Who is your real mommy? (No, we don’t say “real,” we say “birth mother.”) Who is your birth mother? Why was she sick? Where is she now? Are you going to get sick?Īdoption is especially difficult to discuss because it requires that you either reveal a tragedy (like my birth mother, being addicted to drugs and giving up six children to the State of Massachusetts, who would be parceled out among foster homes), or that you veil the tragedy entirely and present the story as one of triumph and joy (lucky Mommy was saved by her adoptive mother and everything worked out just fine, see?). I tried to keep it as casual as I could, but, unsurprisingly, oh the questions, how they flew. It’s only been a year since I revealed to my two oldest boys, now 7 and 5, that I was adopted. In the early years, it’s generally considered safest that our children just see us as mommies and daddies-figureheads, symbols, gods-rather than actual human beings with flaws and, in many cases, troubled pasts. So we have to reveal bits and pieces of ourselves over time.
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We know our children from the moment they are born, but they don’t know much about us.
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