Halloween this year got me to thinking about planned obsolescence. OK, just stick with me on this one, I promise there is a connection, albeit tenuous.  In this time of increased attention to sustainable living and carbon footprints, the whole concept of planned obsolescence seems irresponsible.  Why should manufacturers make a blender that is designed to last only a couple of years?  A blender ought to work, if not forever, then at least for 10 years.  I take pride in my old appliances and 10 year old car.  I feel like I’m doing my part to reverse some of what got us into this economic and environmental mess that we are in.

I know this is going to seem like a strange segue, but what started me thinking about planned obsolescence was Halloween.  I love Halloween in our small town.  We live on a dirt road with only a few houses that no trick or treater, or parent of a trick or treater, would ever come down, so every year we pack up our costumed kids and join most of the rest of the town going door to door through a residential area near downtown.  It’s like a city-wide block party.  Parents talk, kids gorge, and we celebrate small town life. 

I look forward to this annual tradition.  Over the years, my older children gradually have dropped out, opting for hanging out with friends rather than going house to house with parents, but I was still caught off guard this year when my youngest announced that rather than go trick or treating she wanted to go to a Halloween party with friends.  What??  I thought I had at least one more year before I was put out to pasture.  My husband thought the idea of going out to dinner rather than trick or treating was great, but I moped through dinner focusing on my newfound obsolescence.

I know that my job as parent is to work myself out of this role.  But although I know it, I don’t always like it.  For a few days after Halloween, I continually thought about all the other things about parenting younger kids that I miss.  In general, I’m no longer in charge of my kid’s time.  I used to be able to plan a family hike, trip to the museum, or the DVD for family night.  That isn’t my role any more, dadgummit.  We still do things as a family that I plan, but my children have their own schedules and desires that often come first.  I miss curling up with a chapter book with my kids each night.  I still usually spend time with them each evening, but we no longer share a book, since they prefer to read to themselves.  In my perverse mood, I even missed going grocery shopping with them.

After about a week of feeling sorry for myself, I decided that I needed to make a mental list of all the things I don’t miss about having young children.  I was reluctant to quit my pity party, so at first, I honestly couldn’t think of one thing.  And then on Tuesday as I was preparing dinner while watching the news, I realized that I don’t miss the arsenic hour: you know, that time in late afternoon when dinner needs to be fixed and baths taken, and the kids are tired and cranky and picking fights.  Arsenic hour, also known as “the witching hour” (although I always thought that they got the first letter wrong on that name), used to make me feel like that cat in the poster clinging with just it’s claws to a tree branch with the words “Hang In There” printed underneath.  Once I remembered arsenic hour, I was on a role.  I don’t miss early Saturday morning soccer and baseball games.  I know it’s heretical to say that in the land of children’s sport, but I thought it was inhumane to have games earlier than 10:00 on a Saturday morning when everyone knows that is the only day a parent stands a chance of sleeping in.  And I certainly don’t miss science fair projects, which seemed to come like a tsunami and consume our dining room table, living room floor, and family time.  And quite frankly, it’s nice to be able to vacuum a room without sucking up a hundred or so Lego pieces with every pass.

You are probably wondering why I’m telling you all this, since it likely feels irrelevant to those of you just starting or trying to start on your parenting career.  That’s a good question, but when I sat down to write this week, this is what I felt like pondering.  And hey, what good is a blog, other than to record your obsessions, er umm, I mean thoughts.  But in addition to the “it’s my blog, and I can say what I want to” reason, I think it has relevance to those of you at the beginning or hoping soon to be at the beginning.

I know that the advice to “stop and smell the roses” has become a cliché and is often poorly received.  I distinctly remember one afternoon when I was trying to clean red food dye off every surface of my kitchen including the ceiling (a budding scientist’s experiment gone wrong, the details of which are still too painful for me to fully remember, but should have been added to my above list of things I don’t miss).  A friend who had teen-aged kids called, and in a moment of ill-timed wisdom, told me to cherish this moment.  I truly thought I would kill her or at the very least spray her with what was left of the baking soda, vinegar, and red food coloring mixture.  So, I offer this advice with humility and an understanding of the difficulty, but try to notice the things you enjoy at each stage of your child’s life.  You don’t have to do this all the time and likely won’t be able to do it during the arsenic hour, but periodically make yourself catalog those moments of bliss that can be found at every stage.  My moments of pure enjoyment now that my children are older include having thoughtful conversations, playing family games of Spades and being able to whole-heartedly try to win, and really enjoying the TV show or DVD we watch together on family night.

I also share my thoughts on parental obsolescence since to do the job of parenting well, you must plan for your replacement, and that replacement had better be your child.  We start the planning for our own obsolescence almost from the very beginning.  We teach, or try to teach, our babies to comfort themselves to sleep; we give our toddler choices of what shirt to wear; we let our kindergartener select the family movie; we encourage our elementary schooler to pick his sport, even if it’s bowling; and dadgummit, we let our middle schooler go to a Halloween party rather than trick or treating with her parents.  It is tempting to make yourself irreplaceable, but be careful what you wish for.  The only thing worse than becoming obsolete to your child, is to not become obsolete.  And the up side to becoming obsolete is being able to gradually become friends with your replacement.

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I’ve always been fascinated by transracial adoption. Of course, I adopted transracially, so that certainly accounts for some of this fascination, but my interest long predated our adoption.  I think what is most intriguing to me right now is the disconnect between research and public perception.  I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because on the Oct. 22, 2008 Creating a Family show I interviewed a panel of adult transracial adoptee about transracial adoption from their perspective.  In preparation for that show, I re-read a lot of the research on transracial/multiracial adoption.  The research is almost unanimously clear:  transracial adoption can work, and work well, for both children and families. 

