Out of Birth Order does not equal Disorder

I've had a few contacts recently on the topic of birth order and adoption. Questions and comments on the subject ranged from "Can we do it?" (Meaning, is it permissible?) to "Could we do it?" (Meaning, is it advisable?) to "Why WOULD we do it?" and "Why wouldn't we?"

Word on the street and in some adoptive circles is that out-of-birth order adoptions are... quite bluntly... out of order. Toying with the natural pecking order in a family can't be ideal.... could it?

Given the right families, the right children, and the right supports, out of birth order placements can and have succeeded. 

"Wow, that seems like a lot of work," you might say. And it is. But guess what? Adoptive parenting is a lot of work. (Good, immensely rewarding, important work, but lots of it!) Being a child in an adoptive family requires tenacity, and thoughtful preparation on the part of the adults involved. These challenges don't scare us away.

We've proven our adaptability right from the start. As adoptive families we take on many challenging and rewarding roles. All members of the family must work together and celebrate our diversity. We walk proudly as conspicuous transracial families. We parent children with (GASP!) special placement needs. We tackle grief and loss, we take on attachment, we help our children heal from past abuse or neglect. We foster openness. We don't just survive, we thrive. 

Basically, we rock. It's just too bad they don't hand out super hero capes to each family member every time we welcome a new child home.

We're given all these special roles as adoptive family members. And yet.... somewhere along the line, the mystical "they" decided (through scientific research and careful consultation) that parenting children out of birth order is a BAD idea. In effect, stating that our shoulders are broad enough to bear the challenges of adoptive parenting.... but that messing with birth order was, simply, too much of a burden for the parents or children to bear.

I had a lot of trouble defending that research in light of the families I know who have defied its findings. Larger families especially seem to have an easier time of welcoming an "out of birth order" sibling into the fold.

One of the major arguments is that it upsets the roles of children (both the new members and the 'old'). Well, doesn't that happen ANY time you add a child? The youngest becomes the oldest, or the middle.  The newly adopted child may have been the youngest, oldest, or only in their birth or foster home. Being adopted may mean they assume a different position in their new family constellation. Blended families bring kids of all ages together under one roof, and those families thrive successfully, too. 

If you've bucked the birth order in your adoptive family, let us know. I'm willing to bet they happen, and happen successfully, more often than we hear.

Ah, Nuts! More Fun & Games at Children's Hospital ER

I know, you know, friends know, our family knows... heck, the whole WORLD knows that Noah is allergic to peanuts. He wears his "Spessil whale bwayclet" (special whale bracelet) medic alert on his arm every day. We pack along an epi-pen and a bottle of Benadryl everywhere we go. We read labels and interrogate bakers of homemade foods. We do all that we can -- but sometimes even that isn't enough.

Unfortunately, our obsessively protective, peanut-fearing parenting didn't keep us from the ER on Sunday night.

Although we are careful and cautious and neurotically trained to check for peanuts, Noah has decided that ONE life-threatening allergy wasn't enough for him. Perhaps he determined that, in order to properly celebrate his age, he needed to embrace a second serious allergy. (Besides, it's no fun and games if we're constantly in a state of good health, now is it Noah?)


Sunday was starting out as a really good day. It began at my parents' house on Vancouver Island. After a weekend of fun, it was time to head home to see Noah's daddy and celebrate his grandma's birthday. On the ferry ride back, we watched a pod of orcas playing alongside our boat. Yes, it really was a great day.

We enjoyed a lovely dinner at Grandma's house and were just finishing dessert when our good day went downhill faster than a Canadian bobsled. 

Kevin's sister had gone out of her way to order a specially made, peanut-free birthday cake. The bakery had promised a completely scrubbed down kitchen, and special handling to eliminate the risk of cross-contamination. 

We didn't hesitate long before giving Noah his piece of cake. We trusted... foolishly, perhaps, but not without due diligence. (or so we thought).


A few minutes after devouring the cake, Noah notified us "I itchy!". A few minutes more, and we notice the rash. Kevin's mom noticed the wheezing, and we were out the door in a flash. 

Kevin's is not a paramedic or a nascar driver, but he can fake it under pressure. While I sat in the backseat belting out "Oscar Meyer Weiner" with the windows rolled down and the wind & rain blowing in to keep our son awake, we beat our previous record. We SAFELY got to Children's Hospital in just under 20 minutes. 

Arriving quickly was good, because we wouldn't have wanted to wait any longer than necessary to see a doctor. We wanted to get there RIGHT AWAY to begin our mandatory 2.5 hour wait to see a physician.

In the waiting period, we sat and stared at the hot, angry welt that spread across Noah's arm. We felt comforted when it settled down, and Noah regained some of his usual feist. Then the swelling went up on the OTHER arm, and we were fast tracked to the so called "RAT" zone (Rapid treatment something or other, which, by the way, is a complete misnomer!)

At the end of the night, we went away with a tired little guy and renewed fear and loathing for peanuts. The next day, however, our pediatrician gave us a prescription for another type of epi-pen, and an unexpected suggestion:

"You know, I believe Noah reacted to almonds last night, not peanuts." We learned how bakeries often use almond paste in their product, and sometimes forget to declare this as an allergen.

