Race...the other four letter word

Before we had Ethan, no one ever doubted that we adopted from China. Two brown-haired, fair-eyed parents, one daddy-look-alike child and one Chinese child. And we quickly grew accustomed to the second glances in the grocery store, restaurants, park, etc. You know, the first glance is the one you give everyone who crosses into your line of vision. But the second look is a process of trying to racially size up a family. Not in a negative way, just out of curiosity, I guess. Ultimately it's how our brain works. We are constantly trying to find sameness...to fit unlike items into neat little categories. I find myself doing it to other mixed race families all the time. And, let's face it, anyone who has adopted trans-racially knows that when you sign those papers, you are also signing up to forever be a walking billboard for adoption. This is not a bad thing but it can get wearisome at points. Another reason for the stares...I think that my children are particularly beautiful and people tend to stare at beautiful children. It wasn't until we brought Ethan home that I came to grips with my deeper emotions on the subject. NiNi and Ethan started a gymnastics class several weeks ago. It is Tuesday mornings on my day off...so daddy is at work and Meagan is at school. It's the first situation where people only know me and the Chinese contingency of our family. Ethan's class is a "mommy and me" class so I chat with the other moms quite a bit. Right away I noticed something was different: No probing looks, No adoption comments. And I seemed to be oddly included in discussions relating to pregnancy, birth and babyhood. Interesting. Then it hit me, everyone assumed that NiNi and Ethan were biologically related and my husband must be Chinese. After all, as my Asian friends like to tell me, that Asian gene is strong. Even if your great-great grandma was Chinese your kid could come out looking like he just immigrated. So, then it happened. We were discussing Ethan's small size and someone asked, "Was he a preemie?" Um....I paused, I stammered, then, as if on cue, Ethan darted off and I had to run after him. By the time I sauntered back over, the conversation had drifted to the housing market or something like that. But I couldn't get the interaction out of my head. Why didn't I want to tell the truth? Why didn't I just say, "Oh, he's adopted, I have no idea if he was a preemie!"
Probably for a couple of reasons. One, there is certainly a component of grief in adoption. Let me
first say that I positively love all of my children equally. Still, the stark reality is that with my adopted children, I was not the first to hold them, smell them or kiss them. And that is sometimes painful. I missed out on so much of their babyhood....especially those newborn months when they are so fragile and completely dependent. Actually it really sucks. Two, I think our society is not yet always accepting that adoption is a valid way to build a family. I'll never forget talking with a patient in the nursing home where I used to work. She was in her 80's and I asked about her children. I'll never forget her response, "I have one son....well TWO, but one's adopted." Now granted we've come a long way since this mis-guided woman formed her views on adoption, but not so far. I think there is a part of me that fears, if I let on that Ethan is adopted, this will somehow de-validate to others our mother-child relationship. Because I did not physically give birth to him that I am some kind of mother-impostor. I don't know the answers to any of this. And I'm sure that it will occur to my gymnastics moms at some point that I am not my son's biological mother. But, is it wrong to enjoy the anonymity? To fade into the wood work and be the same as everyone else for awhile? Probably,
but it's where I'm at.