The Lucky Ones

When attending social events with strangers or casual acquaintances, Laurie and I are often asked for intimate details about our children’s adoption stories. We’re reluctant to share such details, not because we’re private people (readers of our blogs, testify!) but because we view these details as the children’s stories. In other words, since it’s not our story to tell, we don’t tell it.

Through experience, Laurie and I’ve found a comfortable middle ground where we share our journey through fostering and adopting, thus limiting as much background of their birth families as possible. Nevertheless, what little we share includes some unpleasant facts, as a certain amount of grief, loss, and trauma accompanies every foster or adoption story. These unpleasant facts inevitably inspire the listeners to respond, “Those children are so lucky to have you.”

While I’m fine with saying “Thank you” and hoping to move on to a new topic as soon as possible, Laurie takes every opportunity to educate people. “We feel we’re lucky to have them,” she says. Then our audience nods their head, as if we gave them the response they expected. It feels to me like the entire conversation was part of a prearranged script, with Laurie and I reading the roles of “Saint” and our audience reading the role of “Inspired Listener.”

It’s an awkward statement – one that would seem ridiculous if the roles were reversed. Were a biological parent to be going on about their child’s grades or soccer team, it would never occur to us to say, “Your kids are lucky to have been born to you.” Furthermore, calling our kids lucky might seem more genuine to me if it came from an informed and credible source. At a recent parent/teacher conference, Isaac’s kindergarten teacher told Laurie, “Isaac really lucky to have you guys for parents. I can tell you guys are really involved with him.” Since she’s intimately acquainted with Isaac on a daily basis, her compliment was sincere.

But strangers have no idea if the kids are lucky to have us for parents or if we’re lucky to have them for children. It might not feel so forced from strangers if I agreed that the children were lucky to have us. The last time we acted out the screenplay was at a dinner party a few weeks ago. We were late getting out of the house, and in the car on the way to the babysitter’s house the kids were especially rowdy. The catalyst involved a toy laptop designed for children younger than our oldest, older than the youngest, and for boys the same as age as our daughter. Long story short, each of them was claiming the toy.

After what seemed like an eternity of arguing, crying, and bad attitudes, and several warnings and threats from their mother and me, I commandeered the toy and announced, “That’s it! If I hear anyone else say another word, or if anyone even looks at their brother or sister, they’re gonna be sorry.” There was a sad silence that lasted almost two minutes before one of them started fussing about something else. To avoid another outburst, I kept my mouth shut.

Later at the party, we met an older couple and started talking about the kids. Laurie whipped out the little photo album she keeps in her purse and gave the couple a short history of the last few years. Each time she turned a page, the wife touched her cheek and said, “Oh they’re precious!” Then she put her hand on Laurie’s knee and said, “They’re so lucky to have you guys as parents.” Laurie had been going on and on about the kids for at least ten minutes, so anyone listening could tell how proud we were of our kids. However, I couldn’t stop thinking about the incident back in the van.

Announcing that the children were forbidden from speaking to each other was the kind of statement an evil supervillain announces right before he casts the hero into a pool of angry sharks, but not something a grateful father says to the children he loves. After the party, we picked up the kids and on the way home, Isaac said, “Dad, you can let Vivi or J play with the laptop.” He handed Vivi the toy and she responded, “Thank you, Isaac. Look, Dad, I play so nice.” Then J said, “Fifi (Vivi), I play next my turn, please?”

Were I a suspicious father, I would have wondered if the kids had planned this conversation with the sole intention of making me feel like a heel. It just seemed too much – the kindness, the politeness. Where was this coming from? I gave Laurie a “What the?” look, and she smiled and hugged my arm. “They’re good kids,” she said. And I had no choice but to admit that I’m lucky to have such good kids.

This story is also posted at www.wearegoodkin.com.

Token Diversity Family

Shortly after Isaac came home, a friend – a white friend – said to us, “This is great! Our child doesn’t have any black friends.” Immediately, the phrase ‘token black child’ rang in my ears. I was struck by visions of social events in which people fixated on what made our family stand out. As a multiracial family, Laurie and I both recognize that we stand out. In almost any crowd, we are treated like a novelty.

We know that as the parents of these kids we have signed up for a lifetime of explaining and educating people, and we try to approach new people with optimism, and hope they will use discretion and tact when asking questions or making comments. We’ve learned that inappropriate questions and comments typically catch us off guard because they can come at anytime and from anyone – strangers in the grocery store, acquaintances, and friends and family with whom we thought we’d be safe.

We recognize the importance of giving people the benefit of the doubt but only up to a certain point. Often times, the oddest comments have come from people who seemed uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. When someone at work found out I adopted my son, he offered that his Japanese teacher had adopted a newborn but the birth father was contesting the adoption. I failed to see the relevance, so all I could think of to respond was “Okay.”

To be honest, I had a really hard time in the beginning with all the blatant staring and attention. I had to remind myself that if I saw a white man chasing a small black child through a crowded restaurant who was crying and screaming “I want my Mommy!” I’d stare too. But as his parent, the staring made me want to claim him all the more. “I love you, Son” or “Hold Daddy’s hand,” I’d announce. My wife and I don’t suffer the same kind of inappropriate conversations. My lot is to endure blunt questions like “Why did you adopt? Do you shoot blanks, or something?” and “Is your wife barren?” A lady once asked me, “Do you wear boxers or briefs? I’ve heard briefs can really mess up your count.”

Meanwhile Laurie gets asked, “How much did it cost?” and “What if their ‘real’ mother comes back for them?” Then, after she discretely avoids answering the questions, someone says, “I’d love to adopt. I don’t think I can handle another pregnancy.” Then Laurie gets to listen as the group discusses baby showers, breast feeding, and many other aspects of parenting we’ve yet to experience.

While Laurie and I prefer to be accepted as normal parents, as time has passed, we’ve accepted the attention that comes with having such an interesting family. At parties, hosts who know our kids nonchalantly introduce us, adding, “They have the cutest family,” ultimately forcing us to whip out pictures of the kids. For a while, it felt like we were being labeled; the couple who just got back from a trip, the couple who sells real estate together, and us, the couple who adopted. Inevitably, we became the center of attention, and I felt the eyes of the entire room on us as we talked about the same mundane things everyone else’s kids do.

Just a few weeks ago, Laurie and I attended a wedding shower where we knew only the groom and his immediate family. The mother has known Laurie for years and took great pride in introducing us to the other guests. “Come on, Laurie,” she said to a group of couples, “I know you keep a little photo album in your purse. Let’s see those little darlings.” It’s hard to feign modesty when you keep a small photo album handy for just such an occasion. But the guests genuinely perked up with interest: “Oh. My. Gosh.” “Aren’t they precious?” “You all are just a bunch of saints. Saint Billy and Saint Laurie.”

It might have been too over the top, but this was nothing we haven’t heard before, even the “Saint” part. Years ago, we might have felt awkward pretending to be humble. We’d feebly thank them, but we usually made them feel embarrassed rather than encouraging. But I’d like to think we’ve grown past that, to a point where I can humbly accept their adulations, where I can reach out and hold Laurie’s hand, put my other hand on my heart, nod my head, and say, “You’re right. We are terrific people.”

Pulling Back in Open Adoption

A few years ago, Laurie and I met a couple who said that they had “adopted” their birthmother when they adopted their child. She had become a member of their family, spending the night on holidays, even baby-sitting the child.

In foster-parent training, Laurie and I learned that, when you adopt from foster care, birth families rarely maintain an open relationship. When preparing to adopt our second child, as a newborn, our agency taught us about the benefits of contact to everyone involved.

When we met M, we loved her immediately. She relaxed us with her sense of humor, and thrilled us when she told us that the baby in her tummy was ours. “I want you to be in the delivery room with her when she’s born,” she said to us. “I want her Mom and Dad to name her.”

Our relationship blossomed over the first year. After we brought Vivi home, we met with M every few months. In between visits, we exchanged phone calls, e-mails, and texts. We even spoke in training sessions together, to couples interested in adoption. Our agency told us that hearing our story alongside M’s gave new families a good perspective on open adoption.

Then, some time after Vivi’s second birthday, that relationship changed. As M became comfortable with us during our visits, she began to make more personal remarks, including some that contradicted what she had told us earlier about her pregnancy. Eventually, Laurie called our agency to explain the situation, and we had to involve our lawyer to confirm that the adoption was unassailable.

While our worst fears of something disrupting our family settled down, our hurt at M’s actions took a while to process. We never considered ending the relationship—M is our daughter’s birthmother, and, because of that, she is our family, too—but we decided we needed to pull back a little. The summer passed, and we remained out of contact with M.