Transracial adoption has been a popular research topic, but I rediscovered one of the best studies in terms of thoroughness, follow-up, and inclusion of same race adopted children and birth children.  Rita Simon and Howard Altstein started their research in 1972 and followed 204 families for 12 years.  These families had 366 children; 157 were transracially adopted, 167 were white birth children, and 42 were white adopted.  Of the transracially adopted children, 76% were black and 24% were Native American, Asian, and Mexican.  The majority of children were under the age of one when adopted.

Simon and Altstein published a number of reports during the 12 year period, but the 1984 follow up was the most interesting to me since the children were adolescence and early adults (the median age of the transracial adoptees was 14.9)—old enough to have an opinion and to have experienced more racial issues.  The study was designed to find out “about their sense of belonging in the family, the sibling’s ties to each other, how they described themselves racially and socially, their scholastic and career goals, and, most of all, their feeling about having been transracially adopted.”

Simon and Altstein evaluated closeness to parents, siblings, grandparents, and other relatives and concluded that the transracial adoptees were as integrated into their families as were the children who had been born into them. The parents’ evaluation of their relations with their children was also very high for all of the comparison groups- transracial adoptees, same race adoptees, and birth children.

The transracially adopted kids were doing about as well academically as were birth children and adoptees of the same race.  Seventy-five percent of the transracial adoptees planned to go on to college, while 94% of the birth children planned to go.  No particular academic or behavioral difficulties were found in this study.  (Not all research supports this finding.)

There were no significant differences in self-esteem between the transracially adopted children , the same race adopted children , and the children born into the families.  When the black transracial adoptees were separated from the entire transracially adopted group, their self-esteem score was identical to that of the birth children.  All of the groups (transracial, same race, and birth) scored well in terms of self-esteem.  With a score of 10 indicating the highest self-esteem and 40 the lowest, the mean score in all groups was between 18.0 and 18.5.

This transracial adoption study did not measure “adoption outcome” or adoption success, but they noted that 18 of the 96 families interviewed in 1984 were experiencing serious problems.  In seven of these cases, the problems were attributed to serious mental, physical, or emotional handicaps present at the time of placement.  (All seven of these children were 4 years old or older when adopted, and all had been in foster homes and institutions prior to adoption.)  In the remaining 11 cases, both difficulties in the parents’ relationships and learning disabilities and developmental delays in the children were thought to be the cause of the serious problems these families experienced.  In only one of the 18 cases did parents view the problems faced by the family as being race related.

Opponents of adopting across racial lines cite concern that transracial adoptees will have confused racial identities that will plague them later in life.  This report found that 66% of the black transracial adoptees stated that they were proud to be black or brown, 6% stated that they were proud to be of “mixed background,” 17% said that they did not mind what color they were, and 11% professed that they would prefer to be white.  Among the 22 nonblack transracial adoptees (Korean, Native American, and Hispanic), 82% answered that they were proud of their racial heritage, 9% responded that they did not mind what color they were, and 9% declared that they would prefer to be white.  A fascinating finding was that the birth children’s responses were almost identical to those of the nonblack transracial adoptees, except that 7% stated that they would prefer to be black, Hispanic, Native American, or “different.”  It is important to note and painful to hear that about one-third of the transracial adoptees said that they were embarrassed when they had to introduce their parents to new friends or when they were the only nonwhite in a group.

The transracial adoptees did have more white friends than black and dated whites more often than African Americans.  Seventy-three percent of black transracial adoptees indicated “white” as their choice of friends, similar to the choice of the nonblack transracial adoptees.  White children were chosen as friends by 89% of the birth children and by 69% of the white adoptees.  All of the groups, however, had black friends.  Sixty percent of the transracial adoptees dated whites exclusively, 11% dated blacks exclusively, and 27% dated both blacks and whites.  Among birth children, 78% dated whites exclusively, 6% dated blacks exclusively, and 10% dated both blacks and whites.  The authors attributed the white preference in friendships and dating to the mostly white neighborhoods in which a high proportion of the transracial adoptees lived and the predominantly white schools they attended.

Although the panel of adult transracial adoptees on the October 22, 2008 Creating a Family show was not necessarily a representative sample, their discussion reflects a similar feeling to the Simon and Altstein study.  I tried to select a panel that varied in age and race: one Native American adoptee in her 50’s, one black adoptee in his late 30’s, one Korean adoptee in her early 30’s, and one Korean adoptee in her late 20’s.  In retrospect, I realize that Sandy, the Native American adoptee, was not necessarily representative of adult transracial adoptees since her adoptive family was highly dysfunctional, and her adoptive mother was mentally ill.  She did, however, add a counterbalance to the otherwise rosy picture of transracial adoption painted by the other adoptees on the panel. 

I thought it was interesting the number of questions we received from adoptive parents on how hard to push transracially adopted kids to attend cultural activities and language lessons of their birth heritage.  The consensus of the adult adoptees was to encourage, but not push, and they gave some specific suggestions of how to do this.  We also received a number of questions about what parents can do to help a child feel comfortable about looking different from the rest of their family and community, and how to handle teasing by peers. 

My favorite question though was the simplest: “What did your parents do right?’, and then we received a follow-up question: “What do you wish they had done differently in raising a child of a different race?”  I loved the panel’s honest answers.  We also talked about how to find the balance between honoring our child’s birth culture and focusing too much attention on their differences. 

Although adopting across racial and ethnic lines is not without its complications, what came through for three out of the four adoptees on my panel and for the vast majority of transracial adoptees in the Simon and Altstein study was the deep commitment to their families and contentment with being transracially adopted.  As this study concluded, “For the children . . . their adoptive parents are the only family they have and the only set of parents they want.”  Likewise, the vast majority of parents in the study express a deep satisfaction with transracial adoption and would recommend that others adopt children of a different race.  Transracially adopted families have all the warts and blemishes of other families, but at the end of the day, we are first and foremost a family.

