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Let’s talk about what happens when your child gets married.

Whoa, you say.  That’s years away.  Maybe even decades.  We just achieved potty training over here; I can’t think about Max or Maddy getting married, for crying out loud.  I’ll deal with that when we get there.

Not so fast.  I’m going to ask you to take a few minutes to think about an aspect of your child’s future marriage now.  Because it’s really not just about marriage, it’s about family: the kind of family you have now and the kind of family you foresee in your future.  And while I’m writing this post primarily with parents of transracial, transcultural adoption in mind, please read on even if you’re not such a parent, because you’ll see that a version of the questions here can apply to you, too.

Here’s the big one: If you are the parent of an internationally adopted child from another race and/or culture, how will you feel if your child marries someone from his or her own race and culture?

Before you give the quick and obvious answer—“I’d love it!”—take a few moments to think about this.

Yoon Seon is an adult Korean adoptee from Australia who wrote an insightful post on this topic on her blog.  She ultimately married a Caucasian man, but she ponders what it might have been like for her parents if she had married a Korean man instead:

Suddenly everything could have been flipped 180 degrees and suddenly they could have found themselves in the situation that I’ve been in my whole life: being the odd one out.

I think part of the reason why I used to want to marry someone of Korean background was to be part of a Korean family: the main thing that I missed out on in being adopted.

This is an aspect of marriage in transracial and transcultural adoption that I hadn’t considered before, and it made me think.  So often, I come across stories of adopted kids who are afraid to explore their heritage for fear of hurting their parents, and of parents who fear that steps by their kids into their birth cultures are actually rejections of their adoptive families.  I’d never thought of my daughter’s future, theoretical marriage in this context before, but Yoon Seon’s words made perfect sense.  If an adoptive parent harbors any latent insecurity about ties to her child, about the birth culture to which the parent can never truly belong, her child’s marriage into that culture could feel threatening.  It could feel like a loss, like a rejection.

Ouch.

I know it’s tempting to put off thinking about this, to say, “Oh, my kids are so young, I’m not even going to consider this until they’re older.”  But if you’re a parent, you already know how quickly time moves.  They were in diapers just yesterday.  Now they’re in school, they’ll be dating tomorrow, and you’ll need to have thought through these very complicated issues before you know it. 

All parents need to think about how they will react if their children decide to marry someone not of their parents’ race, religion, nationality, economic background or sexual orientation.  These issues of race and identity go to the core of who we are—all of us.  If you react with a jerk of the knee when your adult child comes to you, deeply in love, the result will be a flood of hurt feelings and resentment on all sides. 

When I was a younger adult, I watched several of my friends’ relationships dissolve under severe parental disapproval of the race, religion or nationality of their chosen partners.  The pain cut deep and ragged for everyone involved, and I couldn’t imagine that that is what my friends’ parents really wanted for themselves or for their children.  Think through these issues now, when the face of a beloved is a theoretical one instead of that of a real person to whom your child wants to promise the rest of his life.

Adoptive parents especially need to consider this.  So I leave you with this question from Yoon Seon: “Does it worry you: that your child may one day ‘reclaim’ that part of themselves that you can’t provide, from… someone else?”

(Photo credit: anyjazz65 via Flickr.com)

Five-year-old “Emmie” has begun to explore pieces of her racial identity lately.  In a seemingly unrelated development, both of my children have been ripping into each other this summer with the vigor of a couple of Kardiashian sisters, each having been told the other stands in the way of her admission to an A-list party.  These two trends came together yesterday to offer a less-than-constructive example of how a child might explore her racial identity.

My two darlings sat at the kitchen counter eating their breakfast.  They began to argue.

“That Rice Krispie looks like a sock,” said Emmie.

“No, it doesn’t,” replied eight-year-old “Jack.”  His tone implied that she was the stupidest child ever to exist on the planet, and his misfortune at being her brother was an affliction from which he would never recover.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

(This exchange repeated for a while.  I’ll let you imagine it rather than continuing to write it out.)

Finally the dialogue changed.  “You just think it doesn’t look like a sock because your eyes are different,” said Emmie.

“What?” replied Jack. 

At this point, I began to listen more carefully.  On the one hand, I had absolutely no interest in inserting myself into a conversation about the shape of a Rice Krispie.  On the other hand, if my children—who, for the uninitiated, are not of the same race—were getting into a discussion about racial differences, I wanted to be on top of things.

“Your eyes are different from mine,” Emmie repeated.  “Mommy said that your eyes and her eyes are not the same shape as mine.  That’s why you don’t think the Rice Krispie looks like a sock.”

Jack sounded thoroughly exasperated.  “That’s got nothing to do with why I don’t think the Rice Krispie looks like a sock!” 