One night Laurie was on the computer when she received an instant message from M. It read, “I’m so sorry for everything that happened.” Laurie responded that we were hurt by the events that had transpired, and that we had needed some time to work through it. M's response was quick, “Well, I hope you all have a good life. Take care.”

We sensed that M was reacting this way to keep herself at a distance, should we decide to break off contact, so we quickly explained that, while we were disappointed, she was not going to get rid of us that easily. She was family. M said she couldn’t believe that we still wanted to maintain a relationship. Her family had been telling her that one day we would stop all correspondence, and she thought this was it.

The next time we met, we told M that family members have fights and disagreements, but that doesn’t mean they never speak to each other again. These days, we visit less frequently, but continue to send photos almost monthly. Through this experience, Laurie and I learned that an open adoption is an evolving relationship, requiring patience, love, acceptance, boundaries, and communication.

When I think about the couple who “adopted” their birthmother, I wonder whether we missed an opportunity. They said they thought they would receive one addition to the family but, to their delight, they got a second. I don’t see M that way. Laurie and I hoped for a child, and we got one, with Vivi. The bonus is that we have one more person in our life who cares deeply about her.

This article can also be read at http://www.adoptivefamilies.com/.

New Kin

In foster care training, we learned foster kids have a history with missing pieces, that there can be large parts of their past that are either traumatic or completely forgotten by the kids. So when our oldest son, Isaac, came to us at sixteen months old, Laurie and I were prepared to know nothing about his story.

For a while, we mourned missing Isaac’s first year, hearing his first word and watching his first steps. Then our curiosity shifted and we wanted to provide him some background for his own sake. In our foster and adoptive parents’ playgroups and support groups, parents shared stories about their children asking about their birthparents.

Some kids grieved the loss of their former family while other children couldn’t have cared less. Laurie and I knew that a relationship with Isaac’s birth family was unrealistic. But we wished we had some pictures or maybe even a letter or a card—something that would make them real people to us rather than simply names on the pages of official court documents.

Nevertheless, Laurie and I made our peace with the mystery of Isaac’s birth family. We adopted him just after his second birthday, and his baby sister, Vivianna, was born four months later. As we developed an open adoption with Vivi’s birthmother, Laurie and I prepared ourselves for any potential questions or grief Isaac might have watching his sister look at pictures, read cards, and even play with birthday and Christmas presents from her birth family. We expected this to one day bother Isaac, but we did not expect the phone call we got from his former CPS worker in July this past year, informing us that Isaac has a younger brother who just entered foster care. “We want to place him with you as a kinship placement,” the caseworker said.

Laurie called me at work to tell me. “I told her I’d have to talk to you,” she said. It took me less than two seconds to say absolutely. “I told the caseworker you’d immediately say yes,” she said. “But can you believe it? Isaac has a little brother!” Laurie called the caseworker back and learned that J had been in foster care for just over a week and that he and his birthmother had already had one visitation meeting. Moreover, the caseworker had supervised the meeting and took pictures of J and the birthmother he shared with Isaac.

When I got home that night, I sat at the computer and watched the slideshow with Laurie sitting next to me. I saw little two-year-old J playing a toy piano in baggy blue clothes. His skin complexion and forehead matched Isaac. “That’s him?” I said to Laurie. She nodded. I clicked on the next picture and saw a woman feeding him out of a fast food bag. “That’s her?” I said to Laurie. She nodded. A few weeks later, Isaac’s little brother came to our home.

Although his first two-and-a-half years were a mystery, J adapted to our home quickly, and Isaac and Vivi accepted their new roles as older siblings. Laurie and I couldn’t have been happier to welcome him into our home. It thrilled us that he got to share memories with us like Isaac’s first day of kindergarten and Isaac’s sixth birthday. Then, J’s caseworker informed us that two of our boys’ older cousins had entered foster care. When CPS decided the cousins – a teen boy and a preteen boy—would remain in foster care and not return to their family, they told their caseworker they wanted the chance to tell J goodbye. Laurie and I told our caseworker we had a better idea. The two caseworkers set up a meeting at the CPS office, and we got to meet the cousins.

During most of the visit, Isaac played swords with the preteen and the teen tended to J, wiping his nose, feeding him the cookies we brought, and instructing us on J’s likes and dislikes. Everyone got along great, so we invited the boys to Thanksgiving dinner. Isaac and I picked up the boys around lunchtime and we spent the afternoon eating snacks, watching parades and football on TV, and playing kickball outside. Both cousins took three helpings at dinner, and slept soundly in our boys’ bunk beds. Just before we left the next morning, they asked if they could come visit us every weekend.

A few weeks later, Isaac and I picked the cousins up again for the weekend to celebrate Christmas. That Friday night, we gave them gifts and stockings, took them to a light show, and came home for cookies and hot chocolate. Saturday, we took them out for pizza, and Sunday, they came with us to church. Everywhere we went, the younger cousin played with Isaac while the older played with J and told us stories of about their birth family.

Laurie and I are thrilled at all the memories we’ve been able to share with our new family. Annual activities like watching football on Thanksgiving and driving around the neighborhood looking at Christmas lights are now more significant because we’ve done them with members of our boys’ birth family. We’d spent years praying for photos or a letter, but we didn’t expect we’d get a new extended family.

This article can also be read at wearegoodkin.com.

Racism is Alive and Well and Living on the Blogs

My wife recently caused a storm on her blog when she wrote about a minor incident involving our son, Isaac, being called a “monkey boy” by some of his friends at school. The kids were far too young to understand they’d done something racially charged; in fact the incident seemed playful in nature rather than name-calling. Nevertheless, Laurie wrote about it on her blog and, as with any discussion involving race, the responses ran black and white, from absolute support and gratitude to outrage.

Coincidentally, another mother who had adopted a boy from Ethiopia a few weeks earlier had posted pictures of her son in a monkey costume for Halloween the same day Laurie published her post and started a similar controversy. Some of her readers, one of whom identified themselves as black, commented that they thought the costume was offensive while others supported her costume and rebuked those who were offended. The dialogue between bloggers frustrated and disheartened the mother and she wrote that she was considering taking down the blog.

I’ve had a blog for several years now and have had to confront a false sense of anonymity the Internet gives people. Many readers and writers feel free to write what they don’t have the courage to say in person. From the comfort of their computer, they can tell the black community to get over slavery, that whites have no privileges over anyone else, and that it is “reverse racism” when a black person is offended.

Bloggers need to realize that if your blog is a forum for your opinion, then it is a forum for the opinions of your readers as well. If you want to express yourself without dealing with opposing opinions, I suggest you start a new blog and make sure not to tell anyone else in the world about it.

So to the adoptive mother, let me encourage you to continue blogging. You are now a multiracial family and need to prepare yourself for a lifetime of discussions on race. White people, for the most part, don’t need to discuss race on a regular basis. In fact, discussing it seems to unnecessarily make a big deal about it. One reader posted on Laurie’s blog, “If we continue to teach children that ‘monkey’ is a derogatory term, then we’ll never get beyond it.” Ultimately, the comment implies that if we ignore racism, it will go away on its own. Laurie has been receiving racist comments from an anonymous reader. So is the writer’s advice to us to get over it and stop being so sensitive, or to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own, or is it reverse racism for us to address it?

You’re probably shocked to have to defend your family to strangers. But your blog can be a terrific place to connect with like-minded parents who know exactly what you are going through. If you encounter racism and negativity regarding your blog posts, then you’re going to get them at the grocery store, at church, and everywhere else you go. Laurie and I found the first few months with Isaac the hardest – both with our family and total strangers. We struggled to adapt to staring and inappropriate comments and questions. From other adopted families, we learned gracious and humorous ways to respond, and we’re much more prepared to defend our family. These connections were possible because we put ourselves out there, as did the families that saw our family and reached out to us.

While our parental instincts tell us to protect our children, we simply can’t protect them from everything. Laurie and I are committed to protecting our kids as best we can as well as mourning with them when we failed. Your son will not be able to run from his black skin, and the best thing you can do for him to model how to stand up for yourself.

One reader commented to Laurie, “You are arrogant to believe that what you say to a teacher or to other children is making a difference.” Maybe I am arrogant, but the alternative of remaining silent is too cowardly for me. If my kids grow up too proud of their race as opposed to too timid, I can live with that.

The Staffing

A month after J came home, we received an official letter in the mail addressed to any parties with an interest in the child. We were invited to attend a staffing at the Department of Family and Protective Services – a meeting to discuss the future placement of J.

“So this is when they decide who gets custody of J?” I asked Laurie.

“No, its too soon,” she said. “More than likely they’ll proceed with reunification because they’re legally required to give the birth mom a chance to work her service plan. Then they’ll reconvene in a few months to reevaluate.”

