“And what if you need to go to the bathroom?”

“Well then I’ll go and come right back.”

“And what if one of us gets hurt while you’re not there?  Maybe we could call 911?”  (no, my kids don’t have cell phones of their own) 

… And so on, all the way there.  Even though it’s the same school, the same building as last year, many of the same families, and we’ve done this routine before.  The first year, if I ever dared slip out the the restroom without interrupting the class to let the boys know where I was going and how long I expected to be, I would return to two sobbing and hyperventilating little men.  So much for my attempt at not disrupting the teacher’s flow!

Last year went a little better.  I committed to the boys that I would quietly tap their shoulders if I was leaving the room and then tap them again when I got back.  Somehow that contented them.  All but once, when I got stopped by another mom in the hall and took longer than the customary allotted time for a potty break.  That time, it was back to the aforementioned breakdown.

But this year is the 3rd year, and I wanted to see if they could handle being “like the other kids” whose moms come and go as need be.   So I told them we would try that for that day.  We rehearsed that they know I’m going to be there most of the class time, and if I go out for a moment, I’ll be coming back soon.  And I never leave them anywhere alone.

I have one child who’s ready and one not, it turns out.  One jumped right into participating in class, making friends with the other kids, and only occasionally glancing back to smile at me.

The other kept checking over his shoulder.  And when he wasn’t looking at me, I strongly suspect he was worrying about me leaving most of the time.  Because he wasn’t retaining much of anything.  He was giving incorrect answers for questions I know he can handle.  And then he’d look again.  About every 30 seconds.

He knows I love him, that I have never left him, that I never will.  In his mind he knows that.

But then there’s that other place in his mind, the place that remembers – even though he does not – that he has been left.  That the person he most counted on disappeared.  Twice, that we know of.  And that part of him just knows that if he doesn’t keep a sharp eye on me, I might vanish.  Or maybe forget that I have kids and leave without them?  Or maybe not care?  Or something.  He can’t tell me exactly what it is that he’s afraid will happen.  Simply that I’ll leave.  And be gone.

And so it’ll be back to taps on the shoulder and possibly a seat-relocation to where he can see me without turning all the way around.  For now anyway.

Will I encourage him to stretch himself to trust me in spite of his anxiety?  Yes.  That’s a life-skill I want him to have – acting in courage in the face of fear.  But I don’t need to fabricate occasions for that.  Life does that all by itself. 

In the meantime, it’s consistency, reassurance and more time.  Back to more than just everyone’s typical routines for us this Fall!

“I think it’s so great that you adopted them.”  ["THEM," meanwhile, are standing right next to me.]

And as I’m thinking “Oh, no!  Shh!” she continues about how great it is that Fred and I have brought the boys here and are “giving them such a great chance in life that they didn’t have before.  And that you really love them like your own.”

And while my brain was firing red flags every which way, my mouth just wouldn’t work.

However, I plan to be ready with a reply next time because…

A)  They aren’t LIKE our own… they ARE our own.

B)  Anyone who knows our kids knows they’re usually like this freakish conglomerate of well-behavedness… They are some of the easiest kids to parent I’ve ever heard of.  Plus they’re smart, funny, sweet with little kids and babies, affectionate, and full of joy and excitement  … so no, there’s nothing amazing about what Fred and I are doing at all!  Or have done.  We wanted to adopt kids.  And we did.  So we’re just living from that point forward.  And quite blessed in that life, I might add!

C)  We  don’t really know what their life would have been like, had they been able to remain with their first mom.  Yes, it might’ve been really hard.  On the other hand, God sure seems to love them and watch out for their protection (and I don’t mean “by having us adopt them,” I mean in every-day life things).  So maybe they’d be doing just fine there.  We don’t know.  So let’s not speculate.  And certainly not while they’re right there because…

D)  We don’t want them to feel like we’re heroes who swooped in and rescued them.  Or to think that we want them to think that.  We followed what we believed was God’s call on our hearts to adopt.  Now that we’ve taken on the responsibility of parenting them, shouldn’t we be doing our best, just like every other parent should be?  Adoptive parent and bio-parent alike?

