I sat at a table with a group of adoptive moms last week as we’ve done for years now and they’ve become confidants, wise counsel, and comic relief all rolled into one. This week we talked about the month of November because it means that every quick check of social media comes with an opinion, a meme, a reunion photo, or a quote highlighting National Adoption Month. And I just don’t know anymore. I’m now an adoptive parent of 15 years, and I feel like I have so much to say, but I don’t always know if my words do justice to such a complex storyline. I’ve thought about zipping the lips knowing that in a few short weeks, life resumes and the memes will disappear.
But.
Adoption is part of my story, too. And I believe that when we are honest truth-tellers and share vulnerably with good intention, our voice is used to better what’s broken, lift the conversation, and shift the storyline towards grace and healing.
So I’m unzipping.
Can I flashback to a 27 year old control freak who’s world was seen through the foggy glasses of infertility? Here’s how that worked out for me. I took initiative, set clocks, made appointments, and followed instructions. I prayed and thought positive thoughts. And after a hard, long battle for a baby, my efforts landed me in exactly the same place I started. Unpregnant. So I took that same bootstraps mentality to our first adoption meeting and tackled paperwork like a boss. All the energies I’d invested could now just shift towards a new process with the same end goal: a baby.
When we cautiously filled out our openness questions and ticked the boxes that kept relationship within boundaries and at an arm’s length, I had a multitude of justifications to back up our decision. How do we make commitments to a woman we’ve never met? What if she’s crazy or just annoying or lives far away or lives too close or does drugs or wants to be at birthday parties or doesn’t let me be entirely mom? Mix this in with some “feelings” about a teenager being PREGNANT while my well-behaved, God-honoring, miracle-believing body of one was failing me. It was a hard way to think about anyone other than myself and what I wanted.
I think we entered adoption as the pendulum was swinging steadily in the direction of openness. At the time, we didn’t know anyone with an open adoption and besides, we just honestly wanted a healthy, white baby that looked as much like us as possible. We would become a newly created family and sort of carry on like our friends and their traditional families. I even remember a conversation where we SAID OUT LOUD, “We’re adopting a baby…not a whole family.”
It’s hard to write that out because I’m ashamed of how we kept our kid’s birth families at arm's lengths over our own issues of insecurity and fear. We didn’t really want to invite messy into our lives. We didn’t know how to navigate the uncomfortable spaces. We belittled the importance biology would have as our children started questioning and understanding their core identity. But of all things, we missed out on entire sets of people who loved our kids. And whether I wanted to admit it or not our kids also happen to kind of be their kids. I’m sad for all that we’ve missed because our glasses were too foggy to accept more than a baby into our family.
I’ve had to get really uncomfortable with myself to change my relationship with my children’s birthparents. I’ve had to relinquish the idea that I would be enough for my kids. I’ve had to invite other people into our growing family because in most cases, it was what was best for my kids who’s longing to understand their belonging was intense and deep. I’ve had to accept that other people can pour into their hearts and help them develop into healthy individuals with questions answered and identities intact. I had to listen to adoptee voices who have not had the opportunity to know their backgrounds. I had to listen to smart people who do studies on this sort of thing. I had to listen to birthparents and hear about different ways that openness can take shape and how often the adoption story leaves them in the dust. And I had to sit face to face with women who were entrusting me with a lifetime of raising their child as I saw their pain and their tears as they stuck with their decision.
I don’t know when exactly my internal shift started showing up in tangible decisions. But we are in a different place and we’re better for it.
We now have Great Grandpa Carl in our life. He is 94 years young. When I think of Jesus and how he went after the lost until they were found, I think of this man and our daughter. He never knew of the pregnancy, never got to meet his great granddaughter, wasn’t even told of her adoption until bumping into an acquaintance at a store. He held an infant around that same time at a Christmas party, rocking her, tears streaming, and mourning the loss of of our girl. Knowing he doesn’t have much left time on earth, he made calls until he finally found her. We now meet up regularly at the China Buffet where he has slowly introduced us to other family and said repeatedly how much he wished his wife could have been here to meet her. He remembers our girl’s birthday and sends a card and a birthday check which is a tender display of wantedness. I’ve not known Grandpa Carl for long, but I love him because he loves my daughter, his great granddaughter. And although I knew that it was going to be a risk, we made that first drive and sat in this man’s home as he poured into our daughter with tears flowing freely. We are better because Grandpa Carl is in our life.