Laurie and I arrived at the CPS building a few minutes early and had the front desk page J’s caseworker. While we waited, we reminisced about our first foster child who we brought to this office for visitations with her birth mother. We said goodbye to her in the parking lot when we dropped her off for her weekly visit, knowing afterward that her caseworker would drive her to a distant relative. I remembered wondering what she would be thinking after her visit when we weren’t there to pick her up.

J’s case worker, Jen, came to the front office and led us through a series of halls with small visitation rooms with donated toys and cartoon murals, past a set of doors with a sign reading “No Children Beyond This Point,” into a room with fold-out tables arranged to look like a conference room. Several people were already seated with notepads and file folders ready. No one introduced themselves to us or asked who we were. Jen, who was also Isaac’s caseworker three years ago when he was a foster child, is petite, soft-spoken, and awkward. Her demeanor seems better suited for work in a library rather than with troubled children. I hoped she might introduce us to the group, but when she sat down without saying anything, I waited until someone acknowledged us.

I’m not sure who initiated the conversation. More than likely, someone mentioned J and Laurie jumped in. She rarely needs an invitation to show off our kids. We might be in a meeting with adoptive families or at the grocery store with total stranger and, within seconds, she whips out the little photo album she keeps in her purse and passes it around. Ordinarily, I’m amused that she is so proud of them, but here it seemed unprofessional. These were hardened caseworkers who didn’t seem interested that he liked playing in the pool or that our dogs loved him for his many odors.

Finally, a woman sitting across from us said, “Well, let’s get started. Why don’t we go around the room and introduce ourselves and what our role is with the child.” Jen started, followed by her supervisor, a lawyer representing CPS, a lawyer representing J’s attorney ad litem, someone representing CASA, their supervisor, someone representing kinship placements, their supervisor, and an attorney representing kinship. The facilitator asked Jen how J came into foster care. Jen nervously cleared her throat, picked up her file folder, and pretended to look through it. She spoke for less than a minute and said “um” no less than ten times. At first, I thought she was being discrete, but when she didn’t even know if the bio mom was working her service plan, I worried that Jen had no idea what was going on. While she went to a lot of trouble to locate Laurie and me to place J with us, she also allowed Isaac to wallow in a neglectful foster home when he was a baby. Now, J’s fate as our legal child rested in her hands. With the exception of the birth mom Isaac and J share, I’ve never had more conflicting feelings toward another human being.

At first, I felt intimidated by everyone’s credentials. But after two minutes of discussion about the case, I realized Laurie and I were clearly the most informed people in the room. The group took twenty minutes before they got caught up on facts Laurie and I knew off the top of our heads.

I entered the meeting knowing that CPS is required by law to give the bio mom a chance to work her plan, regardless of her past. So I was not disappointed when they concluded by giving her the chance for reunification. After years of foster parenting, I’ve learned that CPS typically talks more about the rights of bio parents and less about the long-term well being of the child, although they claim the two are synonymous.

Jen walked us back through the maze to the front entrance. She and Laurie talked about J’s next visitation with his bio mom, but I was too distracted. While I may have been a little embarrassed when Laurie passed around the photo album before the meeting, I now worried I’d missed the chance to represent J. The group of caseworkers had been in meetings for hours and we were one of the last of the day. To them, J was another name on the page and I had failed to bring him to life. I wished I’d made a scene. “I want to be his Daddy. I’ll do whatever it takes.” I wished I’d shown them pictures of J on my phone eating watermelon and reading books. For that matter, I wished I’d have brought a slideshow, a PowerPoint presentation, or the frigging laptop, which has over two hundred pictures devoted just to his first week with us. “Here’s J playing with Oscar in our playroom. Here’s another one of him playing with Oscar in our bedroom. Here’s one of him playing with Oscar and Lucy. Here’s one with him, Oscar, Lucy and Vivi playing in the playroom. Here’s one with them in the back yard.”

In my head, I know this wouldn’t have made a difference. While these antics make good prime time drama, real life doesn’t work that way. Several in the group had used the word “reunification” with a wink and a nod, and someone even said, “We all know where this case is heading,” meaning that termination was inevitable. So until then, the fate of our family rests there.

The Good Fight

When I became a foster parent, I had no idea how the role would affect me. Of course, I understood how radically my lifestyle would change, but I was not prepared for how radically I myself would change.

As a young adult, I never felt comfortable with confrontation. The notion of getting into an argument intimidated me. When I first got promoted to a supervisor position, I had to deal with employee performance issues like dress code and time and attendance. When I had to coach someone’s performance, I worried for days about the conversation, planning how I should phrase my words and preparing for retaliation. Maybe I worried I’d lose the argument or that the employee wouldn’t like me anymore, but I had a job to do and, through practice and some feeble trial-and-error, I improved and learned not to let their reaction bother me.

Nearly a decade has passed since I received my first taste of responsibility as a young adult. Since then, my wife, Laurie, and I have fostered five children, all under the age of three, and adopted two – one from foster care and one from a private agency. Currently, we are a kinship placement for our oldest son’s biological brother, a two-year-old boy we call J.

J came to us with multiple medical issues; the most serious concern was his need for oral surgery. A week after he came home, Laurie booked an appointment with a reputable pediatric dentist who accepted Medicaid (a battle itself). The dentist found eight cavities and recommended the only oral surgeon in town who accepted Medicaid. Unfortunately, this surgeon worked on children once a month and was booked until the following month.

During the month we waited for his surgery, J had three head colds. Laurie took him to the doctor three times and each time the doctor sent her away with a prescription for over-the-counter medication. J’s third cold came the weekend before his surgery and Laurie and I worried that if he were placed on an antibiotic his surgery would be postponed.

Our fears came true when Laurie took him in first thing Monday morning. The doctor diagnosed J with strep throat and said that his surgery would have to be postponed. Laurie called me at work and broke down crying. Had she been in good health herself, she might not have fallen apart, but she was on her way to her doctor who would diagnose her with strep throat as well.

I took a half sick day, rushed home, and booked an appointment for my three-year-old daughter, Vivianna, to see her pediatrician since she’d had a runny nose for a couple days. While I was gone, Laurie called the oral surgeon to cancel Thursday’s surgery. The office informed her the surgeon was booked the following month and that we’d have to wait two months. When Laurie called me with the news, I lost my temper.

I called J’s pediatrician’s office and told the receptionist that if J had been put on antibiotics the two earlier times we’d brought him in, then he wouldn’t have gotten strep, given it to his mother, I wouldn’t have had to take a sick day, and J’s surgery wouldn’t have to be postponed. The receptionist transferred me to the doctor’s assistant who asked me to repeat the entire story. I repeated everything at a higher volume and added, “This is your office’s fault and you need to make it right.” It was a pathetic bluff; this wasn't a restaurant that had messed up our meal and could comp the ticket. Nevertheless, it surprised me when she said I could bring him back in for a penicillin shot.

“You want me to bring him back today?” I asked.

The assistant said, “As long as he doesn’t have a reaction to the shot he can still have the surgery.”
I was more angry than relieved. “Why didn’t you give him the shot earlier in the day when he was in?” I asked.

She offered no explanation. She only said, “I’ll have to check with the doctor to make sure we can fit you in today.”

By now, it was after three o’clock in the afternoon and I started to worry about rush hour traffic and what we were going to do about dinner. At 3:30pm, the assistant called and said I could bring him in. I drove J myself and we were in and out in thirty minutes. He had no reaction to the penicillin and, three days later, had the surgery and came out fine.

I don’t like that I got as frustrated as I did with the pediatrician’s office. Yet, I don’t understand why i had to get so upset to get results from them. Had I not yelled at the assistant, she would not have offered the penicillin shot and J’s surgery would be postponed two months.

I have to remind myself that although the doctor’s office takes Medicaid, it is still a business and the staff will not lose any sleep if my son cries and points at his teeth when he chews food. Laurie and I alone are emotionally invested in the well being of this child. Like my role as a supervisor, I consider my role of a father as doing what I have to do because it’s my job, regardless of how comfortable I am. I don’t consider myself I fighter; rather I’m an advocate willing to do whatever it takes to ensure my children are taken care of.

A Second Chance for a Background

When Isaac came home as a sixteen-month-old foster child, Laurie, and I quickly had to accept that whatever happened prior to him coming to us would remain a mystery. Although we closely examined every court document and affidavit we received, we only learned names of his birthmother and his biological siblings and some of their mistakes.

At first, we wanted to know Isaac’s history in order to better parent him and explain some of his behavior. But we made do with the resources we had. We read books on toddler adoption, got involved with other foster and adoptive parents, and sought advice from doctors, play therapists, and behavioral specialists. After only a few months in our home, Isaac quickly bonded with us and caught up on his development.