I fear that behind the “compliments” lies an undercurrent of belief that somehow what Fred and I and other adoptive parents have is second-best.  A “Plan B” that falls after trying to have biological children.  A rebound after disappointment.  [I hope - perhaps naively? - that it's not because they're Latino.]  I’m sure people assume that we adopted the twins because of infertility.  We didn’t.  We meant to adopt.  Adoption is in both our families.

We’re just also ridiculously fortunate that our kids came to trust us and love us back so quickly, considering how many reasons they had to be guarded.

… What I would’ve said.  

Next time.  Just wait.

And so in our household, we celebrate P’s birthday.

The idea came to me last year on her birthday, so we had popsicles on the deck, talked about her a little bit, and prayed that God is taking care of her there in Guatemala, even though we don’t know exactly where she is or what she’s doing.

I was a little more proactive this year.  So this morning the twins and I headed out to Panera for a date.  I had emailed myself the pictures of her with them, so we looked at those on my iPhone, noted facial features they have that look like hers (something they’d never noticed before), and again prayed for her.  This time, the boys prayed, too.  And they included “and help us go find her at Guatemala” in their prayers.

I’m so glad we’re doing this now, when they’re five, super-attached to us, and happy with the life they have. 

Because I did have to correct Bear in the car when he was explaining to José that we were going on a date to celebrate their “real mother’s” birthday.  He didn’t mean anything by it, but today was  the day for our conversation about how I’m also very much real, that she’s real, too, and that they just happen to have two real mothers when many people have one.  And then we talked about all the friends and family we have – not the least of whom is their Tío Steven - who were also adopted and therefore also have two real mothers.

It was the first time I’d had to correct one of them.  We’ve had plenty of other people ask about their “real…ummm, errr…mother” [we fill in "birth" or "biological " to help them out].  But this time it was my son.  Who says my name, “Mama,” so many times during the day it’s mind-numbing.  And he remembers he has another mother who’s “real.”  It’s good for me to digest that while they’re “still little” in my mind.  They understand a whole lot more than I realize.

I left out her name in the title of this post, and for now I will leave off including her picture on this blog.  As much as I feel like she’s my family because she’s my son’s birth mom, she’s more theirs.  And I want them to be able to keep her to themselves if they want to, share her with others only when they want to, and to have control over that part of their story.  For nearly two years of their life, it was she with them doing life together.  The hard newborn time, the first steps, first words, baby teeth, personalities emerging.

And yet today, I got to be the one sharing cinnamon rolls and an “everything” bagel with my little men.  Who don’t look much like me, but sure do act like me.

Adoption has everyone’s attention this week, it seems, with the stories circulating that Russia has suspended adoptions by U.S. citizens.  Or that, no, they haven’t.  All because one mom reached her limit and made the choice to send her son away alone on a plane, with a note, to return him to his birth country (unclear if it’s actually his country of citizenship any longer, since his adoption was completed and he may be a U.S. citizen now).

All the usual reactions are out there: outrage, blame, accusations of mental unhealth (child and mother & grandmother), hints at abuse, suspicion…

For those of us “in the adoption community” it’s another blow in an already-tenuous process.  I don’t even know how I’d be feeling if we were in-process to adopt from Russia right now.  But more than 11,000 would-be-parents signed a plea to President Obama and Russian leader Dmitri Medvedev to allow adoptions to continue between our two countries, not to let one family’s outrageous act wipe out thousands of other healthy adoption stories.  Maybe I would be one of them.

It’s just such a sad and jarring story – a commentary on the lack of general knowledge about the post-adoption resources available to families who find their children are struggling with more than they expected.  I fear it’s also a commentary on what many people think they’re getting when they choose to adopt.

