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.