Someday, Maybe, Baby, This Could Break Your Heart.

I'm parenting a child with a closed adoption. While we lack the connectedness to his birth parents, my son doesn't consciously notice their absence yet. He's too young. As a parent, it's too easy to take comfort in not having the privilege of negotiating roles, relationships, and rules. But the responsible, forward-thinking part of me looks forward to an eventual reunion between my child and his birth parents. When he's ready, of course, on his terms.

But... what if he's ready, and they're not? What if he knocks, and door remains shut? What then, do I say to my child?

When the boy I dote on grows into a six foot tall man, with stubble on his cleft chin. How will I look into the face, the now-porcelain skin turned rough; years of enjoying life carving delicate creases in the folds of his mouth and eyes? Can I look at him someday and see a grown man instead of the little boy I cherish now? Can I look into his adult face and break the heart of a man, knowing that the soul of my small child is still there, just below the surface?

How will my spirited, emotional son manage? How does it feel to be placed for adoption once as a child, and to be told "no" as an adult by the same family members that weren't able to raise you?

I asked a dear friend of mine - an adult adoptee - who had been turned down by his birth relatives in his own search. He's guarded. Not wanting to say too much, not wishing to superimpose his feelings, emotions, and experience onto my son, when he's years away from such a possibility.

"I... just want to know WHY." he said simply. "Just why." 

Not good enough...I thought. To leave a grown man still wondering, still searching, half a century later.

I scoured our library. Lots of books on reunion. Stories of twists in fate reconnecting families. Tales of sometimes awkward, sometimes distant relationships. Of once-or-twice meetings followed by a return to the usual worlds. Booklets outlining how and where to search. Groups devoted to supporting adoptees and birth relatives on the road to reunion.

But nothing devoted entirely to refusals. Isn't that painfully ironic?

I Can't Run Away - A Bad Person Might Adopt Me!

My son may look back on his childhood and say "What on earth was Mom thinking?"
I'm trying, Noah. It's just that sometimes, my good intentions and thoughtful interpretations, and my smothering style of mothering.... means that things get lost in translation. (Plus I'm as forgetful as ... uh, what analogy was I going to use again??)

Last night at the swimming pool, I realized post-swim that our towel was sitting, neatly folded, on the front seat of the truck. So Noah endured a pat down with sandpaper-quality paper towel, and a rake from the hairbrush because I remembered the shampoo but forgot the conditioner.

It's no wonder he went streaking from the women's change room at the exact moment that I was down to my underwear and looking - fruitlessly - for clean pants to put on Noah for the ride home.

I got dressed as quick as I could. But remember, we had no towel, so getting my soaked legs into my jeans took a few seconds longer than usual. I threw on whatever shirt I could find (inside out) and chased my naked son out to the lobby.

"NOAH!" I bellowed. (Oh no, I'm becoming one of THOSE mothers.) "Get your naked booty over here!"

Once I had my naked, kicking child under my arm, I tried to look calm and serene as I escorted him (hair unbrushed, jeans soaked, and t-shirt on backwards and inside out!) back to the women's change room. I sat him down on the bench and looked into his wide brown eyes. "Noah, what can happen if you run away from Mommy?"

"Um... I can get squished by a car!"

"Right. What else can happen?"

"Um... someone can take me!"

"Right, and then what?"

"They might hurt me. They might make me eat vegetables. The bad people might even ADOPT ME!"

Oh goodness, Noah. Please. Please understand that adoption is a good thing and not a threat. You're not going anywhere! Come to think of it, neither are your vegetables.

Donor Unknown.... the Next Frontier of Family Secrecy

Donor Unknown: Adventures in the Sperm Trade follows young adult JoEllen Marsh on her search for biological half siblings, and ultimately her donor father. A New York Times interview helped identified several more siblings, and located "Donor 150", her biological father, who happened to read the article in a Venice Beach coffee shop.

The story raised questions and revisited some sad realities of donor conception. One of JoEllen's half sisters wasn't told of her donor conception until the age of 14. And while nearly a dozen children have been identified, it's believed many more were born with the assistance of Donor 150.

Where are these young people? If they chose not to make contact, that's one thing. But how many children are there out there, (conceived via sperm or egg donation, or embryo donation or embryo adoption) who don't even know how they came to be?  Do they even know their story? Don't they deserve to?

We've been here before. More than a generation ago. And we look back and shake our heads and and wonder how our grandparents and great-grandparents thought secrecy in adoption was beneficial to everyone involved. What we don't all agree on is the fact that we're battling the same secrecy demons when it comes to children conceived via assisted reproduction.

The whispering has returned.
 "Will you tell the kids?"
"You don't have to tell anyone, they'll never know the difference..." We facilitate that lie.

Families can choose their donors based on physical attributes - matching them as closely as possible to the intended parent(s). Choose a blood type, pick a cultural back-ground. Opt for someone tall or short, stocky or slim, choose the very skin tone, and specify eye and hair colour, and musical talent.

...and that's all fine and wonderful. We do a lot of the same thing when we choose a life partner. But if our motivation is to deflect suspicion that (gasp!) our children might not be biologically related to the parents who raise them.... are we doing any better than previous generations when it comes to secrecy and identity?

The Kids are Here!

We're officially outnumbered by kids.... at least for the next 30 days!

Our students moved in early this week. They arrived looking sleep-deprived and mildly worried. We piled into the truck and they took their seats next to Noah - who, in truly uncharacteristic fashion, buried his face in his hands and refused to make eye contact with his "new friends".

So much prep went into getting Noah ready. We made sure he understood the stay was temporary. Words like "visit" and "a few weeks" and "a little while" were very common. I focused on the impact on him, and tried to prepare myself to make these siblings feel welcome and part of our family - without confusing our son that they were here to stay forever.

"Will it be just like a sleepover, Mommy?" Yes, I thought. He gets it! 

What I didn't prepare him for was cultural differences. Like... knocking on the bathroom door before busting in. That was a thrill for him (not so much for the students) on day one.

I should have spent more time practising the kids' names with him - so he'd be an expert at addressing them properly. Instead, Noah's renamed the students Max and Ruby. He think's it's hilarious. Fortunately, he's slowly coming around to addressing them by their proper names.

The major humiliation came at dinner time. "Noah, please ask the kids what they would like to drink," "Okay Mommy!"

"Maaax, Ruuuby, what do you want for drink? We have water, milk, juice, and BEER. Do you want a BEER?"

Oh dear, Noah. These poor children will never be allowed to visit Canada again.

(Thankfully, they both chose juice!)