Poor Jack.  He was right, of course, but I didn’t want to shoot Emmie down completely when she was discussing the differences in our eyes.  Besides, I am forever trying to teach Jack the art of walking away from a ridiculous argument—obviously, I haven’t made much headway there—so any intervention by me would need to be balanced and measured.

I did the diplomatic, Mommy thing.  I walked into the kitchen and asked what was going on as if I had no idea.  I affirmed the notion of differently shaped eyes.  Then I told Emmie to eat the freaking Rice Krispie. 

Game over.  Class dismissed.

Sometimes when I think about the identity issues five-year-old “Emmie” may face as she grows up, I’m overwhelmed.  She’s an Asian-Korean-Jewish-American adopted girl in an otherwise Caucasian, part-Jewish family living in a heavily white, Christian, New England community.  Right now, she seems fine with all of that, but I look ahead to adolescence—tough for any kid—and I wonder how she’ll handle it all.

It turns out there’s an app for that.  (Okay, not really an “app,” but I’ve always wanted to say that.)  Actually, it turns out there’s a camp for that: the Forever Families Camp in Milford, PA.

I attended NJY’s Jewish Adoptive Family Weekend this past Friday through Sunday with my family because I hadn’t seen anything else so tailor-made for families like ours.*  (Also, when eight-year-old “Jack” saw a picture of the giant water trampoline in the middle of one of the camp’s lakes, he nearly vaulted out of his sneakers with excitement.)  So we piled shorts, bathing suits and bug spray into the car and drove down to Pennsylvania for the weekend.

What we found was a unique combination of workshops, shared experiences and family bonding.

Adopted kids in first through eighth grade participated in gentle workshops designed to equip them with tools to deal with comments they are likely to confront in a range of places, from inside the walls of their synagogues to anywhere out in the world.  They took part in exercises to strengthen their identities, and, most importantly in my view, got the chance to look at the kids around them and see that they are not alone.  My own daughter is still too young for these workshops, but I could foresee future long-term friendships being created here, ones that can provide support and shoulders to cry on if things get tough down the road. 

(Oh, and parents’ biological kids like my son did have to participate in one workshop, too.  My son grumbled, “But I’m not adopted!” as he was led away from the ropes course, but he survived and the bit of added awareness didn’t kill him.  Like it or not, he’s going to get comments about his sister, and I’d like him to have a clue about how to handle them when he does.)

Adults participated in workshops as well, with choices that included topics like multiracial Jewish adoptive families, birthparent search and (re)union, identity issues in b’nei mitzvah preparation, learning to let go of your teenagers, parenting Jewish adoptees with special needs and options to help our kids learn to respond to those omnipresent adoption-related comments.  Parents imparted their experiences; some sought advice, others offered it, and it seemed everyone appreciated the chance to talk about their individual yet fundamentally shared experiences of being members of a Jewish adoptive family.

Oh, and then there was the forced separation from computers and televisions, a.k.a. family time!  And the s’mores.  And the bonfire.  And the lake.  And the ropes course.  And the arts and crafts.  And the tie-dye.  And the—you know, camp stuff.  The kids had tons of fun. 

And I survived the bugs!

I think it’s a safe bet that my family will return to the Forever Families Camp.  Maybe not every year (it is a bit far; how about a New England branch?), but I can definitely see us there again.  After all, growing up is tough these days for every kid, and if I can provide my kids with a little more support along the way, I’d be foolish to pass up that opportunity.

____

*In the interests of full disclosure to satisfy the FTC, general journalistic ethics and simply doing the right thing, it should be noted that NJY Camps partially subsidized my family’s weekend at the Forever Families Camp in the form of a “campership.”

I could use a nap.

Okay, stop laughing.  You parents out there know that’s not going to happen.  I really just wrote that so that we could all enjoy a guffaw together. 

I’ve been as busy as, well, a mom lately, and I’ll admit right now that I don’t have a coherent blog post ready to go today.  So instead I’m going to share a few odds and ends that are lying around here at Uncharted Parent that I’ve been wanting to tell you about anyway:

• My pal Debbie Schwartz of Jewish Family Services of Greenwich runs a Forever Families Weekend Camp for Jewish Families Touched by Adoption in Milford, PA.  This year the camp is from June 11-13, and we’re going!  (Me sleeping with insects.  This could get interesting.)  She’s still taking registrations, so click on the link above for more info and consider joining us.
• Speaking of summer camp, if you haven’t figured out your summer plans for your kids, QUIT PROCRASTINATING!  Consider this a PSA from your friendly neighborhood parenting blogger: now’s the time to get it done.  It’s almost June, people!  (Confession: I just handed in my daughter’s schedule this morning.  So my superiority is maybe eight hours old.)
• A note to my writerly readers: My first guest post at the awesome fiction writing blog, WriterUnboxed, goes up on Sunday!  I’m so excited about this; please stop by and take a look. 
• My next personal project is somewhat intimidating: I’m going to catch up on putting family pictures in albums.  This doesn’t sound so bad until you consider the fact that I haven’t done anything with any of the photos I’ve snapped for five years.  Yeah, I know.  I’m considering using Shutterfly for this overwhelming and undoubtedly expensive project; does anybody have any concurring or dissenting opinions on that?  (Sorry about the lawyer-speak.  Sometimes it just slips out.)

