Real Language

My son and I have the BEST conversations in the car. Part of that is necessity -- captive audience and all. Noah sits tall in his booster seat, and I can catch a glimpse of his messy curls in the rearview mirror. My eyes are on the road ahead, so he can talk to me and tell me things, but not see my facial expression. It's a safe place to test out hard questions. And it's a perfect place to answer when I'd rather he not see the expression on my face!

Last week's booster-seat confessional was an open discussion between my 7 year old son and I. He began matter-of-factly. "So, you're not my real mom...."

I knew the day would come when those words were spoken. But I imagined it would be during a moment of anger or disappointment, not on a quiet afternoon drive.

It stung, and that surprised me. But the sting was more for him than for me. He was unraveling another piece of his adoption story, or perhaps revisiting a truth that had been shared and re-shared with him over and over again. 

"What do you mean, Noah?" I said, as calmly and non-hysterically as possible.

"You know. You didn't have me in your tummy. So you're not my real mom."

I couldn't correct him. He was right. She IS his real mother. What Noah needed in that moment was reassurance that she is important. That she matters. And that while I may not have been first, I would be forever.

"Yes, Noah, you grew inside Mommy ___. She is your first mother. Then you lived with Grammy. She was your foster mother. And then you came home to daddy and I. We are your dad and mom. And now you are here. Forever. And ever." 

We stopped at a red light. I adjusted the mirror and looked back at him. He was deep in thought, chewing on the collar of his t-shirt. He didn't look up. 

"You all had a job." he said. 

"We are all very lucky to be mothers to you."

"Maybe I'll see her one day. When I'm old. Like 20."

"Maybe, son. I hope you will."

"I have lots of mothers." he continued. "And what about Mika?" he looked over at his sister and snatched the board book out of her hands. Wails ensued. Warning was issued. Book was tossed back into the toddler's outstretched arms. 

"You know Michaela's story," I said.

"Becky is Mika's real mom and you are her mom now." he quipped. "But I had Grammy. So I have more moms than Mika!" 

Leave it to a seven year old boy to find an opportunity for one-up-manship in any adoption conversation.

I let him have his victory. I'm just grateful he let me in on it.