We know he's allergic to almonds (he's allergic to EVERYTHING!) but learning that they, too, could put his life at risk was just a little much for this mommy.

I don't want to become one of those seemingly deranged parents of kids with allergies... but I want my son to grow up, with as few visits to the ER as possible. (I even shed a silent selfish tear when I realized that Toblerones are now a thing of the past!)

So if you see me or another crazed mother in the grocery store looking wildly at the nutritional information on the back of each product, just let us be. If your family is blessed to thrive without allergies, have a little patience for the kids who make it harder for you to pack your children's lunches.... and thank you for leaving your peanut butter at home for my little guy's sake!

"Your Grandma Black Like Mine?" Lessons From a Three Year Old

This photo was taken on Christmas morning. My little guy rode shotgun in the red shirt, while my nephew Kyo (in the white lab coat he'd begged Santa for) was at the wheel. A couple of my siblings were standing by to catch them in case the boys careened off the trike or suddenly decided that sharing was no longer fun.

As it happened, Noah and Kyo got along great that day. No stitches, no bite marks, no punches or kicks. It was downright serendipitous. 

Over our Christmas visit, we'd been practicing colours with Noah. And because Noah and Kyo are always in each other's arms (or at each other's throats!) the colour lessons must have brushed off on Kyo. My no-fun, adult aim was to try and put some accuracey into Noah's vibrant descriptions of our beautiful world.

In December, Noah had his way with the colour wheel:
"Look at the blue tree mommy!" (Um, yes... except it's green, like most trees!)
"You eating green toast mommy?" (Do you like green eggs and ham, Noah? Yum! My toast is brown.)
"Look at Santa Claus!! He's got nice yellow shirt! Right Mommy? Okaaaaay?" (Sigh... okay. It's yellow!)

I think my efforts went a little overboard, because on our next visit, Kyo had lots to say about colour, too. "My grandma is BLACK." He announced as we were getting our shoes off. I smiled as Noah chimed in "Yay, BLACK GRANDMA!" and both boys giggled to themselves.

"Sarah, is your grandma black like mine?" Kyo asked. "My grandma is white." I replied. At that point, Kyo and Noah scampered up the stairs and onto their next adventure.

I didn't think much of the conversation until dinner time, when Noah said something about "Black grandmas!" in between bites of "purple" mashed potatoes. I briefly explained to Kyo's mom about our conversation and how Kyo had told me with great pride that "My grandma is BLACK!" 

At that, Amber burst into giggles. "But Kyo's grandma isn't black, she's white!" We tried to figure out what Kyo must have meant. In the end we weren't sure... maybe because Amber's mom wears a lot of dark clothing.

What was clear, though, was how UNimportant colour was to my nephew and my son. It didn't matter if they got the colour right. Maybe I should let my son call Santa's suit yellow and potatoes purple for a little longer.

As he grows, Kyo will keep learning about himself and his heritage. He'll be able to articulate with pride that the colour of his skin, the shape of his eyes, and the curl of his hair were determined by his African, Asian, Aboriginal, and Caucasian ancestors.

Until then, if Kyo's not sure what colour his grandma is, or if Noah insists that trees are blue, I'm going to let them. We won't stop celebrating the colours in our family, but we'll learn more about colours another day. These little cousins just want to be 2 and 3 year olds on a tricycle for a while.

I Feeling Bebber! (uh-oh)

He's feeling better, folks!!! And he's told (or shown) me in a hundred different ways:

He emptied the toilet paper roll in record time.
He emptied the contents of his supposedly "child proof", "leak proof" sippy cup all over our suede couch.
He ate all his lunch. (Hurray!)
He demanded a spontaneous trip to Disneyland to visit Goofy. (Sorry, kiddo... not tonight.)

He crawled up in my lap, when I was exasperated at the end of a long day. He gave me a quick kiss on my cheek and said "Noah such a naughty boy, right mommy?"

Now, how on earth am I supposed to respond to that? He must be feeling better, because he knows exactly how to climb into my heart while stepping on my kneecaps.

I KNOW he's feeling better. My husband knows it, too. 

Kevin was giving Noah a time-out after supper. (His current punishment-worthy offense was tossing a fork at his mother's forehead. I think he might be good at javelin when he's older....)

Anyways, I listened to their conversation while scrubbing spaghetti sauce out of my hairline. 

"Noah, you need to sit down and fold your hands."
"NO! NO sit down! Wanna play my toys! Wanna have a candy, play soccer, go for walk on my trike!"
"Noah, sit down and fold your hands."
"FIRST play on trike, then time out, Daddy?"

I burst into giggles. Kevin remained stoic, somehow.

"Noah, sit down and fold your hands. You hit mommy in the head with your fork!!!"
"You're right. I need a time out."
I had to ask Kevin to repeat it for me later, but at that point, my fiesty, fork hurling toddler sat down on his own accord, folded his hands in his lap and accepted his punishment. 

What. Just. Happened??

I'm not really sure. I think he relented to authority. I think he realized that throwing forks at his mother's head was not a commendable action. I think he's starting to get it. And, most importantly, he's back to his old self!

My little guy is feeling better. And he's growing up. *sniff, sniff, sniff*.