The other day Kai found the above picture lying on Josh’s chest of drawers. Josh needed an extra suitcase for a business trip overseas, so he borrowed the little cheapo one we brought back with us from China last year. In that little gray suitcase we kept many of the keepsakes from our trip to China. Josh stacked these various items precariously on our ironing table in the bedroom for me to put somewhere safer at a later time. One of the keepsakes was a red silk photo album. The album was given to us by the orphanage staff on the day we received Kai. The staff took a series of pictures of Kai right before we came to China. The picture mischievously slipped out of the spotless album and I had yet to slide it back into its designated plastic sleeve.
As soon as Kai caught sight of the photo he headed straight for it, like pulling a bucket of water up from the depths of a cool dark well, Kai slowly drew near it and looked down into the image, diving in with his deep brown eyes. I held my breath as Kai gingerly fingered the picture. He plopped himself down on the beige carpet and crossed his legs. I lowered myself down next to him, immediately realizing at that moment, that I hadn’t been his mom for a year yet, only 10 months. It felt as if the pasty white horse in the photo was whispering, “He is still more ours than yours.” I looked over his shoulder and pointed to Kai perched on the taunting horse. “Who is that little boy?” I chirped in that mommy-talk manner that so often annoys me so much. I slip into it most often when I am trying too hard to control what I really want to say. My voice defaults to a sing-song mode in tandem with my rising blood pressure. The higher my voice, the more uncomfortable I probably feel.
Oblivious of the shifting mood of his mother he smiled up at me and said quietly, “Kai.” “Yes, that is Kai!” I congratulated him loudly. “ And who is that?” I asked, pointing to the women peeking out from the corner of the picture; the woman I knew to be the orphanage’s director. “Mommy!” he announced, delighted with himself.
Elizabeth, never one to miss the action in our house, zipped into our bedroom to see what was going on. “Oh, is that Kai’s mommy in China?” she asked excitedly. Elizabeth and I have talked extensively about adoption and Kai, and how Kai had a “Tummy Mummy” in China, but that we are his forever family. Despite these conversations, Elizabeth seems to harbor the notion that we took a child from a mother in China. There are times when I can see the accusation in her eyes, wordlessly telling me “I do not believe this story you keep telling me about parents not being able to care for their children. I just don’t buy it.” I have to tell you, part of me doesn’t want her to buy it. In her world we are all loved an accepted by parents that think you are the best thing ever and treat you to ice cream on the weekends. In my own heart, there are days when I grieve for his birth parents. I feel frustrated and conflicted about the need for adoption period. I would be lying if I denied the moments when I feel like a thief, like I have stolen something precious out of China for my own benefit, like I will not be the mom he needs me to be, the mom he could have had in China had things been different.
I ignored Elizabeth and my own increased heartbeat and asked Kai again, “Kai, look here, who is this?” Again, he smiled, never taking his eyes away from the picture and answered, “Mommy.”
Deep breath. Augh, I did not want to go here today. I wasn’t having a great “mommy” day to begin with. I felt frustrated and exhausted with the everyday rigors of being a mom to a 5 and 3 year old in the middle of summer vacation. Up until this point in the day, Kai insisted on pushing every little button he could find to produce a loud reaction from his big sister and me as well. This little episode wasn’t helping the day move along with the smooth sailing melody of family bliss. It amazed me how easily Kai could throw down “the mommy” card. The question now became, “Does he even know what a real mommy is?”
I watched my son fondly look at this picture of himself in his first home in China. Such obvious love and pleasure brightened his face. On the day we toured the orphanage, we met the caretaker that took Kai home with her often. I am ashamed to tell you that I do not know or remember her name. We have a picture of her holding Kai that day. She stands unsmiling, looking into our camera lens, a neutral shade of composure drawn across her face. Our guide informed us that he called this caretaker “Mommy”. We are so thankful to this woman and all of her love for Kai. Every social worker, doctor and adoption coordinator tells us that Kai certainly received a lot of love in his first years, and this is why he was able to bond so readily with our family.
I know about this mommy, his caretaker mommy. And of course I know he had a birthmother, but all we have of her is a copy of the one sentence letter stating his date of birth. Was the director also a sort of mommy in his eyes? Did he have 3 mommies before me? My heart broke; I stared out the bedroom window as a cardinal landed on our fence. Did we tear him away from all of these people that I know so little about right now? Does he miss them and is unable to verbalize it to us because of restricted English speaking vocabulary?
Selfishly, I could not help but wonder if Kai viewed me as just another caretaker? Is he happily enjoying the family life here, content to sort of roll with the punches? Is he just a flexible kid who will love without loyalty? I want to be his one and only mommy on the one hand, and yet on the other hand, I want to acknowledge and respect the women who cared and loved for Kai his first 2 and half years of his life. They can be important people, but I want to be the mommy.
“No throw away,” Kai pleaded as he held the picture close to his chest. The cardinal I was watching flew up into the oak tree to next to his brown camouflaged female mate. I turned my gaze away from the window and assured him that I would not throw away the picture. With that promise barely off my lips, he dropped it on our bed and hopped on one foot down the hall to play with Elizabeth. I picked it up and returned it to the pile of keepsakes for later, took a deep breath, and stretched my legs. Those women, the keepsakes, the memories, the stories of Kai’s first 2 and half years do not fit in a box or a suitcase. I am not sure where they belong, but as his mom, I will do my best to preserve what I do know and help him along the way, as we grow together in this journey of international adoption and the blending of worlds and cultures. There are at least three women in China who loved my son. We do not share cultures or languages, and yet we each share a part of Kai’s life and helped shape the boy he is today, regardless of who came first, second or third.
1 comment:
Oh my gosh Kate...this is so beautiful. It needs to be published somewhere. It is so moving, and probably even more so, and more relevant to other families who have adopted internationally. This seems like it verbalizes the feelings that many of these families must have very clearly and very honestly. I loved it.
PS-I think we're in for Sheboygan!
Post a Comment