I don’t feel the need to say I love my kid like he was my own flesh and blood. The truth is I love him like he was adopted into my family.
See, I don’t believe that blood is the all holy grail that everything must be compared to. I don’t feel the need to somehow prove that we’re as viable a family as those who share a biological code. I don’t need to compare my love to that of genetically linked parents and children.
We’re a trans-racial adoptive family and I’m freaking proud of it. I’m not going to compare it to a genetic family because it doesn’t need to be compared. It’s strong enough to stand on its own – proud and sure and waving its weird flag high. Nothing wrong with being different, nothing wrong with wanting this family and no other.
And I’m talking about me here, my feelings and emotions as an adoptive mother. I don’t claim and won’t claim to speak for my child. Someday he’ll have to make the decision of what family means to him. I hope his genetic family is important to him, I hope his adoptive family is important to him. I hope one day he can wrap his brain around the complexity, the beauty, and the pain that is his past and his present. I hope one day he decides for himself who he is and wants to be and that he’s proud of that person And that day might not come without some anger towards me and his father, I’m okay with that. Because I chose this. I chose this life. He didn’t.
But in the meantime until that day comes, and he ventures off through the thoughts and questions that are the rite of passage to becoming an adult member of this human race, I’m going to be creating a home life that says “This is us, and we’re okay. Some days we’re even fabulous. None of us share a genetic link and we’re good with that. We share a different bond, and it’s powerful.”
And while it makes me a hypocrite, if someday I hear someone say “I love this kid I just birthed like I adopted him” I’m going to smile and think “that’s some strong love there.”