Family
I am not naive and I doubt anyone would say I am obtund. At the beginning of each day my son is my son. He is not my flesh nor my blood, but my feelings for him are not directed by blood or biology. He is my son. I live every day aware, painfully aware at times, that he was born of another woman’s body. I wish I could have given birth to him, taken credit for his beauty, his brains and his wit. I wish I could have made it easier, but then we wouldn’t be the people we have become. It seems strange to me at times when I remember that I never watched him slip out of my body, never saw my body grow and change. My heart has changed though. My love and my intensity has changed.
My son doesn’t yet understand adoption. I talk about Vietnam and the beautiful woman who carried him below her heart for nine months.
For now my son is blissfully ignorant that “mommy” in our family has more than one meaning. For now he doesn’t have to question what “mommy” means to him. At the end of today and the beginning of tomorrow we are simply mommy and babe. Some days I wish people saw the same thing I see—a family. Not an adoptive family. Not a single mom. Not an adopted child. A family. No more questions. No more nosy looks. Just us. A mother and her son. Family.
4 comments:
Beautiful....
I adore this post...
I agree. And you two makes on very beautiful family.
I totally agree with this post, and understand what you mean. I feel the same way. It's getting harder to talk to my daughter about her birth mom and her foster mom. I'm jealous that I'm not the only mom she's ever known, although I know that without that history we wouldn't be a family. I thought I had "the talks" all figured out in my mind but it's much harder with a living, breathing child. It's hard to explain to people who aren't living this reality.
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