A letter to my son on his adoption day

Kingston,

On May 2, 2015 Bubbie and I were at an all-day foster parent training. A regional leader at DFCS was encouraging us to recruit more foster families. She said she had never seen the need so great in our community. She said “I’ve got a newborn in the hospital right now with no one to take him and that’s how you know its bad. We need more homes.” After the training we went to talk to her. We told her that even though we already had a two year old and a one year old at home – that if she would let us – we would be willing to have three kids. That night she texted me with one word “Newborn?” I responded “Maybe.” And then Bubbie and I talked and prayed and I texted her back “We have talked and prayed and would like more information if we could be considered. We are willing.” Over the next few days we got pieces of information. At about 3 o’clock in the afternoon someone finally called and said “he’s ready to be discharged can you come before 5?” So I left work and picked you up from the hospital on the way home!

We had a rough start. You had (and still have) lots of allergies that made you very uncomfortable. We finally figured out the best combination of formula and medicine for you about 7 months later. In those first 7 months we spent lots and lots of time walking and bouncing and watching Gilmore Girls reruns through the night. You were the first newborn baby we’ve taken care of. We both had a lot of learning to do.

For almost exactly a year it looked like the plan for you was going to be going back to live with your first mom. She loves you SO much. And she has never failed to visit you, check on you, and make sure you have what you need. You’ve had lots of love from her from the very beginning. We still see her and will keep seeing her as long as it is healthy for you.

For a couple of months in your first year it seemed like you might be going to live in the foster home where your older sister was living. We’re still not very sure why that never happened in 2016. Later things changed and some people wanted to you move there in 2018. At that point we were not convinced that would be the best place for you and worked hard to keep you in our home. Many things have happened in these 1487 days that we don’t understand. There have been lots of people who really looked out for you and helped us get here.

I tell you this to say, that we haven’t always known that you would end up being our forever son. That's the way foster care is sometimes. Trying to make decisions to determine what the best thing for you might be has been one of the hardest things I've ever done. Your Bubbie and I have spent lots of time reading and consulting and praying and talking and working to make sure that we can be the very best parents for you. This hasn't been easy and just because our names match now, its not magically going to get easier.

Just know this. Today a judge (after lots of work by lawyers, advocates, case managers, friends, pray-ers, and your village) declared that you are legally our son. This is the day that our names match. This is the day I get to forever know that I am your Mama. I pray everyday that I am up for this! You are wanted. You are loved. You are fought-for. One of the lines from a song from our favorite artist says "You are not an accident where no one thought it through; The world it stood against us, made us mean to fight for you; and when we chose your name we knew you'd fight the power too." We mean those words, Buddy. We fought for you. And we will keep fighting.

We've chosen a name for you that reminds us of what you have brought to our family. Hearts are fragile. Hearts are wild. Hearts are unpredictable and unruly sometimes. Hearts get us into the most trouble and the most beauty that most of us ever experience. Hearts are necessary. Hearts grow and beat and keep us going. We love yours. And we love you.

Happy Adoption Day, Kingston. This is a wild and beautiful world and I'm glad we're in this together.

Love,
Mama

End of School and Big Changes for R and F

F,

This week you celebrated your last day of school at “big school” you call it. You had a great school year and learned so much! Before the year started I shared my hopes for this year (in this letter) for you most all of them came true!

You’ve learned so much at speech and are quite the chatterbox these days! You are so proud of all you’re learning. You’ve started drawing people and things and its so cool to watch you make sense of the world.

At both of your schools and daycare you learned about being a friend and having friends. You still prefer to play by yourself most of the time, but some of us are just wired that way!

You’ve mastered the potty! And you didn’t break your glasses! Preschool success!!

This summer will bring some big changes for you. Lots of people who love you and who are in charge of making decisions about you have decided that the best thing for you and your sisters is for you all to be together. This summer you’ll all be transitioning to live with a different family in a new town. We’ve started meeting them and letting them get to know you and you get to know them. We are working together to make this the best possible transition for all of us. We all want what’s best for you and R and M and P. We are so so grateful that you all will get to be together with a wonderful family who can meet your needs and connect you with resources and teach you about God’s love and be family for you if the judge decides you don’t need to move again. We will miss you so much. We will miss R so much. We’ve been family for nearly 2 years (which is hard to believe). This is going to be hard on us all. But we have hope as an anchor. That means we have big heavy hopes. Things that keep us held down in the best possible ways. Big hopes that your time with us has offered safety and stability and healing and growth and has prepared you and R for more safe and stable and healthy and growing years to come.

I love you, F. I am glad I’ve gotten to be your Mama for 679 days. I’m going to make sure these last 60 or so we have together are wonderful.

End of School Year Letter for Sam

Last week was your last day of kindergarten. I can’t believe how fast this school year flew by. I went back and looked at the letter I wrote you when school started and at the things I hoped you would learn this year and I’m amazed at how much you learned and how much you’ve changed and grown.

We have Mae Mae and Steve to thank for you managing sight words and AR points and homework. Without them I don’t think any of us would have made it through this year. Your time at their house every afternoon is a gift I am sure you’re going to treasure for all of your days.