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As a newly adoptive mom, I was the conscientious type.  I read all the books and attended more than my share of the lectures.  I was determined to ace adoptive parenting.  I knew that to get an A I had to instill in my child the cultural identity of her birth country.  This, the pundits assured me, was essential for her self esteem, for her to develop into a fully integrated adult.  Okie dokie, I’m nothing if not task oriented. Full integration here we come. 

We went to Love Feasts at a local Korean church, we read Korean fairy tales, we incorporated some Korean foods into our meals, we went to culture camps, we took the obligatory pictures of our daughter decked out in her hanbok.  Yes, it’s true, she ignored her Asian baby doll in favor of her Beanie Babies and later her American Girl doll (how prophetic!), but this was only a minor set-back in our quest for cultural identity. I send all my children off in the morning by calling after them as they run into school, “mah nee sah lang ay oh” (I love you very much) and my daughter sang it back to me as she disappeared into the building.

Fate smiled on us when the new associate minister at our church was Korean.  His wife and I became friends, and my Korean cooking improved.  I secretly beamed when my daughter begged for kim bap (a simplified Korean sushi) in her lunch box while my friend’s son, one year younger, begged for peanut butter and jelly on white bread.  I was making a solid A.

I felt I had reached the pinnacle when my daughter and I started taking Korean language lessons.  Now, for those of you from big cities, this may seem like no big deal, but I live in a small mountain town and trust me, it was a big deal.  I was sure to score an A+ at this cultural identity business.

The first year went relatively well.  My daughter, competitive spirit that she is, liked being better than me, and better she certainly was.  My mouth seemed incapable of forming the words correctly.  At one point the teacher asked me to stick my tongue out so she could determine if the problem was physical.  She sadly shook her head, while my child, the imp, rattled off something with perfect inflection and almost tripped over her smugness.

But by the second year, the bloom was definitely off the Korean language lesson rose.  On lesson days my dearest would jump in the car after school and immediately begin to whine: “Do we haaaaave to go?”  I began stopping at the ice cream shop on the way to the lessons.  (It’s not really bribery, you see, if it’s on the way.) 

I wrestled with what to do.  I wanted my child to feel pride in being Korean and I wanted her to at least be familiar with the language.  “You will learn about your birth culture dammit” just didn’t seem the right approach.  Also, I questioned how much use she was going to get out of being able to say soccer and kitten (an example of her latest choice for vocabulary words) in Korean. 

We agreed to compromise–my fall-back in parenting when a child feels very strongly about something.  We would shift the lessons from strictly Korean language to Korean culture and language, and we would stick with them until the end of the year and then reassess.  The problem took care of itself when the teacher moved that summer.  I noted with sadness that some time in 6th grade she stopped yelling mah nee sah lang ay oh over her shoulder as she ran into school.

Still I continued my quest.  We had attended culture camps in the past but had moved away from our former camp.  I had been searching for a camp that we could drive to.

Me: Hey, guess what, there is a Korean culture camp in July and it is only four hours away.

Daughter (age 11): Do I haaave to go?

Me (stalling and hoping for inspiration): Well, no….

Me (thinking): There goes the A. 

Me (out loud): but, I thought it would be fun for you and me to get away from home just the two of us, and we’d get to eat some good Korean food.

Daughter: I think I’d really rather stay at home.

Me (thinking): Oh great, I just wrote a book stressing the importance of cultural identity for internationally adopted kids and mentioned culture camps specifically, and now my own internationally adopted kid doesn’t want to go.

Me (out loud):  I hear there is a really big mall nearby, and we could go shopping while we’re there.

Daughter: We could always go shopping here.

Me (thinking): Do I stoop to throwing in a trip to Six Flags?  OK, shopping was borderline, but Six Flags would clearly put both feet on that slippery slope of bribery. 

Not that I’m against all bribery, as you will remember from my once weekly stop at the ice cream shop, but how low am I willing to go.  And at what point do I allow my child to decide how much Korean culture she wants.  In my dreams she was going to be a counselor at one in high school and college.  We tabled the decision and later decided that she could decide.  Yes, I tried once again to sway her decision, but she decided not to go.  And for the record, I resisted the temptation to throw in Six Flags.

This cultural identity business is tricky.  Our kids come from a different cultural heritage, but the reality of their day to day existence is, and should be, American.  I want my kid to be comfortable in both because when she leaves the protection of our family’s umbrella, the world will see her as Korean-American. 

There has been some interesting research on older Korean adoptees, although not much that has been published in peer reviewed journals. (I know I’m a research geek, but honestly, I can’t help myself.)  Many Korean adoptees say that they wish they had known more about their cultural heritage growing up—that they had grown up more comfortable in their Koreaness.  But I suspect, if asked, they would not have wished to have it shoved down their throats, especially as an adolescent.

Clearly my girl is comfortable in her soccer playing, iPod listening, piano lesson taking, American Eagle wearing American identity.  She’s the all American kid in many ways.  But my quest for Korean cultural identity is to help her feel comfortable with her other culture, the one she hales from but doesn’t live in.  I can’t recreate that culture for her, and I don’t know that that would serve her well.  What I really want is for her to feel comfortable in her skin, in all its Korean and American glory.  I think she does, at least to the degree that is possible for a 7th grade girl.  She tells me with a smile that she likes being Korean and she likes the attention of looking different from most of her peers.  She loves the food.  She remembers almost none of the language. 