That’s enough of my disjointed thoughts for one day.  Have a great long weekend, everybody, and enjoy the cookouts!

Never be afraid to try something new.  That’s what I tell the kids, anyway.

In keeping with that spirit, I invite you to join Melissa Denton of Adoption Angles, and her special guest—me!—as we talk about international adoption and blended biological and adoptive families on MomTV.com this Wednesday evening at 9:00 p.m. EST.  To watch, all you need to do is go to http://www.momtv.com/AdoptionAngles.html; if you want to participate via chat, just click where indicated and enter a chat name.  Then you’ll be able to see and hear me and add to the conversation by typing into the chat screen.  I’ll actually be doing most of the talking, so I welcome questions and diverse opinions.  Just remember to keep it nice. 

Talk to you Wednesday night!

As an adoptive mom who believes in talking about the tough stuff, I try not to shy away from difficult questions when my children ask them—most of the time.  As I’ve stated here before, I believe serious questions deserve honest answers.  I also believe that I need to be on the lookout for openings to introduce tricky topics like drugs or families of origin even when my kids don’t ask questions, lest the source of their education on these issues come solely from places like the playground.  And I need to be alert so that if they offer up any misconceptions, we can talk about them and perhaps reconsider the statements from another perspective.

(Don’t I sound like fun?  Wanna come over for dinner tonight?  Spaghetti with meatballs and a history of schoolyard bullying 101, with a follow-up advanced session on twenty-first century cyber-developments next week.  Really, I’m not that bad—I swear.)

It seemed that just such a moment arrived a few days ago during a DVD replay of Ice Age 3, wherein the prehistoric schlemiel of a sloth, Sid, finds some large eggs, inks smiley faces on them and decides at that moment to become a parent—more specifically, a mommy.  Hijinks with the eggs ensue, and after five-year-old “Emmie” laughed her way through the slapstick scene, she turned to me with her analysis:

“I like the part with the eggs.”

“Yes, that was funny,” I replied.

“But Sid wasn’t really a mom.”

Oh, crap, I thought.  Red alert, red alert.  True, Sid found the abandoned eggs; they weren’t his originally.  But now he plans to protect them and care for them until they hatch, then nurture and love the babies, regardless of what species emerges.  Come on, Emmie, this is adoption.  You know this.  I took a deep breath to organize my phrasing, to make sure that I would confront this issue in a sensitive way that wouldn’t shoot down my daughter’s ideas and self-esteem. 

Emmie, however, does not like to go without acknowledgement for any length of time.  “Sid wasn’t really a mom,” she repeated. 

I opened my mouth, but she spoke again before I could.  “Because Sid’s not a girl,” she said.  “He’d be a dad.”

Captain, stand down the alert.  “Um, that’s right, Emmie.  Sid would be a dad.”

Sometimes, as it turns out, a movie is just a movie.

Uncharted Parent has turned out to have a birthmother theme this week, and that was unintentional.  But that’s okay, because in adoption—in fact, in parenting—we need to be prepared for the unexpected.

I had a different topic in mind for today, but I set it aside when Amy Seek’s eloquent, aching essay, “Open Adoption: Not So Simple Math,” appeared in my e-mail inbox yesterday.  Originally printed in last Friday’s New York Times, her story should be required reading for anyone who believes that birthmothers relinquish their children lightly, that they do so without thought, without struggle, without searching the depths of who they are and without revisiting their decisions over and over again as the years pass and as the children they let go grow up, sometimes before their eyes, sometimes not.

Fellow adoptive parents: I urge you to read Seek’s essay, not because it will comfort you, but because it won’t.  Her words may—may—help provide insight into the woman who knew your child before you did, and in this way you may get to know your child a bit better than you did before.  These feelings can be difficult, but who ever said raising a child was easy?  If we are able to look into our children’s eyes when they approach us one day with the tough questions and say, truthfully, just a little bit, “I understand,” then it is worth moving outside of our comfort zone.

Finally, if you’re not an adoptive parent, consider reading Seek’s essay anyway.  Just because.

Amy Seek, “Open Adoption: Not So Simple Math,” New York Times, May 7, 2010.

As on most Mother’s Days since my first child was born, on this past Sunday I slept late, ate lots of chocolate and generally indulged myself to an extent not possible on the other 364 days of the year.  (In addition, I spent much of the day trying unsuccessfully to breathe through my nose due to a nasty head cold, but that’s another story entirely.)  But I also devoted some time this Sunday to my daughter’s birthmother.