Then our curiosity shifted and we wanted to provide him some background for his own sake. In our foster and adoptive parents’ playgroups and support groups, parents shared stories about their children asking about their birthparents. Some kids grieved the loss of their former family while other children couldn’t have cared less. Laurie and I knew that a relationship with Isaac’s birth family was unrealistic. But we wished we had some pictures or maybe even a letter or a card – something that would make them real people rather than simply names on pages of official court documents.

Nevertheless, Laurie and I made our peace with the mystery of Isaac’s birth family. We adopted him just after his second birthday and his baby sister, Vivianna, was born four months later. As we developed an open adoption with Vivi’s birthmother, Laurie and I prepared ourselves for any potential questions or grief Isaac might have watching his sister look at pictures, read cards, and even play with birthday and Christmas presents from her birth family. We expected this to one day bother Isaac. But what we did not expect was the phone call we got from his former CPS worker on a warm morning in June of this year, informing us that Isaac has a younger brother who had just entered foster care.

“We want to place him with you as a kinship placement,” the caseworker said.

Laurie called me at work to tell me. “I told her I’d have to talk to you,” she told me.

It took me less than two seconds to say absolutely. “I told the caseworker you’d immediately say yes,” she said. “But can you believe it? Isaac has a little brother!”

Laurie called the caseworker back and learned that J had been in foster care for just over a week and that he and his birthmother had already had one visitation meeting. Moreover, the caseworker had supervised the meeting and took pictures of J and the birthmother he shared with Isaac.

When I got home that night, I sat at the computer and watched the slideshow with Laurie sitting next to me. I saw little two-year-old J playing a toy piano in baggy blue clothes. His skin complexion and forehead matched Isaac. “That’s him?” I said to Laurie. She nodded.

I clicked on the next picture and saw a woman feeding him out of a fast food bag. “That’s her?” I said to Laurie. She nodded.

The next few weeks crawled by. J’s team of caseworkers required a home study on us before he could be placed with us, which took two additional weeks to approve. Finally, six weeks after entering foster care, the caseworker brought Isaac’s two-year-old brother to our home.

Friends donated a bunk bed for the boys to share, which they loved almost immediately. In fact, I had to forbid use of the ladder within five minutes of assembling it.

J adapted to our routine quickly. He ate nearly everything we put on his plate and slept soundly. He had a limited vocabulary, which developed quickly under the influence of an older brother and sister. Both Isaac and Vivi accepted him immediately, with Vivi telling everyone within earshot, “He baby brudder.” She followed him around the house all day asking him, “You come play in my room?” At three years old, she’s only nine months older than he and they make a great pair. She suggested her favorite games – princess dolls and makeup – and he complied unconditionally.

Meanwhile, Isaac accepted his role as the protective big brother. He worked diligently to teach J the word “gentle.” From the other side of the house, we heard Isaac shout, “No, J. Gentle with the dogs” or “gentle with Vivi’s hair.” Then, as Vivi rushed to tattle on him, Isaac shouted, “No, Vivi. Don’t tell Mom and Dad.” We thought it’s sweet that Isaac didn’t want him to get in trouble.

People often asked us whether we’re going to adopt J. When we said we hope so, their follow-up question was, “Aren’t you afraid of the effect it might have on the kids if he leaves?”

It’s a legitimate question, one their mother and I took very seriously. Ultimately, even if we knew he wouldn’t stay with us permanently, we still never could have turned him away. He is our family too. If he leaves, we’ll be devastated and mourn losing him and what could have been. Then, once time has passed, we’ll look back on the time we spent with J and the pictures we have of Isaac’s birthmother and brother and find comfort that at least we have that.

On the other hand, if we do get to adopt him, then one day Laurie and I will have a great story to tell. We’ll share with the boys that we were told their birthmother was thrilled when she found out they had been united.

J came home almost a month ago. So we have no idea what’s going to happen to him in the long term. But we’re grateful for the memories we got to build with J in our lives, moments like Isaac’s first day of kindergarten with us, Isaac’s sixth birthday. We had spent years praying for a letter or a photo from his birth family. We didn’t expect we’d get another son.

Mistaken Identity

Isaac has a knack for making friends. Regardless of where we take him – a park, playground, pool – he’ll find the child (usually a boy) closest to his size, walk right up to them, and say, “Hi. Mine Isaac (as in ‘My name is Isaac’). Wanna play?” That’s all it takes before both kids take off like rockets. On a good day, Isaac will find someone on the quiet side. But usually he chooses the kid who is making the biggest spectacle of himself, which is what happened the last time I took him to a playground at the mall.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, so the playground wasn’t crowded when we arrived. The only adults there were a woman on her cell phone and another woman reading a magazine. I sat in a remote section of the playground and didn’t pay much attention to any of the kids until, after playing all of one minute, Isaac approached me and said, “Daddy, one of those kids pushed me.”

“Which one?”

“That one. In the orange shirt.”

The child Isaac pointed to was no bigger than he. Since he wasn’t crying, I didn’t make a big deal out of it. “All right, if he’s not going to play nice, then go play somewhere else.”

“What if he pushes me again?”

“I’ll keep my eye on him.”

Isaac seemed pleased and went off in the opposite direction of the kid in the orange shirt. For a minute or so, I watched the child, waiting to see if either of the women was going to do anything about him. But he never approached either of them. What I did see was him yell, push, and hit another child who was noticeably smaller than he. The woman on the cell phone saw it too and rushed to scoop up the baby. “That’s it!” she shouted, grabbing her purse.

Good for you, Lady. I thought. I don’t blame you for leaving. But she didn’t leave. Rather, she stormed over to me, her crying baby in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

“Excuse me, Sir,” she huffed. “I just think you should know that your child pushed my child.” A little frustration was to be expected, but this lady’s tone hinted she was ready for a fight and it caught me so off guard that it took me a moment to realize she thought the rough kid was mine. “That’s not my son,” I said, pointing to Isaac who was still playing on the opposite side of the playground. “That’s my son.”

She looked over and did a double take. “Oh,” she said. Then she paused for a moment, trying to regain her bearings. All she came up with was “Well, never mind.” Then she stormed off.

I sat stunned for a moment. Did that just happen? I wondered. The other parent, the one reading the magazine, made eye contact with me. We seemed to be thinking the same thing. Where are this child parents?

The playground started getting more crowded and, as the orange-shirt kid got louder and rougher, I decided to take Isaac home. On the way, I went over the situation in my mind, trying to make up my mind about whether I was more annoyed that she assumed my son was Caucasian or that she assumed my son was an aggressive brat. Still, it was a legitimate assumption nonetheless. regardless of the fact that the child looked nothing like me. I had assumed the child was hers and he didn’t look anything like her either.

Yet, her reaction to the truth still amused me. I couldn't help think back to the first few months we were a multiracial family. Back then, a situation like that would have depressed me for days. I would have spent days wrestling with questions like, "Why does the world have such trouble recognizing him as my son?" Then I would have struggled with when I would ever get comfortable. I'd like to think that I've become more accepting of peoples' mistakes. But in truth, I think I've become more cruel.

For example, there was the time Laurie and I were at the checkout counter at Target and the cashier looked at Isaac and asked us, "Is he your son?" Without thinking much of it, I said yes. Then she squinted her eyes and said, "So y'all gave birth to him?" I thought for a moment, struggling with two distinct options: a) graciously inform her that we adopted him, or b) simply say yes and watch her drown in the awkward silence. I chose the latter and reveled in the fact that if at least someone in the family can be nice to total strangers, regardless of how idiotic their behavior might be.

A Smaller Version of A Smaller Version of Me

My article, A Smaller Version of Me, has been published in this month's issue of Adoptive Families Magazine. Here's a link to their website if you want to read their version. Or if you want to read mine, here you go.

Families Like Us

Laurie and I aren’t always in the mood to share our family’s story. At any given time, strangers approach and say, “Are they yours?” or “Did you adopt them?” It always surprises me how these questions arise after the stranger has heard one of the kids refer to us as Mom and Dad. “Really?” I want to ask. “Seriously? How is it you are able to manage other abstract concepts like operating a motor vehicle?”

When we first became a multiracial family, we took the stranger’s questions as an opportunity to educate them. Everyone who approached us got a good earful of the awful plight of children in foster care and the need for people to adopt outside their race. The listeners politely nodded their heads and stared at their watch with great purpose while we nattered on for a few minutes. Laurie and I had stupidly assumed the best in people and quickly learned that people were usually more nosy than genuinely interested in our story.

A breath of fresh air came when we heard another adoptive family tell their story to a group of us. “You don’t owe the world an explanation about your family," they said. "It’s your story and it isn’t their business.” Laurie and I breathed a sigh of relief. We found freedom from wasting our time and exhausting the listeners. Our new approach to “Are they yours?” became a simple yes and we left it at that.