I thought another couple of years at culture camp and language school would help cement the deal.   She disagrees, and at her age I think she gets to decide.  Although the quest doesn’t stop, the ownership should.  Right now she doesn’t feel much need to go very far in this quest. 

Last week when I went to tuck her in, she was re-reading for the hundredth time Tales from a Korean Grandmother.  I curled up on her bed and we laughed about our favorite folk tales.  As I was kissing her good night, she whispered, “mah nee sah lang ay oh.”  Yea, back attcha kid.  I guess, as with most things in parenting, I’ll settle for a solid B. 

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I received a question last week from a family trying to decide whether to take their four-year-old son on the trip to China to pick up their new daughter.  The anxiety of leaving her son was ruining what should be an exciting time.  I thought I’d share my thoughts with the rest of you. 

Most agencies I have talked with discourage families from bringing older children on the adoption trip, but I don’t think it’s so cut and dry.  Whether to take an older child with you depends on the age and personality of the older child, the age of the new child, your agency’s attitude, the referral method, the parents’ travel experience, the parents’ adoption experience, and the adoption process in the country. 

                         To Bring                                                               Not to Bring 

 If you decide to take an older child, talk with your agency at the beginning to gauge their attitude.  Some families recommend bringing a grandparent or friend along to stay with the older child while the parents are tied up elsewhere; otherwise, one parent can stay with the older child while the other parent runs around.  If you decide to leave the older child at home, consider whether one parent should stay home with her to minimize the disruption in her life.  If this is not possible or desirable, it is usually less disruptive if someone familiar to the older child moves into your house and stays with her there.  

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I’m as competitive as the next person.  Whether I’m playing dominoes,tennis or Trivial Pursuit, I like to win.  I don’t often, but I like to.  Competition can be a force for good: spurring us, challenging us, pushing us. 

My eldest child wasn’t much of a soccer player and neither was the team she played on throughout elementary school.  The inaptly named “Red Hots” went two years without winning a single game.  After each game, we always asked if she’d had fun, and when she replied yes, we said that’s what it was all about.  One Saturday morning they faced opponents wiped out by a too lenient sleep-over the night before, and lo and behold, the Red Hots lived up to their name.  My daughter, who had never experienced the exhilaration of soccer triumph, summed up the sensation succinctly: “Hey, it’s more fun to win!” 

She’s right, but not everything is winnable.  From where I sit with one foot in the infertility world and one foot in the adoption world, I see way too much competition, and it drives me nuts.  Competition has no place in how we choose to create our family. 

Infertile and adopting couples get it from all sides.  I probably hear it more because my work and radio show cover the waterfront of all alternative methods of family building, but you don’t have to scratch the surface of many internet forums or support group meetings to hear it for yourself.  It may be subtle, but it’s there all the same.  People who adopt internationally hear “Why didn’t you adopt children here in the US?”  People who adopt infants domestically hear “Why didn’t you adopt from foster care.”  People going through IVF, especially after the first failed round, hear “Why don’t you just adopt.”  People moving to adoption after infertility hear “Why are you quitting, I know of someone who got pregnant on the _______(third, fifth, tenth) IVF cycle.”  And heaven help the folks who choose to adopt without being infertile.  They are almost past commenting, but they still hear plenty of “don’t you want children of your own?”

Competition assumes that there is something to win—that one way is better.  Oh, if only infertility and adoption were so clear.  What’s right for me may not be, and probably isn’t, right for you.  And what’s right for you right now, may very likely change in the future.  Although we share the pain of wanting children, everyone’s journey is unique.

Many of these comments come from folks who have never needed an alternative way to form their families.  They ditch the condoms, buy a bottle of wine, and nine months later welcome a child into their family.  For these people, the issue isn’t competition, just ignorance and insensitivity.  Deal with them as you see fit. 

But I want to address the green-eyed monster’s presence within our community.  The dirty laundry we wouldn’t necessarily want to share with the rest of the world.  People in infertility treatment may question how you can give up the biological connection.  People who adopt may question why someone would continue with the uncertainty and expense of infertility treatments.  People who adopt domestically may question why someone would adopt from abroad when there are kids right here at home that need families.  People using their own eggs for IVF may question how someone could use donor eggs without exhausting all other options first.  People who adopt children already born may question why someone would adopt an embryo.

I don’t have a problem with real, honest to goodness questions.  I’m all for increased dialog and understanding.  But the intent of a real question is to receive information.  Many of these so-called questions are veiled, or not so veiled, attempts to judge the other person’s decision.  These questions come with an inherent sense of the superiority of one method of family building. 

Let’s face it; most of us opt for the easiest way to have kids.  For some, there is no easy way, but they choose the next step that feels most comfortable.  Ease and comfort are individual and may change with time.  We have no control over what other’s outside of the sisterhood and brotherhood of alternative family building say, but we can control what we say.  Let’s make a pact to celebrate all forms of family creation and drop the sense, at least outwardly, that one way is the best way.  If we end up with the family we want, then we have won.

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At least once a year on any internet adoption forum, a thread will erupt about the ubiquitous adopt-a-______(highway, zoo animal, planter, needy family, or whatever) programs and what adoptive parents can and should do to stop them.  Some folks, including most adoption professionals, feel very strongly that these programs insult adopted children and their families.  Form letters are readily available for parents to mail to the offending organizations explaining how the use of the word “adoption” in this way is demeaning and harmful to our children.  Less often, but still common, are internet threads and discussions condemning the use of the word “adoption” to refer to acquiring a family pet.

