“How did you two get two blonde kids?”
My husband and I smiled at each other. He’s dark haired, dark eyed, tans easily. I’m a quarter Mexican with dark brown hair and dark green eyes.
“And how did one of them come out with blue eyes?”
“Oh,” I answered with a shrug. “He gets those from his birth mother.”
My daughter – my very blonde biological daughter – gets her blonde hair from who knows where. I was fair haired as a child, and her grandma is blonde. So it’s there somewhere.
My opinion? It’s God’s way of letting this brother and sister have something in common. Because, when I look at my son, I don’t see strawberry blonde hair or almond eyes that turn down at the corners. I don’t see a tall boy who inherits his height from his birth parents. I don’t see a child I didn’t give birth to. I don’t see a boy who doesn’t share my blood.
I don’t see the differences.
When I look at my son, I see a big, contagious smile. I see the baby boy who used to laugh until he got the hiccups whenever I’d tickle him or chase him around the house. I see the kid who’s first word was fish. When he was 7 months old. I see the “bubble head” baby who wore a helmet to correct his brachycephaly. I see the baby who had to see a dermatologist because he had eczema so bad his face would bleed.
I see the toddler who used to get into everything. He’s the boy who learned his letters, shapes and colors before he was two.
When I look at my son, I see a boy who is brave. Kind. Tender hearted. Loving. Stubborn. Easily distracted. Hilarious. I see the best big brother, who cares for his little sister and misses his angel brother. I see a kid who loves to tell knock-knock jokes and wants to be a ninja when he grows up.
I see a five-year-old who is learning to read and lights up when he hears Beethoven’s Fifth. (No joke. I did not instigate that.) I see a potential doctor. Firefighter. Math teacher. Astronaut, musician, athlete…He’s going to make the best father and a loving husband.
I see a Child of God.
I don’t see what I lack. I don’t think about paperwork and bills and court and waiting, waiting, waiting. I see the baby we prayed for and loved before he was born. When I look at Seth, I am reminded of his birth mother, who has a heart bigger than the universe.
I see a miracle.
So, you see, when I look at my son who was adopted at birth, I don’t see someone else’s kid that I’m raising. I see my son whom I love unconditionally, even when we don’t like each other sometimes. I see sleepless nights. I see the hugs of comfort, the kisses of love, the crushed dandelion gifts, the goodnight songs and good morning snuggles.
When I sat down to write this post, I thought, “Ok, what am I trying to say? What do I really want you – the reader – to know?” I want you to know that love doesn’t know blood. That adoption is a miracle. That Birth Mothers are angels. All of them. That when I look at my son, I see my son. Period.
It’s National Adoption Month! Show some adoption love whenever you can.
Have you been personally touched by adoption?