It was during this period when Laurie and the kids were eating at Chick-fil-a, that mecca of minivans and soccer moms, and a woman approached them and asked, “Are they yours?” Laurie later told me she silently huffed and thought, “I just want to go out to lunch with my kids in peace.” But she feigned patience and said yes.

The lady smiled. “Because my two sons were adopted. They’re African-American too.”

“Oh?” Laurie said, stumbling to perk up.

The woman continued. “My husband and I head an adoptive ministry at our church which is mostly Caucasian parents who have adopted African-American children. We’d love to invite you.”

“That’s great,” Laurie said, still trying to gather her wits.

Our first event with “Families Like Us” was a unique experience. We walked into a large classroom and were immediately greeted by Jena, the lady Laurie had met at Chick-Fil-A, and her husband, Brian. As they introduced us to the other families, we immediately felt a sense of familiarity. Over the years, Laurie and I have taken the kids to numerous events with adoptive families of color. Never before had we seen such a large group of families that looked exactly like us.

After the kids played for a while, the parents were directed to drop their kids off at nursery where they had pizza waiting for them. Once we came back to the classroom, an adult adoptee and her parents told their story while we ate a potluck dinner.

Each event differed from the previous one. One day was nothing more than playtime for the kids while the parents visited. Sometimes, families told their stories. Others, professionals from adoption agencies came to talk about how to coach our kids through elementary school or talking to our kids about race and giving them a positive sense of racial identity.

Over the next few months, we got to know the parents and their kids at the events. There was an immediate bond unlike anything we’d had with any other group. Mothers could finally talk about their struggles to moisturize their sons’ skin and keep up with their daughters’ braids with other equally clueless mothers. Fathers could talk about disciplining their kids in public with other fathers who felt the same judgmental eyes on them as well.

In any group of children, our son, Isaac, typically stands out not just because of his color, but because he is clearly the loudest and wildest. However, surrounded by hoards of loud, hyperactive black boys, he blended right in.

The biggest trip was watching the biological, Caucasian children interact with their siblings of color. Anywhere else, they would have blended right in. But here they stood out as the minority while their siblings blended in. It was like looking into an alternative universe.

Laurie and I decided a long time ago that surrounding our children with other children that looked like them was important. Once we got involved with Families Like Us, we learned the importance of surrounding ourselves with families that don’t look like each other.

I thought back to the previous January when we took the kids to the Martin Luther King, Jr. Parade. Laurie and I assumed we might be two of only a few Caucasians attending the celebration. So it alarmed me when we walked up and down the streets of downtown Dallas without seeing a single white person. I might have been self-conscious had people stared at us, but no one did. We set down our chairs on the sidewalk and our neighbors smiled and initiated conversations with us, not once asking “Are they yours?” Some kids even asked Isaac to play. The feeling of acceptance lasted until we noticed swarms of families that all matched one another. My mind flashed forward to the day that Isaac notices that even African American families resemble each other. “Why don’t we know any other families whose kids don’t look like their parents?” I imagined him asking.

It would be months later when Laurie met Jena at Chick-fil-a and our family got hooked up with a whole group of mixed-race families. Since then, I’m constantly on the lookout; restaurants, libraries, malls. I’m seeking out hyper, multiracial kids and their weary, guarded parents. “Hi,” I’ll say. “Are those your kids?” After a brief bout of huffing and rolling of the eyes, they’ll say yes and wait to see exactly what kind of nosy adoption question I ask. That’s when I’ll move in for the kill.

A Word from the Sponsor

We were at Family Night at the zoo when I saw all these signs saying, “Adopt a white crocodile.” I thought it had to be a joke or a gimmick – that is until I saw a sign that said, “Only $15!” I imagined a large metal animal crate, like the ones selling puppies in grocery store parking lots on weekends except with little baby crocs. Some dude in an undershirt would introduce me to “Snappy,” the runt of the litter and I worried how I would graciously decline. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I already have a Gila monster at home. I just couldn’t.”

We came up to the reptile house and upon entering I saw a group of twenty families lined up at a table which was covered with little plastic white crocodile toys and a big sign advertising White Crocodile Adoption.

I turned to Laurie and asked, “Do you know what this is all about?”

“Yeah, you pay $15 for a little toy and the money goes to feeding the crocodiles.”

“So you’re not adopting anything. You’re sponsoring the crocs.”

“Exactly.”

As she said this, I watched a preschool age girl approach the table and ask, “Can I adopt a crocodile?” Her voice was soft and meek and broke my heart. Surrounded by dozens of families, I wondered how many of these children had misunderstood the signs as I had and thought they’d get to carry their new pet home that very evening. I wanted to chew the lady at the table out. What’s wrong with you people? Why can’t you just say ‘Feed the white croc?’ I might not have had a problem if the child got to watch the crocodile eat what they had donated. But walking away with little more than a happy meal toy seemed to be the last word in false advertising.

Once I got over my indignation for the disappointed children, I thought about the misuse of the word adoption. Most books I’ve read on adoption warned me of what would become my life-long battle for political correctness and proper adoption language. As soon as I got certified as a foster parent, I began noticing signs for “Adopt-a-highway,” “adopt-a-location,” and even “adopt-a-book.”

It’s not that I have a problem with the word being used on animals that are taken in for life. When Laurie and I fostered dogs for the Humane Society, we did everything a foster parent does. We fed them, took care of medical issues, and loved them as they adapted to their new home. In every way we welcomed them into our family and our daily routine.

But I don’t see how the word applies to donating money to a temporary cause and having someone else do all the work. I can’t imagine coming home from a hard day’s work and spending quality time with my stretch of Interstate 35. I’m certainly not putting any pictures of my “adopted” library book’s first day at school on my desk. And I’m for sure not going to hug and kiss any tree before tucking it in at night.

The problem is that Laurie and I never see these situations coming so we’re rarely prepared. They always come from out of nowhere from people we thought knew better. Last Christmas, the director of our children’s preschool sent home a letter saying each class had adopted a foster child for Christmas. “Shall I assume they mean they’ll be providing gifts for a child in foster care?” I asked Laurie “That’s what it means,” she said. This may have been another example of the type of thing that irked me for a few minutes and then rolled off my back. But the director should know better as she has fostered countless newborns, infants, and toddlers.

After we sold our house, Laurie and I interviewed for a position with an apartment ministry to residents of various complexes. Our interview with Lisa, a bubbly area director, went great until she suggested we solicit our family and friends to adopt us. “This means they’ll commit to your team while you work sending money to us monthly in support of you,” she explained.

“So they’ll be supporting our team financially,” I said.

“Well, sure.”

“Is the term you use for this program “adopting a team?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t want to come across argumentative, so I waited until the end of the interview and asked, “Do you mind if we use the word sponsor rather than adopt?”

“That should be okay. Why do you ask?”

“We adopted our kids and we feel that the term would be offensive to the meaning of the word ‘adopt.’”

Lisa nodded but said nothing. After a few awkward seconds, she offered each of us a handshake and said, “I’ll get back to you soon.” A few days passed before she called us back to offer us a position. I took the phone call, which was probably a good thing since Laurie wouldn’t have reacted too well when Lisa told me, “I do have one concern. The conversation at the end of the interview raised some concerns for me that you won’t be fully on board with our program.”

“Is your problem the way we brought it up or that we brought it up at all?”

“More that it was brought up at all. My sister adopted her daughter and I don’t see a problem in the use of that term.”

She obviously felt like she and I were on the same team, and I struggled to find a diplomatic way of telling her that she still had the right to be dead wrong about it. Unable to come up with a response, I told her, “Okay,” which seemed to satisfy her, and then I ended the conversation. I knew what I had to do, but I didn’t want to give her the impression that we were impulsive. So I let a few days pass before I called to tell her we wouldn’t be accepting the offer.

As Laurie and I scrambled to find a decent apartment with openings in the following weeks, we felt good about our decision. We hadn’t been able to resolve the issue with Lisa and knew she and her team probably considered us dogmatic, opinionated, and overly sensitive. But we made our peace knowing we’d stood our ground, confident we’d be able to handle the bigger battles that lay ahead.

Grief - and Joy

For those of you who aren't able to check out Adoptive Families Magazine, they posted the article, The Waiting Game. Their edit is not too different from my own until the end. So I've included an excerpt from what didn't make it in the magazine.


We recently celebrated the one year anniversary of the court date finalizing her adoption. We spent the day at the mall where we ate lunch, built her a teddy bear, and ate a large sugar cookie with “Forever Family” iced on. When we got home, we pulled out some home movies of the four years between the infertility and birth of our daughter. Seeing my wife and myself during this time gave me a different perspective on grief. I thought the despair would be evidenced on our faces and taint the holidays and special occasions we were filming. But as I looked for signs, I didn’t see any. In the videos taken the first couple years of our marriage, my wife had a beaming smile as she opened her Christmas presents from me. But what wasn’t in the video was her crying herself to sleep that night as she mourned the passing of another holiday without children.