The experts seem to be unanimous against using “adoption” in any way other than to build a family, so who am I to disagree.  And yet, these discussions always leave me feeling vaguely uneasy.  Chicken that I am, I’ve been quite content to hold my tongue and keyboard, and sit these discussions out.  Last week, I received a question from my Frequently Unasked Question page about a second grade class raising money to “adopt” a zoo animal.  The questioner wondered if she should ask the teacher to change the name of the program because she was concerned that her adopted daughter would be confused or feel diminished by this language.  I spent the week mulling over whether I should respond, and if so, how.

As luck would have it, fate intervened in my pondering and procrastination.  While driving one of my daughters (age 13) to piano lessons we passed an adopt-a-highway sign by our local high school.

Daughter: What’s up with these adopt-a-highway signs? What exactly do they mean?

Me: [Surprised by serendipity and not one to miss an opportunity especially when it drops in my lap, I jumped right in.]  Funny that you should ask since I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.  How do you feel about them?  Do you think they should use that word?  How does that make you feel?

Daughter: [Painfully long pause while she looks at me with an expression that could politely be called quizzical, but more likely could be interpreted as “What planet did you come from?”]  Huh???

At this point, I feel a bit like the parent in the old sex ed joke.  The kid asks where did I come from, and the parent launches into a complete discussion of the mechanics of sex.  The kid responds, “I mean was I born in Minneapolis or St. Paul?

Me: Um, what was your question again?

Daughter: Why is that girl’s name on the adopt-a-highway sign? I thought it had to be a business.  [A high school student had adopted the section of the highway running by the school, and her name was on the sign.]  And what were you talking about?

Me: [After briefly explaining how adopt-a-highway worked, I explained myself.]  Some people think that the word “adopt” shouldn’t be used casually like for cleaning up a highway or giving money to a zoo by sponsoring an animal.  They think it is offensive to people who are adopted.  What do you think?

Daughter: [Clearly intrigued by the question, she pauses to think it through.]  Well, until you just mentioned it, I’ve never thought about it.  I hear that word all the time, and it doesn’t bother me at all.  It just means to take care of the highway, and that doesn’t have anything to do with me.  It’s like with our pets.  We adopted them, and they are a part of our family.

Me: But I think adopting a pet is different from adopting a child.  My commitment to you guys is totally different and much deeper than my commitment to our pets.

Her: Yea, but you love us both.  You can love things differently.  Like, you love Thai food, but you wouldn’t want to marry it.  You can adopt things differently too.
 
Me: English is a funny language that way.  Words can mean so many different things, but I do think we have to be careful with what words we use.

Her: Maybe, but this just seems silly.

After piano, we went to pick up her friend Katie for a sleep-over.  Katie, also 13, was adopted from China.  My daughter suggested that I ask Katie what she thought.

Me: Do you think it is offensive when people talk about adopting a highway or adopting an animal from a zoo?

Katie: [Looking at me wearily like this was a trick question.] What do you mean by offensive?

Me: Hurting your feelings.

Katie [Looking perplexed.]: Why would it hurt my feelings?

Me: Well, I don’t necessarily mean your feelings, but it might hurt another adopted person’s feelings because they could think that using the word “adopt” in that way would make adoption seem less permanent or important.
 
Katie [Who, by the way, is a very concrete thinker.]:  Well of course adopting a highway isn’t that important.  I guess that could hurt the highway’s feelings, but not mine.  What else would they call it?

Me: They could call it sponsoring the highway.

Katie: That’s true but it doesn’t sound as good as Adopt-a-Highway and would take up more room on the sign.

Daughter: Face it mom, it’s kind of weird to be hurt by using the word adopt like that.  It’s just a different way to use the word.

Katie [Who is more diplomatic than my daughter.]:  Some people are really sensitive and maybe a little insecure, and that’s probably why they care.

Unlike, my daughter and Katie, I don’t underestimate the power of words.  Words both reflect and influence attitudes, and attitudes matter.  The argument in the adoption community against the use of the word “adoption” for highways, rubber ducks, or even pets, is that is lessens the meaning of the word.  To adopt a child means forming a lifelong commitment to love, raise, and cherish this child, the same as giving birth to a child.  When you adopt a highway or flower bed, there is no life long commitment or even caring, it’s all about money.  With the family pet, it’s a bit trickier, but even the most ardent animal lover, like me, feels a different commitment to pets than to children.  If one of my children developed an allergy to one of our cats, or if one of our dogs started to bite unprovoked, I would find another home for the pet.  My child’s comfort and safety would come first. But when my kids become obnoxious, I consider many options, but never finding them another home. Although adoption disruptions are real, they seldom happen, and are considered a tragedy by all concerned.

That’s the party line, and it’s true, but there is something about all this that leaves me unsettled.  It’s as if our adopted children and the very institution of adoption are so fragile that using the wrong word can cause major confusion or fundamentally undermine self esteem.  This simply doesn’t reflect the reality that I see.  I asked this question to two adult friends who were adopted, and it isn’t their reality either.

The English language doesn’t lend itself to such exactness.  Lots of words have different meanings.  As my daughter pointed out, love can be used to refer to the deepest, most profound feeling known to humans, but it can also be used casually to mean strongly prefer or like.  Even the phrase “give birth” can mean bringing forth a child, but can also mean coming up with an idea or plan.  It would seem ludicrous for a child by birth to feel less important because of this other meaning.  When writing my book, I referred to it, not always lovingly, as our fifth child.  I don’t think my children were confused by this. 

I dislike and mistrust any hyper focus on word choice because it often backfires on the ones it is suppose to help.  One time at a play group, one mother asked another mom very politely about her son’s condition and referred to the child as a midget.  The child’s mother responded curtly that midget was a derogatory word and that her child should be referred to as “a person of short stature”.  As you would imagine, her response was a conversation killer.  I later found out that the questioner’s cousin had recently given birth to a child with dwarfism, and she was trying to learn more.

