The Talk

We've talked with The Boy about adoption since he was a baby, giving him as much information at any given time as we felt he could process.

Ever since he could speak he would offer up to anyone and everyone that he was from Guatemala. He has a book of pictures from Guatemala, and we've talked to him extensively about his pick up trip.

We've never really delved into his story, and we are still sorting out how much of that we will give him and at what time.

There is a little girl at his preschool that is also adopted from Guatemala. Her parents apparently willingly shared her story with the teachers, who seem to talk about it freely within earshot of the children.

Friday night on the way home from the hockey game The Boy asked me to tell him the story about all the babies dead in the cribs. Like in the cartoons, I shook my head and said, "What?" He repeated the question. I was able to piece together that one teacher told him about this, and I surmised that it must be his classmate's story. (Please let me clarify here that I don't know anything at all about dead babies laying in cribs.) I told him that I didn't know that story, and then I asked what else the teacher told him.

Very sadly he said to me, "I wasn't borned in your tummy, was I mommy."

Tears. Mine, not his.

"No, baby, you weren't. But you were born in my heart."

His face brightened and I was blessed with his smile.

I then told him that we would talk about the circumstances of his birth sometime alone, at home, when it's quiet. He was satisfied with that.

I'm angry. I feel violated.