If you’ve been reading along for a while, you know that we have very limited, anonymous contact with five-year-old “Emmie’s” birthmother in Korea, something we did not anticipate at the time of Emmie’s adoption but for which we are now very grateful.  (Click here to read my essay, “Unexpected Contact,” in Adoptive Families magazine about how all of this began.)   I mentioned to a friend on Friday night that I was feeling guilty because it had been so long since I’d written Emmie’s birthmother, and she suggested that Mother’s Day would be the perfect time to remedy the situation.  I couldn’t have agreed more.

I write to Emmie’s birthmother once each year or so, and those letters are among the most difficult things I write.  How do you sum up a child in a page or two?  I can’t disclose the details of the letters because they are private; they belong to me, my husband, Emmie’s birthmother and, when she is old enough, Emmie herself.  But I can tell you that I try to paint a verbal picture of Emmie’s personality, of her life here in northern New England and of all the people who love her.  I offer as many reassurances as I can that Emmie is thriving and happy and living a life that would bring her birthmother peace; after all, this is the woman who gave me, my husband and my son a gift beyond measure.  I also make sure to mention that we are trying to raise Emmie with at least a small sense of her birth culture and with respect for the woman who gave birth to her and who cared enough about her to let her go.

Mother’s Day is a joyous day for me—head cold aside—because I have two beautiful children I adore who love me, too.  But as an adoptive parent, it’s worth taking an hour or two of my Mother’s Day to remember that for each smile of my daughter’s that I am privileged to receive, there is a woman on the opposite side of the world who is deprived.  I celebrate, but she undoubtedly grieves.  This is part of adoption.

I enjoyed my Mother’s Day, thanks to my terrific husband and kids.  And as an adoptive mother, I took a little time to say thanks, too.

We adoptive parents often find ourselves on the receiving end of comments we’d rather not hear.  I wrote about some of those in December in “Ten Things Not to Say to Adoptive Parents.”  But on Babble.com today, I address the flip side of this conversation.   Click here to read my latest article, “Ten Things Adoptive Parents Shouldn’t Say.”  As adoptive parents, we need to think before we speak, too.

There’s been a big kerfuffle recently as adoptive parents across the nation filled out their U.S. census forms.  Why all the fuss?  Not because of the racial categorizations which have caused so much controversy and contemplation in the past, but because of the requirement that the person filling out the form indicate by checking the appropriate boxes whether each of his children living at home is a “biological son or daughter” or an “adopted son or daughter.”  (For a thoughtful, personal discussion of racial identification catalyzed by the boxes on the census form, see this essay on CNN.com by novelist Chang-rae Lee.)

The blogosphere erupted with outrage as parents condemned this perceived attempt to, once again, distinguish unnecessarily between biological kids and adoptive kids.  Many adoptive parents expressed their opinion that the census questions emphasized adoptive children’s “separateness,” a distinction that often serves as a necessary first ingredient in characterizing one group as being “not as good as” some other group.

I get this objection; really I do.  We adoptive parents often find ourselves in the unwelcome position of having to defend our families against people who have no trouble voicing their opinions that somehow we can’t love our adopted kids as much as biological kids, that we shouldn’t have adopted from outside the U.S., or outside our race, or a child the age of our child, or in the birth order that we did, or on a Tuesday, or any number of other factors about which people think it’s somehow acceptable to pass judgment even when they haven’t taken the time to educate themselves about the facts of any given situation.  Adoptive parents have to fight on behalf of our kids all the time, and this census question feels like one more intrusive battle.

But I’d like to offer a different opinion.  I didn’t mind checking the boxes for my kids, even though in doing so I distinguished between my biological child and my adopted child, just as I distinguished between my Caucasian child and my Asian child.  Why didn’t this bother me?  Because to me, this felt like a perfect opportunity to educate our government about families like mine.

Adoption isn’t weird. People used to whisper about adopted children behind closed doors and hide their secrets because they were ashamed.  That’s all behind us now, and if there’s any residue of shame left, then it’s time to get rid of it.  By filling out these boxes on the census and demonstrating just how many of us live in these adoptive or semi-adoptive and sometimes multi-racial families, we can show the government and the country just how many of us there are.  This knowledge in turn, I hope, can then influence the hearts of those who remain prejudiced against adoption and the minds of those who would discount us in the context of governmental policies.  Who knows: maybe people will finally realize that it’s wrong to discriminate against non-native born Americans by prohibiting them from running for President of the United States.

If you haven’t filled out your census form yet, now’s the time.  And if some of those boxes make you uncomfortable, I understand.  But fill them out anyway, because maybe your answers will make someone else think about who makes up an American family.