So, who benefited by this focus on word correctness?  The only thing the embarrassed questioner learned was that word choice was very important, and since she wasn’t certain of the preferred words, she shouldn’t talk about it at all.  Ultimately the real loser was the boy.  The best thing for this child would be for the world to know more, not less, about his condition.  The mother missed the opportunity to educate five interested and sympathetic listeners, who would have gone forth and educated more people, and in the process create a better environment for her child to live.

It’s hard to keep up with the politically correct words: dwarf or midget or person of short stature; blind or visually impaired; real parent or birth parent; birth parent or first parent; natural child or child by birth; adopt or sponsor.  I will continue to do what I have always done.  I try to not use the word “adopt” to refer to inanimate objects.  Truthfully, I don’t do this to protect my child, but to avoid offending others in the adoption community, mostly adoptive parents.  I try to avoid referring to adding an animal to a family as “adoption”, but this usually seems artificially forced, so most of the time I don’t worry about it.  I don’t ask for a change of names when our schools adopt zoo animals, needy families, or even garbage cans.  Nor do I ask that they change the name of the history unit titled “Birth of a Nation.”

What we all need is more light and openness on supposedly taboo topics, such as adoption.  I pray that our children are not hothouse flowers that will wilt in this light.  My goal is to grow a child that is more like a black-eyed Susan or hardy aster that can thrive anywhere, and understands that the nuances of language are just that.
 

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After all our paperwork was finally signed, sealed and delivered, our agency told us we could expect a referral in about six months.  After about four months, I found myself running to answer the phone, checking for voice messages the second I walked in the house, and listening for our case worker’s voice when I picked up the phone.  I insulted more that one friend by starting my side of the conversation with, “Oh, it’s just you.”  It was magic when we finally heard, “I have a baby for you to consider.” 

Although we had been open to some special needs, the first baby that was referred to us had more problems than we thought we could handle.  It was a heart breaking decision.  Peter and I had compromised on what special needs we would accept, and this child was far outside of our agreement.  In my mind, I knew we had to make the decision that was best for us as a family, but in my heart, I worried that we were giving into fear and that with enough love we could make it work.  I worried that we would never get another referral or would have to wait for another six months. I was so tired of waiting, and so ready for this child.  I am thankful that our agency stood by our decision and never pushed or even encouraged us to stretch to accept this child.  The decision haunted me long after we were told that the baby had found a family that was up to the challenge. 

The following month we were referred our daughter.  She was classified as a “failure to thrive” baby and there were some medical concerns.  I would be lying if I told you we weren’t scared and worried.  It felt like we were stepping into the unknown, which I now realize is exactly how you should feel every time you open your life to a child regardless if that child is yours through birth or adoption.  We consulted our pediatrician and an international adoption medical specialist and within days we said yes.  Although this is not always the case, our “failure to thrive” baby has thrived spectacularly, and even if she hadn’t, I now firmly believe that she is the child God always wanted us to have. 

We are not alone in turning down a referral.  If you are faced with this decision, be honest with yourself about the child you are able to parent.  This is not a charity, this is your family.  No reputable agency should push you to accept a child with problems or potential problems that you are not equipped to handle.  However, don’t automatically reject a referral with a medical issue without being informed.  Knowledge is power.  If you are considering a child with a potential health problem, get as much information as possible from your doctor, other parents who have children with this issue, and online support groups for this specific disability.  You can find this type of information at the Rainbow Kids site.  As the mom of children who have had their share of medical and learning issues, I can tell you that for me, the ride has been well worth the price of admission, but only you can decide what is best for you. 

If you decide against a referral, no matter how reasonable your decision, be prepared to feel awful.  You will worry about what will happen to that child, you will feel guilty, you will question your decision, you will grieve.  Don’t expect the rest of the world to understand, but know that I do, and so do the thousands of other adoptive parents who have either been there or, but for the grace of God, would have been there. 

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I was reviewing a recent study on sleep issues with kids adopted from China.  Boy, did it bring back memories.  Get any group of adoptive parents of children under five together, and I guarantee that the conversation will gravitate to sleep—or parental lack thereof.  But I also talk with lots of parents who have biological children under the age of five, and they too complain about getting their kids to sleep and keeping them there.  I have been there, done that, and have the scars to prove it.

One of our kids struggled with sleep and separation anxiety from the beginning.  We tried every approach imaginable, including rocking him to sleep, letting him cry, sitting in his room until he fell asleep, sleeping on the floor of his room– to name just a few.  What worked best was letting him share a room with a sibling.  By the time that his brother wanted his own room, our sleep-troubled boy was more or less ready to sleep alone—some of the time.  On most nights he would start out in his own bed, but he often moved in the middle of the night to be closer to us.  We kept a sleeping bag in his room for that purpose.  He seemed to go through stages: he would go weeks moving every night, then a few days sleeping in his own bed.  He progressed over the years from settling down on the floor beside our bed, to the hall outside our bedroom, and finally to a room near our bedroom. 

He didn’t travel lightly.  One morning I found him sleeping on the hallway floor outside our bedroom with his stuffed dog, his flashlight, the US map with his state quarter’s collection, and his notebook of statistics he collected on the Olympics.  I often wondered at his criteria for what to bring, for it changed nightly except for his dog and flashlight.  All we asked was that he move his things back to his room each morning.

We took a pretty nonchalant attitude about his nocturnal wanderings.  We tried to trust that he was developing in a way that was best for him.  For the most part we succeeded, but not completely.  Worry and second guessing were also a part of our lives.  Should we try to discourage his sleeping near us, were we creating a Momma’s boy, was he not independent enough, had we done something to cause this “problem”, was this a reflection of some deep seated insecurity that would haunt him throughout his life.  (OK, the last one was a bit over the top, but still, every once in awhile in the wee hours of the night, it crept in.) 

