The author originally wrote and published this piece in March 2014.
‘Mom, I’m glad I’m not adopted,’ the little boy said out of the blue.
‘Really,’ she responded. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because, if I was adopted you wouldn’t love me as much.’
It had been more than five years since the boy made the transition into his new family. He was about a year old when Child Protective Services placed him with his foster family.
He doesn’t remember the days of crawling around a small government-subsidized apartment as his biological mother and her guests — many of whom she didn’t know — lay sleeping on floors and couches. Though it was one of his earliest sensory experiences, he can’t identify marijuana smoke. Nor has he imagined that drinking straws are also used to inhale the poisonous vapors of scorched methamphetamine.
And he doesn’t recall the hours in court, where attorneys and social workers made their cases on his behalf.
‘Well, you know we love you more than anything,’ the mom said.
‘I know,’ the little boy responded, ‘because I’m not adopted.’
His young memory is instead crowded with Disney characters and Sunday dinners; a cruise ship that he refers to as the boat; a stuffed duck that was his Linus blanket; and pizza bites. Enough pizza bites to float a cruise ship.
The boy’s parents never considered having another child. In fact, they were done with diapers, well-baby doctor visits and school supply lists that included sleeping mats. All of their high-chairs and strollers had been given away or sold at a garage sale. They were ready for vacations and some weekends alone.
But they saw an injustice.
He deserved better than to be left alone or to witness his mother trade favors for drugs. Every child does. This boy, however, was one of the fortunate ones. For certain, his biological mother loved him. But her stronger bond was with her lifestyle. And he’d become a novelty.
‘You know, many people who put their children up for adoption love them very much,’ the mom explained. ‘And the people who adopt them really want them in their family.’
‘I’m just glad I’m not adopted,’ he responded. ‘And I’m glad you and dad love me more than an adopted son.’
In time, the boy will begin asking questions. His parents – my wife and I – will offer him answers. We will be forthcoming and matter-of-fact. That will include letting him know that life happens and that he is our grandson, but really our son.
We will also tell him that we love him with all of our hearts. Forever. And I suspect that he’ll believe us.