Adoption is not “the same” as having a biological child.  It’s not better, it’s not worse, it’s different.  I’m totally willing to give this mom the benefit of the doubt that she tried really hard to bond with this little boy and to get him adjusted to life here.  The adoption process is long and tedious, and once you finally bring your child home, it’s just so good to be “finished.”  No one – or almost no one, anyway – goes in to an adoption process thinking they’d ever consider backing out of it later.  Surely not!  You want to parent that cute little face from the pictures – or that sweet person from the orphanage visit when he/she was just so charming you could hardly stand how much you wanted to snuggle them up.

It’s really easy to sit here on the outside and judge this mom (and grandmother).  How could they just send a little child away, across the ocean, to a foreign country, by himself?  With a note, like that explains everything?  What were they thinking?

Having encountered a couple cases of Reactive Attachment Disorder in the course of my clinicals – and now knowing a small number of families who have dealt with it – I am fairly sure that the time for thinking had long since passed.  “RAD kids” are some of the hardest to parent.  It’s entirely possible that this little 7 year old was threatening to kill family members, was violent, disrespectful, dishonest, seemingly limitless in his wild and hateful behavior. 

Not because he was a “bad kid” but because his prior experiences left him so threatened by a mother’s attempt at bonding that he was doing everying in his power to stop her from trying.  And he “won” – except of course he ultimately lost.  And now he sits on the other side of one more failed relationship, this situation no-doubt confirming in his young psyche that, “See?  It wasn’t true.  It wasn’t forever.  She didn’t really love me.  That’s why I’ve gotta take care of myself.”

Yes, he’s small and vulnerable looking in the media pictures taken since his return.  And he IS indeed small and vulnerable.  But clearly his family lost sight of that fact a while ago.  Not because they’re necessarily “bad people” either.  But they were clearly unprepared for him.  And then in their desperation for relief from their circumstances, they shelved logic and compassion and made a statement.

Boy did they make a statement.  What the world hears is “Americans think adopted children are a commodity, and if they don’t meet with our standards, we will return them.”

As parents in waiting, that THAT is the message the world hears right now is heartbreaking.  Because that’s not what most of us think.  In fact, that’s probably not even what the Hansens actually think.  They’re reacting to feeling betrayed by their agency and by the Russian contacts who referred them a child who was beyond their abilities to rear (though who knows if they even knew the extent of his issues), and possibly by this little boy himself who seemed so different at first and then changed so horribly.  They’re probably devastated that their dreams for adopting this little guy turned into a nightmare.  And they clearly didn’t know where to turn appropriately once they reached the point of desperation.  Or else they didn’t have the emotional capacity to try any longer.

I’m very sad for the Hansens.  They could use some compassion, I’m sure.  I’m equally sure there are other families out there in the same situations, considering the hard decision to disrupt their adoptions – or desperately trying not to - and they’re watching how we as a country treat this family.  And they never meant NOT to parent their children to adulthood.  They took the required training classes, heard about the risks but thought they had avoided them by checking off “no special needs” in their homestudy report, waited for years, finally received a child into their care and then – Crash! – reality hits.  Usually with a RAD diagnosis.  And a whole lot of violent, ugly, outragious behavior.

What would I say to them, “Try harder,” “Well you got yourself into this…,” “You should’ve _____, and you wouldn’t be experiencing ____,” ???  No.  No.  And No.  Not everyone is cut out for therapeutic parenting of a child with RAD.  And when a mis-match happens, it’s awful for everyone.

On the other hand, I am, of course, even sadder for Artem-Justin.  To be only 7 years old and already so hurt by the world that you can’t even think of trusting someone who says they want to love you and take care of you.  Then to have that fear confirmed.  Again.  To be sent away like an unwanted possession.  And blamed for it, like you’re the problem, when you’re just the kid, and there were adults all around. 

Undeserving, bad, unloveable.  On your own.  Trust no one.  Adults just let you down, so don’t let them close.  And all these messages below the surface level of your cognitive abilities, so it’s just this gut-reaction you have and can’t help.