The beauty of hindsight is that I can now see that he was progressing according to his own timetable.  His progress wasn’t linear, but over time, his mid-night roving gradually decreased until he stopped completely some time in eighth grade.

Given our own struggles with kids and sleep, I was eager to read the latest sleep research on children adopted from China by Dr. Tony Tan.  He talked about sleep issues and this research on the Aug. 6 Creating a Family show.  (I have summarized this study on my adoption research page.)  His research shows that we weren’t alone with trying varying sleep arrangements, and when children struggle with sleep, the techniques that worked best were a strict bedtime routine, or sharing a bedroom with parents, or co-sleeping with parents.  We did all but the co-sleeping.

I have practical rather than philosophical objections to co-sleeping on a regular basis: I’m a light sleeper and don’t sleep well with squirmers and floppers, which most of my kids are.  (I woke up this summer with my youngest sitting on top of me knocking on my head!?!)  Also, with four kids, our bed would have been very crowded.  It seems there are two schools of co-sleeping families.  One group is doing it as a last resort because it works, and they need sleep.  Their goal is to gradually transition their children to sleeping solo.  For the second group, the family bed is the goal, and they follow the children’s lead on when they want to move out. 

My only concern with co-sleeping is that it is not always as mutually satisfying as is often portrayed.  In talking with both parents, I find that it’s fairly common for one parent to be less enthusiastic about co-sleeping as a long term solution to sleep issues.  It’s not unusual for one parent to move out of the “family” bed on a regular basis in order to get a good night’s sleep.  This worries me.

I’m a big fan of parents taking care of themselves.  I think adoptive parents especially need to be encouraged to do this.  Often they’ve waited so long for their children and have been so thoroughly indoctrinated in attachment theories that stress constant adult/child bonding that they have a hard time asserting their own needs.  If co-sleeping works for both parents, go for it, and blow off the societal sleep police.  My only caution is to make darn sure both parents really want this.  (If you decide you want to transition from the family bed, you might want to listen to the June 11, 2008 Creating a Family show on the No-Cry Sleep Solution, where the author, Elizabeth Pantley, gave specific suggestions.) 

Now that I’m on the other side, it’s easy for me to tell you not to worry; most kids eventually find a way to get to sleep and stay there.  An uninterrupted night’s sleep is in your future.  But, although that is true, I could also tell you that your worries over sleep will be replaced by other worries, such as dating, driving, and passing grades.  I guess it’s in the nature of parenting to worry, just don’t let the worry crowd out the joy. 

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My then sixth grade daughter was invited to a sleep-over party at a hotel with an indoor pool.  The divorced dad who was flying in for the occasion was giving the party.  My daughter and I were both new to middle school.  I didn’t know the child or the parents; I couldn’t get good information about how many adults would stay the night and how the adult and kids rooms would be situated.  I yearned for the familiarity of elementary school where I knew most of the families of my child’s friends, or knew someone who did.  My daughter was not the most social of kids, so I didn’t take saying no lightly.  In the end, I decided to compromise (another word for displeasing everyone equally): she could stay until 10:00, when the pool closed, but then I would pick her up. 

I knew my daughter had a volatile nature and struggled with transitions under the best of circumstances, and leaving mid-party was close to the worst of circumstances.  We talked before hand about how hard it might be to leave, and I clearly stated my expectations for her behavior-no begging, no renegotiating, and no tantrums.  The evening, as you would imagine,  went the way of other famous best-laid plans.

I showed up at 9:30 and waved my 30-minute warning.  She ignored it and me.  As the pool closed and the kids were running wild, she started to beg, negotiate and cry.  I was sympathetic but firm.  As we entered the elevator, which in my memory was packed with respectable calm folks who I’m sure were perfect parents, my daughter lost it and started screaming.  “I hate you. I wish you weren’t my mother.  Any other mother in the whole world would be better than you.”  It was a long elevator ride for all concerned.

Hearing “You’re not my parent” flung at you in anger is a universal fear of adoptive parents or parents that conceive through donor egg, sperm or embryo.  I think it underlies many decisions, including deciding on a closed adoption or deciding not to tell a child they were conceived through donor gamete.  And look, I’m here to tell you that it is not a pleasant experience.  That evening in the elevator, I was hurt, embarrassed and furious—in about equal measures. 

But as much as this is a universal parental fear, it is also a universal feeling at times amongst kids—all kids.  The daughter in the above story is my biological child.  Of my four children, she is the only one who had ever said this, but I have no doubt the other three have felt it or will feel it.  All kids at some point wish they had another mother.  The more intense the child, the more likely they’ll give voice to this sentiment.  The difference is that biological kids add “I wish” to “you’re not my mother”, but trust me, it does nothing to lessen the sting.  Truth be told, most parents have harbored similar thought about their darling progeny every once in awhile.  I know I have, including that night in the elevator.

The existence of another mother, a first mother, no doubt complicates things, but I suspect it complicates it as much, if not more, for us parents than for our children.  Being told that we aren’t their mother plays to our secret fear that we really aren’t their real mother, and sadness that we have to deal with this fact.  As a result, I’ve noticed that adoptive parents or parents through donor gametes give more power to this statement than it deserves.  I have seen parents change their position or get sidetracked into an adoption talk once the “you’re not my mother” gauntlet has been thrown.  The statement gains power each time this happens, and thus, is whipped out more and more. 

Sometimes, of course, this statement is a true reflection of unresolved adoption issues or grief, but in my experience, it is more often a reflection of the typical run of the mill child/parent struggles.  No one likes hearing “no” and every child worth his salt would love to have a weapon to prevent it. 