We spent a Sunday in a glass-blowing shop this month with another birth family. I saw a smiling boy who felt affirmed and felt connection and felt belonging. As we walked into their family home for the first time, Happy Birthday signs were hanging and cake was ready on the table next to the gifts they had bought. After 11 years, It was their first time celebrating a birthday with our shared boy. We played Monopoly and they gave him a special book which is now a treasured possession. On the drive home, our son said from the very back seat of the car, “Thank you so much for taking me today.” We are better because these people are in his life.
When we headed to a foreign country and came home with a brown baby, I thought our one visit would be the last contact we had with his birth mom. That meeting was tender and special, but I knew the miles and the language and the access to technology would be a barrier. Over the years, we hired a man to contact her and give her some updates and when I asked if there was any way that she might have an email account, suddenly the dynamics shifted. She did and I had a way to reach her! And with the help of google translate, I now get a few sentences and photos weekly from Ethiopia. This young woman is thriving and her photos show it. The latest photo was on her “Congratulations Day” where she stands in cap and gown having completed accounting school. That same day I sent a return photo of a toothless smiling boy across the ocean in a matter of seconds. She ends every email with, “I thank God. I am so glad I found you.” We are better to have her in our life.
But openness is also hard. And when you have four children with different access and different receptiveness from first families, other’s contact can turn into a trigger and anger and tears at a glass blowing shop. It’s a reminder of a gaping absence and the reality that connection might never take place.
Because open adoptions ARE messy.
Open adoption also looks like one-sided letters and communication without a response year after year. It’s an invitation that never gets a RSVP.
Open adoption looks like a long-awaited contact with an unknown birthparent who is initially receptive to a caseworker, but then fades back into silence.
Open adoption looks like a visit that sends a kiddo into a tailspin for two years of feeling like they are in the wrong family.
Open adoption looks like a call to the school and installed video doorbells because someone in a birth family is a safety risk.
Open adoption looks like communication that says, “Openness right now needs to have some boundaries. And for now, this is going to go through a social worker.”
We’ve had some trial and error in these extended relationships and we’re still working through our family guidelines. There is not a one size fits all approach because every relationship is different and the guidelines keep shifting as we enter into relationship. But for now, here’s where we’ve landed.
1. Every interested child is entitled to his or her own connection to a birth family even if it is hard for their siblings. So while some celebrate and revel in relationship, we simultaneously walk through sadness and pain. We say that it is good but it’s also hard. We say that is isn’t fair. We say that we understand that this makes loss feel stronger and tighter. We hold them close and hug and let them know that we see the struggle. There’s no shiny ribbon for this situation. Many times when the words don’t come out, the behavior gets a little wonky and we know that someone needs some extra attention.
2. We offer an out. If we’re doing a family visit with birthfamilies, we’ve learned that a visit isn’t always in the best interest of each member within our family unit. That means we sometimes need to find someone in the village to step in and pour into a particular kiddo while the rest of us head out.
3. We give honest info about struggling birthparents. That means we’ve had conversations about mental illness, prison, avoidance, rejection, poverty, death, other pregnancies, and addiction. We want our kids to know that we don’t keep secrets from them about their stories and that we will talk about hard things with them. And in return, they trust us with their questions.
4. We let them write things down. “What’s that? You want to know this or you have a question about that? Why don’t we write it down and we can include that when we send our next letter." OR, “If we ever get to meet/ask Him or Her, we can share this with them.” OR, "Sometimes if just feels better to be able to get our thoughts or “wonders” out of our brains and onto paper." For those with contact, we give them the choice of writing an annual letter or we let them opt out.
5. We pray for birthfamilies. When we have a conversation just before the light’s go out at bedtime (<-favorite child time to talk about this, least favorite parent time to talk about this), we end with, “How about if we pray for them?” I can think of no greater demonstration to our kids that we care about their families than to bring them to the throne and intercede on their behalf.
This family plus another family plus another family plus another family plus another family is tricky. We don't have this all figured out. In fact, it feels like a lot right now. It’s a logistical puzzle, an emotional rollercoaster, and honestly, sometimes I don’t feel like going to the China Buffet. But we’re going to keep at it because sometimes messy means eating wontons and crab legs with an extended family that is teaching you about the importance of pursuing relationship. And that is worth it every time.
