A little African American seven year-old girl at the park the other night, asked if our boys were ours. After I said yes, she looked a bit perplexed and then stated/questioned; “but they’re brown?”
She was so cute and clearly a bit confused- it was adorable. I quickly agreed with her and then said the words I say less and less…”oh they’re adopted.”
It’s not as though I care whether people know we’ve adopted our boys- I mean, clearly, it’d be a miracle if I had birthed black children. It’s not some big secret we’re keeping from them until they are 18. Obviously they will figure it out rather quickly even if I sit out in the sun until I’m as tan as I could ever get.
But clearly, they are my sons and as funny as it sounds- I often forget we don’t share the same blood. Don’t get me wrong, I love talking about adoption and answering questions/asking them of others…and staying in touch with their awesome birth mom…but *insert shoulder shrug* on any given day…I don’t even think about it. I’ve been asked several times lately about attachment in regards to adoption and while it happened differently with each boy- it happened very quickly.
Probably because it was new and weird and crazy…when I met Josiah, it wasn’t immediate. It took 48 hours- the moment he was handed to us for good was when it happened. With Regan, it was immediate. I couldn’t help myself. I often qualify that adoptions and thus, attachments are not created equal. So many factors go into “attaching” and at least for now, I’ll leave it at that.
Mostly because at the moment, I hear both the boys wanting to get out of bed…ciao.