“Mom, can you turn on some ‘tallica?”. (As in Metallica.)
Mr. Aggie, darling, WHAT have you done??
As I tucked “Big A” in, I told him about the night of his birth. I told him that three years ago, Mr. Aggie and I checked into the hospital and were all ready to have our little baby.
“I was all hooked up to monitors and we were listening to your heartbeat inside my belly. The WHOLE family was SO excited for you to arrive.”
“Big A” was smiling and giggling and then got very serious. “Mommy, I have a question.” (Long pause as he stared at my stomach.) “How did my suitcase fit in there?”
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I think I might be in denial.
You see, our son is adopted (domestic adoption, been with us since birth). And with that “adopted” label and fact comes a lot of worries.
After all, we went to special adoption parenting classes that tried to prepare us for things like emotional upheaval, detachment, a troubled sense of self … the dreaded “you’re not my real mom” or “I wish I lived with my birthmom instead of you!” Words and worries unique to families created through the adoption. Words and worries that can show themselves as early as the elementary school years but tend to gain momentum in the teen years.
But these days, he’s 7 years old, and I just can’t picture it.
While definitely emotionally intense, our kid is typically a happy kid. Smiles a lot. He’s kind. He says “I love you” as often as any other phrase. He seems perfectly content. He knows we love him. He knows his birth family loves him, although he misses them. Or perhaps the thought of them.
Will the contentment last through the turbulent years ahead? When hormones start to really kick in, will things change dramatically? Will I be able to answer all of the questions in the right way?
I don’t know the answer.
“Big A”: “Mom, can you be my wife?”
Me: “Nope, I am your mommy.”
“Big A”: “But can you tuck me in at night even when I grow up to be a husband?”
Me: “Nope. Your wife will not appreciate that very much. She can tuck you in.”
“Big A”: “How do I find a wife? Where did daddy find you?”
Me: “In Mexico.”
“Big A”: “Can we go to Mexico after nap? I need to find a wife.”
Sometimes it’s just not possible to keep a straight face.
Umm … why EXACTLY do you want me to come see?
“Because it smells so bad! I mean, it smells like candy canes!”
Harumpf. Somehow my 5-year-old Little Son has morphed into a 12-year-old boy who likes poop jokes. Trust me. It smelled NOTHING like candy canes… . Boy I can’t wait until he learns to make tooting noises with his armpits.
“Big A”: “Mommy, you’re a witch and I’m hammered!”
“Big A”: “You’re a WITCH and I’m HAMMERED!”
(holds up his tools)
Me: “Oh, we’re pretending and I’m a WRENCH and you’re a HAMMER?”
“Big A”: “Yep, now let’s fix stuff!”