home from one of the boys’ classes the other day, and here was the conversation at the check-out:

Clerk:  Are those your kids?

Me: Yes.

Clerk:  Well, they don’t look like you.

Me Thinking: [excuse me?  They have ears, you know, so they just heard that.  Does that really even need to be said?  Their mom, unlike yours apparently, works with them on social skills!  How do you know my husband isn't darker skinned than I?]  …yes, I think a lot of thoughts at once

Me Actually Speaking:  No, not a lot.

[pause]

Clerk:  They look Spanish.

[pause]

Clerk:  Are they Spanish?

Me Thinking: [Wow, you're so not getting anything more than limited information out of me, you rude and nosy lady!]

Me Actually Speaking:  Yes, partly.

Clerk:  Well do you speak Spanish to them?

Me:  Sometimes.

Clerk:  Well you should speak Spanish to them.

Me Thinking:  [and perhaps some Mayan and K'iche, too?]

Me: Mmm. 

All in the time it took to swipe a gallon of milk and two boxes of cereal, she managed to point out to my children that they stand out visually, push me to disclose more information than I was clearly interested in disclosing, and then tell me what to do with my kids!

We frequently get looks, questions and comments when we’re out and about.  Most of them are positive or meant to be supportive, but now that the boys are older, I’ve started deferring to them for what they want to disclose.  There’s a difference between the “Were your kids adopted?  ‘Cause I was!” kinds of folks and then the ones who just can’t help but try to reconcile what they’re seeing with their eyes with some kind of idea of “normal” for a family in their minds. 

I’ve never been pregnant, but I think I can relate to the ladies who experience the “everyone thinks they can just walk up and touch my belly because I’m pregnant!” phenomenon.

Everyone who knows us knows our story.  We don’t hide it.  But now that the boys are developmentally able to understand (and want to listen in on) the adult conversations around them, I’m increasingly sensitive to the fact that I need to model good boundaries for them.  We don’t need to satisfy every stranger’s curiosity about why they and I appear to be of different races.  It’s not our job to educate the world on adoption.  It’s certainly not our job to defend adoption as a good practice.  I want us to be polite and friendly, but holding a line of respect seems appropriate, too.

Did the lady at Walmart mean any harm?  Probably not.  But it was rude.  The thing is, if she really wanted to get to know us, she’d have done a whole lot better with:

Clerk:  Are those your kids?

Me:  Yes.

Clerk:  They’re very cute, and how nice that they’re helping you carry your groceries!

Where would we head the next time we were at Walmart?  Her line.  Because that’s friendly, and she would eventually have all her curiosity answered and get to know us as real people in the process.

But that would take more time.

I took delivery of new end tables for our living room today, and it hit me that our taste in home furnishings has taken a sharp turn in the southwesterly direction.

When Fred and I got married, we thought the look we’d go for was “Early American.”  Rugged enough for him (our dining room chairs weigh as much as the boys do) yet not so masculine that it looks like no women live here.  Well, woman, anyway.  I’m it.

Think Amish farmhouse.  But with lighting in the top of the hutch – so “Amish plus electricity.”

Then we found a few oil paintings we loved in Guatemala on our pick up trip to adopt the twins.  So “Amish plus electricity plus crater lakes, Maya marketplaces, and 15th century Spanish architecture.”

Moving from that room (and yes, we left it just like that for now) …

About a year ago, Fred read some articles online about how glass tables are dangerous around kids because they can shatter, and there are so many deaths per year from shattered glass tables.  Etc, etc.  Well we had just such tables – left over from Fred’s bachelor days – in our living room.

To Craigslist they went (are we cruel for letting someone else buy them and take the risk?).  And ever since then, we’ve had a look in our living room that I like to call “Early Trailer Park:”

Ah yes, for far longer than is usually accepted in middle-class America, we’ve been sporting TV trays at both ends of our (nod to my OWN Scottish heritage - plaid?  heck yeah!) sofa. 

But God bless Fred’s mom; she gave us MONEY for Christmas.  Hurray!  And so we finally bought ourselves some end tables.  End tables that match the armoire we bought a while back to house our office supplies and laptops.

And as I was removing the “Hecho en Mexico” tags from the drawer pulls, it hit me:  our sons have actually shifted our decorating style!  If you can call what all I’ve mentioned above “style” (debateable, I know).

Somewhere in all the parenting, we’ve come to a place where even the things with which we surround ourselves in our home feel more “right” if they reflect our combined heritages.  And we didn’t even realize it was happening.  It’s just that we really like something a few clicks closer to a Central American style now than we did six years ago.

Not that there aren’t plenty of white people without Latino kids who prefer Southwestern decor.  But for us, it’s directly related. 

Huh.

That wasn’t something they mentioned in all our “things to consider before you adopt transracially” educational materials.