A mother shares the "new, unexpected, and amazing" attributes of her adopted son, of which no one talked about at the start of their adoption journey.
For once, the barista at Starbucks didn’t recognize me. He shouldn’t. I’m there only about once a month. The thing is, he remembers me. Well, not me so much as us. This is one of those things that come with being the white mother of a black child. Comments, questions, stares—those I expected. The strange experience of just being visible—not so much. I didn’t realize how invisible I was until I wasn’t anymore.
Our "adoption journey" was not an easy one. No, our road was bumpy and dark and full of unmarked turns that were gently referred to by our social workers as failed matches or changes of heart. With every disappointment we endured, I struggled with what I call the both/and—holding two conflicting feelings at once.
Saying Matthew was "saved" implies doubt about his desirability, his worthiness to be adopted. "After all, you didn't have to take in this baby," is the unspoken message.
Breastfeeding my baby has been one of the most challenging — and rewarding — things I've ever done.