You’ve learned to read! Right now you love to sound out every word you see and figure it out. You also LOVE to write. Your teacher sent you home with an amazing journal collection of your writing and drawing throughout the year and its so cool to see how much you’ve learned. You learned what it means to work on something really really hard and be proud of how it turned out.

You’ve made some friends this year and learned lessons about kindness and generosity. You also learned that taking a new toy to school to trade with a friend is probably not a good idea.

You’ve kept your sense of humor and learned more jokes. You had a teacher that handled and appreciated your sass which was a great match.

Thankfully you enjoyed school lunches all year. You got to take your lunch from home as a special reward sometimes but even started to turn it down at the end of the year.

You didn’t lose your pencil pouch and we heard and saw you choose kindness over and over.

You only get one year of kindergarten and there are something about this one that I will cherish and some things I wish had been different.

Mostly, I feel like I missed it.

I hope in the years to come I don’t miss it.

We made it through the school year and have fun things planned this summer. I can’t wait to spend extra time with you and watch you learn and grow!

Love, Mama

A Lesson in Perspective from K

In case you don’t get to spend a lot of time with this sweet boy on the reg., he has meltdowns. Meltdowns that leave me wishing I had a tranquilizer on hand—for myself, of course. This past Saturday he had one that has taken me a few days to process. Mainly because it happened in public. In Publix, actually. He and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping—a task which is normally done by him and Meg. But with her sick, we set out as soon as the little ones were down for their nap.

Meg would tell you that I’m a slow shopper. And that I made too many extra stops that prolonged the trip unnecessarily. I would agree. By the time we got to Publix it was already time to be home preparing dinner—with food we needed from Publix. So we rushed in the “green store” and I started ticking items off the Meg-made list. K immediately noticed a fellow patron getting an Elsa balloon inflated for a birthday party and wanted to watch. I obliged while I was in the area, but eventually I had to break it to him that we had to go to the next isle. I should have known. I should have prepared him. He fell to the floor whining, crying, and kicking while repeating “I don’t want to go” over and over.

After failed attempts at empty threats and bribery I put the produce back up, abandoned the buggy, and scooped him up like a baby. At the door I told him I would let him down, and I let him know calmly and firmly that he had to hold my hand in the parking lot. He fell out again, this time grabbing onto the sliding door, snorting and yelling “no, no, no.” Snot bubbles, spit . . . his face was contorted and glistening. I scooped him up again and headed to the car, humiliated. I could feel eyes on us as we walked the 20 yards, but did not realize exactly what was happening outside my tunnel vision. I had to wrestle him into his car seat before I could escape the situation, drawing even more attention to our plight (he was still screaming).

Finally, I backed out of my parking spot and turned around to a crowd of faces still staring—one woman, cell phone in hand, taking pictures or videos of the car, us, and then my license plate. I *politely* rolled down my window and let her know “He’s mine, okay?!?!?” The only response I got was her index finger wagging at the sky while her head bobbled back and forth in my rear-view mirror. I can only imagine what she was preaching to the crowd around her.

When I got back home I broke down recounting the story to Meg. Anger. Shame. Inadequacy. Fear. And in the midst of all my tears my sweet boy finally snapped back (he had cried to go back to the green store since we left the green store) and stood beside me patting my arm.

Perception. OED defines it as “the ability to see, hear, or become aware of something through the senses” and “the way in which something is regarded, understood, or interpreted.” My perception has been formed through all that I have seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched throughout my lifetime. Senses give us the basis to form memories about situations that in turn trigger our emotional senses: fear, trust, love, gratitude, loyalty . . . I have been stared at, but never quite like that. Not like a black family barbecuing in a public park, or a black student sleeping on the couch in a common room, or a brown family seeking asylum . . . My anger and fear and passive aggression come from a privileged perspective (though the almost-four-year-old with a quick temper played a minor role). I knew I would make it home safely—with my beautiful "brown" boy—barring an apoplectic stroke.

This may have nothing or everything to do with the Publix incident, but twice this week K has told me he’s different. Both times I have asked why he thinks that and he has replied, “because my skin is brown.” And both times I reassured him that everyone belongs in our family. Then I pointed out all the other families we know who don't "match." We are constantly exposing all of our children to new experiences and a rich variety of people. K has a barbershop, books that reflect his skin color, and music. He loves music. Beyoncé. Hazel Scott. Snoop Dogg…I want nothing more for K than for him to be safe, happy, and healthy and always know how much he is loved. I don’t want to steal his Black identity.

I am constantly aware of the implications of transracial adoption. We’re used to the stares, points, and whispers from the folks trying to figure us out. We’re a lot. Add other foster mamas (Missy & Octavia) to the mix and we’re a mystery that cannot be solved . . . unless you know us. And how can you know us if all you do is stand back and judge or call the police? (I just want to say that don’t you think kidnappers would be more discreet than a large white woman in a tie-dyed shirt carrying a screaming child through the parking lot?) I realized I probably seemed unapproachable Sunday, that’s my fault. But a kind word, an empathetic nod…a conversation about the difficulties of parenting. Any of those would have been nice. And way more constructive than pointing fingers in a parking lot. (I'm still a little miffed.)

We all—no matter race, color, creed, or sexual orientation—have common lived experiences that could meaningfully connect us with others in this divided world, if only we took a moment to gain perspective.