I thought about our celebration day and realized that I hadn’t let any grief or fear defeat me or ruin my day. The idea that something wrong could happen never entered my mind. I didn’t have to dread a phone call or emails with bad news. I could allow myself to rejoice that sometimes things do work out. I was free to spend the day with my wife without worrying that she could break down into tears at any moment. Without my greatest fear, that one day my daughter could be gone or taken, I’m not only free to enjoy my life with her, but to enjoy my days with her, to love her, to kiss her, to play with her.

We got our copies today

My article that I wrote about Vivi's birth is on page 23 & 24, titled Grief and Joy. It's about the grief and loss when we were going through infertility and the effects they had when we adopted our daughter.

Our son, Isaac's picture is on the Family Album page 47.

And our friend Debbie's daughter, Isabel is on page 30.

My wife will be keeping Isabel part-time for the next couple months and is really looking forward to it.

If you do not have a subscription to this magazine, get one. It is full of really useful information. You can also have your local Barnes and Noble order as many copies of it as you want.

A Smaller Version of Me

People are always telling Laurie and me that they want to adopt, especially couples who haven’t become parents yet. Typically they follow this statement with, “But we want to have our own kids first.” Another common comment happens when people first meet our kids or find out we’re a multiracial family. They ask, “Couldn’t you have your own kids?”

Although they would never admit it, the implication is that our kids, since we adopted them, are not our own. For the couples who haven’t become parents, it suggests the need to have their own DNA replicated. They envision a smaller version of themselves that people will fawn over and say, “Your baby looks just like you.”

Before Laurie and I became parents, the idea that our kids would turn out like us was more a source of anxiety than excitement. We discussed our personality flaws, our impatience and selfishness, at great length. Each disagreement, once resolved, was then debriefed exhaustively. “What are we going to do when we become parents?” Laurie has said. “We can’t be acting like this in front of or toward the kids.”

I remember incidents like a time Laurie was sick in bed and called to me from the bedroom in a raspy voice, “Honey. Can you bring me some juice?” After I pretended not to hear her, I paused my movie and brought her some juice and hurried out of the bedroom before she could ask me for anything else.

The image of a smaller version of me roaming the earth and inflicting my personality on others still haunts me. Now that I have my own kids, I constantly examine their behavior for traces of my influence. An incident with Isaac the other day gave me a little hope about him growing up nothing like me.

Lately, Isaac’s favorite game is called “Can’t Catch Me, Dad” and is little more than him loudly taunting me with this phrase until I chase him around our apartment at full speed. Each round ends when I tackle him and tickle him for five minutes. The game starts innocently but usually climaxes with one of us getting injured. Just in the past few weeks alone, the boy gave himself an upper-cut on my knee and I got my neck stepped on. Whenever he got hurt, he cried loudly until I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t play anymore,” and his sob immediately turned to a shriek of joy and he ran off again begging me to chase him. I was much more hypocritical when I got hurt. Once I regained my breath, I put him in time out and announced that “Can’t Catch Me, Dad” was no longer allowed in this family.

“You’re the one that gets him wild,” my wife told me later that night. “You can’t get him wound up and expect him to know when he’s gone too far. You’re the father and you need to stop it before it gets to that level.”

As usual, I took her advice with good humor and immediately applied it to our next game time. Last night, while chasing him around the apartment I bashed my knee against the side of our bedroom door. The next thing I remember was an excruciating pain shooting up from my knee throughout my entire body.

“What was that?” Laurie said from the kitchen.

Unable to find my voice, I sort of grunted, “I hit my knee against the door.”

“Are you okay?”

I thought about it for a second and realized that I wasn’t mad at the boy which I figured was a good start. “Yeah,” I told her. “Just let me lay here for a minute.”

While I lay on the floor of the doorway, I saw Isaac cautiously emerge from his room. He slowly approached me and began patting my back. “Are you okay, Dad?”

“Yes, Bubs. Dad’s okay, but I’m a little thirsty.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said happily. “I will go get you a drink. You just sit there and I will bring it to you.” He promptly ran into the kitchen and said, “Mom, can I have a drink for Dad?”

“Honey,” she said to me, laughing. “Give me a break.”

“Mom,” he said, reproving her. “Dad got hurt. He needs a drink.”

He returned with a glass of ice water with a straw. “Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Dad.”

He ran off to play while I got up and tried to walk around. There was a small lingering pain in my leg but otherwise I felt better. I started to pick up some toys when Isaac reappeared from his bedroom, grabbed my hand, and led me to the couch. “Dad, you need to sit down.” He grabbed a blanket from the basket in the corner of our living room and draped it over my legs.

“Thanks,” I told him. “But I don’t need the blanket.”

“Dad, you have to rest. I will go get you an ice pack from my lunch box.”

“No, Bubs, you don’t have to do that. Really, my knee doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I will go get it for you just in case.”

I heard a rustling in the kitchen and his mother say to him, “You know you’re not supposed to be in the kitchen when I’m cooking dinner.”

“But Dad needs an ice pack.”

He returned from the kitchen and put the pack on my knee. Then he grabbed my hand and placed it on my knee and said, “Now, Dad. You have to hold it here so it will feel better.”

From our living room couch I could see Laurie in the kitchen giving me an “Oh Brother” look. “What?” I said to her. “He’s being helpful. You should be proud of him. He’s being so sweet.” As I was saying this, the boy climbed onto the couch, grabbed some pillows and poked me on the shoulder. “Sit up, Dad. This will make you more comfortable.”

I looked back at Laurie who was now giving me a funnier look. Then I think she said something about how she was sick for three days last week and no one catered to her, but I couldn’t concentrate because the boy had laid his head on my shoulder and was rubbing my knee.

She came out of the kitchen and asked, “Can you clear the kitchen table?” Her voice was more amused than annoyed, at least until I asked the boy to clear Dad’s magazines for him. “Honey,” she laughed. “You’re pathetic.”

While I sat on the couch under a blanket with a Lightning McQueen ice pack on my knee and pillows propping me up, I saw some advantages to the fact that Isaac’s personality is so different from mine. The boy certainly has his faults, but he has a generosity and desire to please that I know did not come from me.

I imagined my wife sick in bed and calling for me to bring her a Popsicle. From the living room couch, I say, “Just a moment, Sweetie.” I’m so moved to compassion that I call to Isaac, “Son. Mama’s sick. Why don’t you go take her a Popsicle? And bring Daddy a snack while you’re in the kitchen.”

Black Sabbath has been published!

Hey all

Just thought some of you might be interested in checking the Jan/Feb 09 issue of Adoptive Families magazine. My article, Black Sabbath, is on page 20. I haven't received the issue in the mail yet, so I have no idea what their edit looks like. But I thought y'all could be on the lookout. This is so far my fourth published work and my second paying one!

Offending Parties

My wife, the kids, and I were at a going-away party a few weeks ago for one of my wife’s best friends, Gloria, who was moving away with her husband and daughter. Most of the partygoers were either total stranger or acquaintances we hadn’t seen or talked to in several years. Typically, my wife and I have different attitudes about seeing old friends – more specifically, old friends who don’t know we’ve adopted multiracial children. My wife gets excited as she sees these events as opportunities to introduce the kids. I see these events as chances for people to confuse small talk with intrusive and endless prying.

The host’s house overflowed with strangers. I’d been separated from my wife for a while, which meant I had to wander through the house alone and bounce from one mundane conversation to another. The kids were playing in the backyard and I kept checking on them through the window, hoping they’d provide some excuse to leave. I didn’t want them to get hurt, but getting sick would do nicely.

After what seemed like forever, my wife and I met up. She threw herself next to me on the sofa and gave a big sigh. “I got cornered into talking about adoption.” Her voice sounded drained of emotion. Apparently, an old friend had cornered her into a panel-like discussion. Questions had been asked about infertility treatments and agency fees. The jury had concluded with our favorite, “Can we get together later so I can ask you more questions about this?”

“And you asked her not to, right?”

“Of course not.” She started rubbing her forehead. “I just said sure.”

“Do you really think she’ll call you?”

“No way.”

“How did the conversation even start?” I asked her.

“The same way it always does. She said, ‘I didn’t know you guys had adopted your children? I think it’s so great what you’re doing. My husband and I have always talked about adopting but we want to have our own kids first.’”

I rolled my eyes and gave my wife a comforting little back rub. I didn’t ask for any more details because I knew how the rest of the conversation went. We’d each had it countless times.

I wish I had a dime for every time someone said this exact statement to us. Typically at parties or other social events, it’s only a matter of time before we encounter someone who can’t think of anything to say and, unable to cope with the awkward silence, will pull something totally ridiculous like this out of their behind.