I see a lot of posturing as I read all the different news accounts and blogs out there.  Well-meaning but possibly naive offers to adopt him.  Russia and our State Department going back and forth about what this means for the future of adoption.  Prospective adoptive parents saying they’ll do anything, sign any agreement, just to get their children.  News stories inflating the most minute details to run another story, ’cause wow is this one HOT.

And yes, it should make news.  But what’s going to stop this from happening again?  I haven’t seen that angle yet.

As Fred and I look ahead to our own next placement, knowing that our Salvadoran kids will most likely be coming from an orphanage as well, with all the associated developmental effects, it’s humbling to watch another parent crumble.  It’s scary to consider that we could find ourselves at home with children we don’t know how to handle, passed off to us as healthier than they are.  It’s not very likely; RAD is pretty rare.  But it’s possible.  And while I completely disagree with the wrong, thoughtless, and cruel way they handled their hopelessness, I think I may understand the Hansens at least a little.

You think adoption is going to be one thing.  It’s going to “complete” your family or some such idea.  And it is.  But not always the way you think it will.  Maybe my idea of “complete” is not God’s.  So far, it’s been a wonderful life with the twins; but what if it gets hard? 

Following the story of little Artem/Justin Hansen is, for me, another stake in the ground for our own adoption.  A time I can look back on in the future and say, “even there, I saw God’s hand preparing us.”  Because I just spent a few hours researching resources for post-adoption help and refreshed myself on all the scariness that comes with RAD.  And yet, I’m sure we’re meant to move forward.  Lord willing, we won’t need most of the stuff I just found.

Lord willing.

But the same God that brought us to the twins knows who needs us next.  And there’s no question He’s been faithful till now.  So we’re still waiting on the process to move forward in El Salvador.  And much like we vowed to each other on our wedding day, Fred and I are committed to parent all our kids for better or for worse, till death does us part.  Whoever they are and whatever they bring with them when they come.

I pray little Artem gets a (trained, informed and ready!) family who can make that commitment to him.  Scary as that might look for all of them for the first long while.

Our copy of the U.S. Census 2010 arrived today, and true to claim, it took me less than 10 minutes to fill out.  For any of you who haven’t received yours yet and are curious, you can see all the questions on the form on the U.S. Census website.

The most interesting thing (and it’s pretty straightforward, so nothing really enthralling) was that there are two separate Race/People Group questions – #8 and #9. I guess I didn’t pay attention to that last time, just checked “White,” “White” (oh so very pale) and moved on.  Hadn’t even met Fred yet, last time.

But this time, answering for our whole family, I actually had to stop and think how I wanted to fill out the latter question.  Question #8 is “Is Person X of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin?  Easy enough: ”no” for Fred and me, “yes” for the twins, with a write-in of “Guatemalan.” 

But then Question #9 asks “What is Person X’s race?” and I had to decide how to list the twins, since Hispanic/Latino/Spanish is not considered a race according to the census.  I ended up going with two answers for them – “White” (their Spanish ancestry) and “American Indian or Alaska Native” with a write-in of “Maya.” 

I don’t think it will make any difference to our kids, how I answered the question, but since the census does purport to drive future government policy and programs, it occurred to me that registering them to the best of my understanding of their full heritage may benefit other people who fall into both categories but identify only as “White” (a fairly common practice among Americans of Latin American origin from what I understand).  There does seem to be an up-tick of Native-American pride in the Central American countries, but “Indigenous” people are still considered “lesser” and are oppressed people groups in many of those cultures, so some decide to distance themselves from those roots.  Indeed, the boys’ birth mom listed them as “not indigenous” on their birth certificates even though her heritage is quite evident from her picture.

Funny how something as simple and routine as a census can represent so much.  I do want the twins to be proud of the way God made them, and I believe I set the tone by my being pleased that they are just as they are.  And tonight, it meant taking an extra few seconds to be thorough on a government form.

Would love to hear how others of you who have adopted registered your kids, too!

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.

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

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.

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.