There is probably no perfect answer to this statement, because expression of frustration and anger don’t really need a response.  If you can muster up the energy to lie in the heat of the moment you could say, “Well, I’m certainly glad I’m your mother.”  The best I’ve been able to do is, “That may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are still grounded or leaving the party or _______.”  One friend responded to her teen daughter, “Look behind me honey, I don’t see a line of other mothers waiting to take my place.”    Another more politically correct friend responded, ‘That’s funny, I sure feel like your mother.”  (One can only guess that the irony was lost on her son.)  And all of these mothers, including me, are now very close with the children involved, and as far as I know, all of these children are now quite glad they’ve got the mothers they have. 

I don’t have any amazing words of wisdom to help you avoid your child wishing they had another mother, other than to say it is almost always temporary.  Parenting is not a popularity contest.  I said this once to my thirteen-year-old son, and I over heard him mutter as he walked away: “Damn good thing too since you’d be losing big time.”  He could just as easily have muttered “you’re not my real mother.”  Maybe it is deep felt adoption angst, but more likely it is just an angry kid trying to strike back.  We both survived and so will you. 

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I was talking with a couple the other day who was trying to decide whether to go through another round of IVF, this time using donor eggs, or move to adoption.  It was an agonizing decision for them.  And although this wasn’t the major sticking point, she kept coming back to “all the paper work involved with trying to adopt”.  They hadn’t decided between domestic or international adoption, but they knew enough to know that all forms of adoption require paper pushing.

I started to go into my rah-rah mode: gets organized, focus on one step at a time…the whole long journeys begin with a single step routine.  But all I said, was, “Yea, the paper chase stinks, but is more doable than you think right now.”

I feel for them and their decision, and wished I had the perfect answer.  I know that her focus on the paperwork was probably not the whole picture, but was the easiest fear to talk about– the tip of her anxiety iceberg that she was willing to share. 

I was forced to think about a different type of paper chasing the following week when my children started school.  A well kept secret is that the first day of school is much more work for the parents than for the kids.  The poor parent—me–is inundated with forms, syllabi, requests, sign-up sheets, shopping lists, and schedules.  With four kids, I am basically swimming in paper.  Usually, I sit right down with my pen, calendar, yellow sticky pad, checkbook, and school file for each child and force myself to finish them all on the first night.  This year was different.

For reasons that seemed to make sense at the time, I had decided to wait until after the first day of school to buy school supplies.  Big mistake.  There wasn’t a single sheet of loose leaf college rule to be found, and it took three stores before we found composition books.  I was not in the mood to look at anything school related that night.  So, throwing caution to the wind, I took a walk on the wild side.  My date with paper could wait until the next night. 

From the reaction of my children the next morning, you would have thought that I was asking them to go to school naked.

“Where are my forms?” 
“Mom, I HAVE to have them!” 
“You know that they are REQUIRED by the STATE.” 
“What am I supposed to tell my teachers—that my mom is lazy.” 

Yeah, that hits the nail on the head.  “Tell them that I spent all day yesterday searching for composition books and paying $3.29 EACH for them once I finally found them!”  Jeez, it’s only one lousy day.  I can only hope that they will feel the same about going to school without their homework, but I somehow doubt it. 

That afternoon, I decided to play my agony for what it was worth.  (Suffering in silence is overrated.)  “You are the ones that get to go to school and hang out with your friends and play at recess.  Why am I the one who has to do all the work?  (Sigh dramatically) You guys are a lot of trouble.”  My youngest, once she realized that I really was going to wade through my paper stack, joined in the teasing.

Her: “You know, Mom, you shouldn’t put off until tomorrow what needs to be done today.  That’s called procrastination.”  (I have noticed over the years that little pearls of wisdom sound a lot better coming from me than from my kids.)
Me:  “One day does not procrastination make.  (Oh how I’ll regret saying that.)  I was busy doing other stuff for you, and I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but you, my love, are a lot of work.  For the record, I’ve already filled out enough paper work for you to reach the moon.” 
Her:  Those papers before you got me don’t count because you liked filling them out because you were going to get ME.”
Me:  “Well now, I suppose you’re right about that.”  With a swat on her bottom, “I just didn’t know that it would never end.”
Her:  “Yeah, but I’m worth it.”

When she was little, on most nights she would ask for us to recite “her baby story.”  We realized that this was mostly about postponing bedtime, but still we played along.  I tried to vary the story to introduce other concepts about her adoption.  One night I offhandedly mentioned that we had to fill out a lot of forms to adopt her.  I think I was trying to point out that many people in her birth country and this country cared about her and wanted the best family for her.  But the part she focused on was how hard her dad and I had to work to get her.  After that night, for many months she would nightly ask for me to show her with my hands how big the paper stack was.  I would always start out with my hands about a foot apart, but each night giggling, she would stretch them further and further apart until the paper pile was as tall as she.  After awhile, she tired of this game, and I had almost forgotten about it until that afternoon last week.

Filling out the papers to prove our worthiness to adopt these precious children is a time consuming pain.  No doubt about it.  But, after you get your child, you honestly don’t think about it other than as an amusing anecdote.  The analogy to labor pain is overdone, but like all clichés, there is some truth to it. 

I don’t know that any advice I had to give on adoption paperchasing would have been helpful to the deciding couple.  The anxiety over the paper work was a screen covering a whole host of concerns about parenting out of their gene pool, regardless if that diversity came from a single egg or a whole child.  I knew that and so did they.  But maybe I should have gone into my cliché mode: one step at a time, you’ll forget the pain, etc.  Or maybe I should have quoted my daughter, “Whatever you decide, it’ll be so worth it at the end.”

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