The struggle we then encounter is deciding how to react. Do we ignore the person and try to change the subject? The times my wife and I chose this path always left us feeling cheated. We saw it as a missed opportunity for us to educate the person.

Having committed that something had to be said, we now faced the challenge of which part of the statement to address. The first part of the statement, “You guys adopted your children?” was said with a bit of a surprise, as if we’d hidden this vital piece of information from them and had cheated them from knowing the truth. You guys won the lottery? It’s not the initial surprise that bothers me. I can’t really blame anyone for being shocked. My wife and I received similar reactions from our own family when we told them about our son. A family member who shall remain nameless said to us, “Why don’t you just want to adopt someone from our own race?”

“What you’re doing is great,” was the pseudo-encouragement we’ve heard all the time. It suggested that we were the boy’s saviors. I found this dangerous because it appealed to my vanity. This tempted me to accept their admiration and admit to myself, “Yes, I should be recognized for all that I have done for him. I applaud your insight.” But I have to check my ego and remind myself that the boy saved my wife and me a lot more than we saved him. He saved us from a childless existence and gave us the gift of parenthood, a gift we’d desired and labored over for years.

The next part of the statement – “We’ve always talked about adopting” – gave me a mental image of the couple fantasizing about their future. They’re discussing potential jobs and cities to live in. At some point, one of them might suggest adopting and the other might say, “Ooh. I’ve always had a heart for the orphans from another country.” Then the subject moves on to where they will vacation next summer and what they’ll be eating that night for dinner.

The final part of the statement, “Our own kids,” disturbed me more than the rest. The unintentional implication was that our kids are not our own kids because we didn’t biologically produce them. Calling them out for this statement would be too easy to recover from. I imagined them saying, “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant to say.” But I didn’t want their apology. I wanted them to see me as just another father. I had just as much snot on my shirt as any other father and deserved to be treated as such.

It might be easy to allow people’s unenlightened remarks to make me cynical and bitter. I’d probably give in to these feelings were I not self conscious of my own ignorance. As my wife told me about the comment, I didn’t think, “How ignorant.” Rather, I thought, “Have I ever said something like that?” I started thinking about stupid things I’d said to people who were too gracious to rebuke me in the moment.

I recalled an incident that occurred when Gloria got engaged. There was a lot of talk among our friends about how big her ring was and how her fiancé had been saving for an engagement ring since he was a teenager. I had never really looked at engagement rings before so when Gloria showed it to me, I simply said, “It’s not that big.” I can’t recall her reaction once these words had vomited from my mouth. At the time, I just tried to make a joke and when I didn’t get the reaction I sought, I moved on.

It wasn’t until months later that I gave the comment some much-needed analysis. My wife and I had been dating for a while and Gloria kept finding ways out of going on double dates with us. After several refusals, I decided that she didn’t approve of me. In trying to figure out why she didn’t like me, I was forced to look within and I thought back to the incident with her ring. Remarkably, I stood by what I’d said and justified it, thinking, It was just a joke. It shames me that my initial thought wasn’t, She should have reservations about her best friend dating this horse’s ass.

At the going away party, as my wife and I sat on our host’s couch, the party raged around us. I stole a glance at Gloria who had been bombarded with conversations since we’d arrived. I thought again about her ring and considered the potential questions she’d probably been asked about moving.

“How are you going to get all your stuff there?”

“Are you worried about finding a doctor for the baby?”

“Is it expensive to live there?”

“How can you say goodbye to your family?”

I looked at my wife who hadn’t said anything for several minutes. Her head rested on my shoulder suggested to me that she was as content as I was to ride out the rest of the party on the couch. “Do you want to leave?” I asked her.

“Do you?”

“I can do whatever.”

“Me too.”

I’d seen first hand Gloria’s capability to withstand stupidity. Seeing her patience and grace with others gave me a hint of inspiration. If I can’t be that nice, well then I can at least just pretend to be as nice as she is.

We got up from the couch and spent a moment surveying the crowd, as if anticipating who would be the next perpetrator. Someone made eye contact with me and smiled and I immediately reconsidered my eagerness to give patience and good manners another shot. I smiled back, pulled at my wife’s arm, and whispered, “Let’s get the kids and get out of here.”

The Uterus Dialogues (another rerun)

Here's another post for the readers from Adoptivefamilies.com. This is the article that AF published in their July/Aug issue. Their edited version and mine differ a bit. So y'all that have read them both, let me know what you think. Enjoy!!


“The things which proceed out of the man are what defile him.”- Mark 7:15

As the parents of a multiracial family, my wife and I both recognize our uniqueness. Those who have never struggled with infertility or fostered or adopted children typically treat us as a novelty. We know that as the parents of these kids we have signed up for a lifetime of explaining and educating people and we try to approach new people with optimistic and hope they will use discretion and tact when asking questions or making comments. We’ve learned that people’s questions and comments typically catch us off guard because they can come at anytime and from anyone – strangers in the grocery store, acquaintances, and friends and family with whom we thought we’d be safe. We recognize the importance of giving people the benefit of the doubt but only up to a certain point.

When we first considered adoption, I had a concern of how people, strangers in particular, would identify us. I imagined parties where the host or a friend would introduce us as “This is the couple I was telling you about. They adopted their children.” Each person or couple would have a label; like the couple who just got back from a trip, the couple who sells real estate together, and us, the couple who adopted. We would then be forced into situations where we unintentionally dominated the attention of the group. Uninterested parties would have to feign interest in our adoption story for fear of being rude. While we wanted to be proud of our identity as an adoptive family, we didn’t want it to be the only thing that identified us.

Often times, the oddest comments have come from people who seemed uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. When someone at work found out I adopted my son, he offered that his Japanese teacher had adopted a newborn but the birth father was contesting the adoption. Since I failed to see the relevance, I simply said, “Okay.”

When our son first came home, my wife and I had a difficult time adjusting to the feeling of people looking at us. At first, I was somewhat sympathetic to the blatant staring. I had to admit that if I saw a white man chasing a small black child through a crowded restaurant who was crying and screaming “I want my Mommy!” I’d want an explanation too. But as his parent, the staring makes me all the more want to claim him as my son. “I Love you, son” or “Hold Daddy’s hand” I’d announce when I noticed someone looking at us.

My wife and I don’t suffer the same kind of inappropriate conversations. My lot is to endure blunt questions like “Why did you adopt? Do you shoot blanks, or something?” “Is your wife barren?” or “Do you wear boxers or briefs? I’ve heard briefs can really mess up your count?” Many times, while I scramble to come up with an adequate response, the other person becomes impatient and changes the subject.

My wife undergoes a very different and, for the most part, more subtle get-to-know-you type of interrogation. Our son, our infant daughter, and my wife had lunch with a Mom’s group the
other day and recounted to me some of the questions the other mom’s asked.

The conversation began abruptly, as usual, when one mom asked my wife, “So how long have you had the baby?”

“Since birth,” my wife said. “Her birth mom asked us to be in the delivery room when she was born.”

"Did it cost a lot of money?" another mom asked.

My wife and I have been asked this question quite often and have always toyed with the notion of responding by asking if their hospital bills when they gave birth were expensive. But, my wife responded with as always. "All adoption agencies charge a fee for their services."

"Don't they come to your house and look through your stuff?"

"The agency does come to your house for an interview. It's called a home study."

“What’s her background?”

"If you mean her ethnicity, she’s multiracial.”

“What do you mean?”

“She is part Caucasian, part Hispanic and part African-American.”

“How does that work?” The woman was obviously struggling with the level of mathematics required to understand more than two races. After my wife explained the ethnicity of the baby’s birth parents, the lady remarked, “Oh, but her skin looks so much like yours.” My wife later told me at that point she glanced at our son and felt relieved he wasn’t old enough to understand the lady’s comment. “They think I need my children to look like me. What’s our son going to feel like when someone tells him his sister looks like his parents? He’s going to look at her light skin and his dark skin and feel like an outsider.”

When the race questioning concluded, the moms moved on to asking more adoption questions. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did her mother give her up?” the leader of the group asked.

“Each birth mom has different reasons for ‘making an adoption plan’. Usually the birth mom doesn’t have the resources to parent a child for eighteen years or so.”

“Is that what happened with her?”

They didn’t seem to be picking up on my wife’s subtle dodging of the questions. “We don’t really share our children’s stories with other people. We feel it belongs to them and that when they’re older they can decide who they’ll share it with.”

“Was her birth mother young?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m just wondering what kind of person...” and she caught herself. “Well, I just I can’t believe anyone would give up a baby who smiled so much.” My wife later told me that she while attempted to think of an intelligible response, another mom changed the subject for her. “Why didn’t the grandma want to adopt her?”

