The rest of the story

This morning I took the opportunity to talk alone with the preschool director. There is a lot of illness going around, so there were few kids when we arrived. The other teacher is out with a sick child. I was not angry. I stated what The Boy said to me, and how he said he obtained the information.

As I suspected, the story involving babies in cribs everywhere is the story of H, the other Guatemalan adoptee, whose parents picked her up in an hogar (orphanage). It was a traumatic experience for them, and something they have spoken of in front of the other children. There was, however, no mention by her of dead babies.

The other teacher called me after I had gotten to work because she wanted to talk about my concerns. Her young daughter attends the preschool after regular school is out for the day. She cannot walk. I have never inquired as to why. Today I learned that she was born four months premature. At one point she was intubated and pulled the tube out. She was without oxygen for five minutes, and that is why she can't walk. Ultimately, she was dead. She tells this story. It is the only connection they can make to the dead baby in a crib reference.

Neither teacher could recall talking about how The Boy was born.

It's not such a big deal to tell him that he was not born of me. But I am his mother. Mommy. Mama. It has to be hard to hear of another mom that had you by birth but now you live with mommy. That is what I am afraid he can't process right now. We are close. He is as much a part of me as I can imagine any bio child ever to be.

I have read many opinions regarding adoption, and of informing people when such is the case. I know some parents that send a letter to the new teacher each year explaining the child's situation. I know some people feel compelled to tell everyone that's how they built their family. I don't, and I won't.

I am not ashamed of it. I just don't offer it up. The Boy is fair complected. He resembles his daddy. There are never any questions or even questionable looks in our direction in public. I get comments all the time that he acts like me, has daddy's hair, has grandpa's eyes. I simply smile and say thank you.

I could easily laugh and say, "Really? Because he's adopted, you know." But I don't.

I will not let being adopted define his life. There is so much more that he can be, and will be, than that.