“Well, the birth mother's mom is older and this isn't her child to raise. As you know, parenting a child for a lifetime takes a lot more than love."

“So do you still have contact with the birth mom?” someone asked with concern.

“Somewhat. We have an open adoption.”

“Is that weird?” someone asked.

“Why would it be weird?” my wife responded.

“I just think it would be too hard to see her holding the baby. I’d get jealous.”

“Well, she’d be holding my child. Besides, she hasn’t seen the baby since birth.” The moms let out a collective sigh of relief, so my wife decided not to tell them we planned to visit the baby’s birth mom soon.

At this point the discussion transitioned to the inevitable question. “So did you try to have your own kids?”

“Well, these are my own kids,” my wife said. The leader began to fumble over her words.

Clearly, she knew she had asked an inappropriate question. By then, my wife had become an expert at knowing when to make a person uncomfortable when they’ve said something stupid and then when to bail them out. “Did you mean to ask me ‘Did we try to conceive?’?” “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

“We tried for a year before we realized God was calling us to foster and adopt.”

“We’ve always talked about adopting,” someone said. This statement is perhaps the all-time most common response said by parents when we tell them we adopted our kids. It seems that mothers in particular say this and often follow it up with either “Being pregnant is so hard. I don’t think I could do it again” or "My husband and I have always wanted to give a home to all the poor babies that don't have a place to go.”

“It took us a while to get pregnant, too,” another wife responded.

“It can take a really long time for some couples.” My wife said this assuming the lady had experienced the same grief as many of the infertile couples we had met in support groups who obsessively labored and agonized for years to conceive. “How long did it take you and your husband?”

“It took us a couple of months before we got pregnant.” My wife responded to this the only way she knew how – she nodded her head. Then she called my cell phone to see when I was coming to pick her up.

As I walked into the restaurant, my wife spotted me and rapidly began putting our son’s shoes on. I noticed the kids’ diaper bags and carriers already sitting by the front door. I waited for my wife to introduce some of the other moms to me and, when she didn’t, took the hint and looked for some way to speed up the process. “What do you need me to do?” I asked her.

“Just get me out of here,” she whispered.

My wife cheerfully said goodbye to the group. We headed toward the door and I couldn’t help overhearing their conversation. They were discussing how much their children resembled themselves and their husbands.

Black Sabbath (rerun)

Intro - I posted this a few months ago and it really caused a stir. This story is about my wife and I adapting to our new identity as a multiracial family. Enjoy!


When our son first came home, a friend said to us, “We’re so excited! Our child doesn’t have any black friends.” Immediately, the phrase ‘token black child’ rang in my ears. I suddenly became aware of my own whiteness. I’d always considered myself racially progressive. I’d always been careful not to say stupid things like any sentence that begins, “I don’t mean to sound racist but…” I resented people like Pat Boone and The Osmonds who make the white race look like dorks. I appreciated Spike Lee’s movies, although I’m still not sure why he calls them ‘Joints’. Carlton from Fresh Prince of Bel-Air had always annoyed the junk out of me.

But being racially progressive and racially educated were two different things. I thought about an interview I saw of Miles Davis where he said he can always tell a black band from a white band. “I don’t know how I can tell, but it just doesn’t go into my body the same way.” After watching the interview, I tried approaching the radio and my CDs for weeks from this perspective but honestly could never seem to tell the difference. I understood how one could tell the race of a vocalist by the tone of their voice. But I couldn’t figure out how he could determine the race of a saxophonist or drummer just by listening.

Our foster care training had emphasized the need to instill a healthy ethnic pride in our children. “Become students of your children’s culture,” an instructor told us. So we began to research the hygiene of a black child – hair care, skin care, etc. We began to build a library of books on multiracial adoption, child rearing, and black history.

Then we set out to surround ourselves with families of other races, families that might understand the things we were going through. At the time, we only had a few acquaintances but none we were close enough to ask the kind of questions we wanted to ask like, “Does his hair look like it was done by a white person who doesn’t know what they’re doing?”

Our first attempts at casual conversation tended to be awkward, bordering on nosy. We might see a child at the store and try to find a nonchalant way of asking his mother what kind of lotion she used for their skin. A nice, black man sold us our van and during our test drive. While I concentrated on the performance of the vehicle, my wife interrogated him about things like where his wife liked to shop for his kids’ clothes and if he knew a place in the area that sold ethnic toys? He responded as graciously as could have been expected. I know I definitely would have been caught off guard if a stranger asked me where I would want my kids to attend private school.

After a few months, we decided visit a church that was primarily black. My wife and I had spent weeks researching the church online. Really, it took up this much time to work up the courage to go. By now, we were used to white people staring at us. But this was going to feel different. What would it feel like if they stared at us?

We pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car for a minute or so to mentally prepare. My wife and I had both been attending church regularly for years, but neither one of us could shake the feeling like this was our first time. I took a deep breath. “It’s natural to fear the unknown,” I told myself.

We walked in the door and were greeted by two fresh-faced college students. “Welcome to Lifeline,” one of them said cheerfully as the other handed me a program. I waited for a dirty look or even a double take but it never came.

As we walked in, the boy looked around and began pointing to people and shouting, “Mom! That person is African-American like me!” This was his new thing. Weeks ago, he’d begun to notice other people’s race and to point it out loudly in public. At the mall or the grocery store, we could usually shush him before the person noticed or figured out what he said. Now, surrounded by African-Americans, his zeal and volume exploded. “Dad! That big guy is African-American like me!” We expected dirty looks, but people smiled and even laughed.

We proceeded into what looked like a basketball stadium and found seats in the back corner. The website told us the service started at 3pm. We had arrived five minutes early and sat around for nearly twenty minutes watching people trickle in and mill around. Finally, some singers took the stage. They began to clap and chant, “Welcome, to the Lifeline family.” I noticed people shaking hands and hugging and figured out this was the greeting.

A few minutes of this went on until the pastor took the stage and greeted everyone. “What’s up, Child of God!!” he shouted.

“What’s up, Child of God!” everyone shouted back at him.

“I can’t hear you! I said, ‘WHAT’S UP, CHILD OF GOD!!’”

“WHAT’S UP, CHILD OF GOD!!” everyone repeated louder.

“All right, then. It’s time to break into your small groups.” My wife and I looked at each other in matched confusion. White church never made us break out into groups on Sunday. It was much simpler; sing some songs, listen to some preaching, then stay and socialize for two hours. Small group time was supposed to be later in the week in someone’s living room with couches and snacks. A young, very tall girl must have noticed our confusion because she approached us and invited us to sit in her group.

As we sat down, each member of the group introduced themselves warmly. The group leader explained to us that small groups discussed the text the preacher would be using throughout his sermon. Once we got into the discussion, my wife and I began to like it. The discussion felt genuine and the group had a lot of fun.

After small group time, the pastor directed everyone to their regular seats for praise and worship. I had tried, on several occasions in the past, to teach my wife how to clap with music. Sadly, she is hopelessly incapable of finding the beat. When the worship leader directs the congregation to clap, she consistently manages to clap the exact opposite of the rest of the congregation. I had always found her lack of awareness endearing. People would look over and she had no idea why. She just kept on enjoying herself. However, now I couldn’t help but feel self conscious. What saved me from total embarrassment was that this entire congregation was totally uninhibited. There was singing and clapping and everyone was in tune. At one point, I looked over at the boy and noticed he was standing on a chair, clapping enthusiastically, and stomping in his chair. I noticed everyone smiling at us and couldn’t help but feel as if he, even at the age of two, knew he had found his roots.

At the end, he closed in prayer, made a few announcements, and invited everyone to stay because his mom had made barbecue. My wife and I exchanged glances that let each other knew we liked these people. They had been welcoming and inclusive. We had a great time. That is until we made our way to the back to eat and a white man approached me and asked, “Is he yours?”

Returning quickly to the mindset of a Caucasian, I considered several responses. “Actually, he was our ticket in. How’d you get in without one?” But since we were at church, it felt wrong to antagonize a total stranger. So I forced a smile and said, “Yes, he’s ours.”

Hello Readers of Adoptive Families!!

Welcome all you adoptive parents!! You probably got this site from the Adoptive Families Blog page. I'm so excited because this affords me the opportunity to vent my rage to a whole new group of people!



A little something about goggy (me) - my wife and I became foster parents a few years ago. Some were removed and were placed elsewhere. But our second foster child became our son just after his second birthday. As the ink dried on his adoption papers, we began the process with a private agency. Three months later, our daughter was born.



I began this blog almost two years ago as catharsis - too many funny stories about my kids and inappropriate things said by friends, family, and even total strangers. Being a multiracial family never has a dull moment. People openly stare at our African-American son, then look at us, look at him, then look at us again and ask, "So is he adopted?"