Today is my son’s 11th birthday. He is my middle child of three and the last to become my son.
You see, my son was adopted at four years old.
While walking the dogs this morning, he reflected on his life.
“So if I’m 11, I’ve been here maybe eight…no. Is it nine years?” I interrupted his train of thought.
“Do you really want to go there, Silas*? Whenever you talk about when you came to live with us or how long you’ve been here, it reminds you that we are a manufactured family,” I said. “And you end up feeling left out.”
“Do you think that kids who were born in a family say things like, “So, how long have I been living here, Mom?” or “Thank you so much for picking me to be your son.”
Silas constantly feels the need to thank me for adopting him, when, in reality, the rest of us no longer see ourselves as a pieced-together family. We are just family. He is my son and my other child’s brother. (I do have a third son who struggled to attach, so he doesn’t view us as his family.)
Silas’s words continue to call attention to his separateness and keep him feeling like an outsider. More likely, he feels like an outsider, and his words reflect that.
I’m sure several adoptees are gasping at my words and thinking, “How dare you deprive him of his experience!” or, “You’re shutting down his feelings when you don’t let him express himself.”
But the truth is, my little Silas wants more than anything to feel like he belongs and that I and his brothers will be his family forever! He has even told his younger adopted brother that he doesn’t want to go see his first mother.
His heart’s longing is to know without a shadow of a doubt that where he is is where he is meant to be.
Our family home is his home, and if he were missing, our lives would be as significantly impacted as a soldier who has lost a limb in war. The soldier would be disabled for life, just as our family would be crippled if Silas were not in it.
He wants to belong.
I don’t deny his feelings, but I give him a chance to think about how his words deepen his sense of feeling like he’s on the outside looking in. He can always say how he feels, but when I remind him of his heart’s desire, he usually makes the choice to stop thinking about himself as an“adopted son” and just as my son.
Rough beginnings
When Silas came to me, he was about three-and-a-half years old. In that short time, I was the fifth person he called Mama.
He wants so much not only for this to be his final destination, which it is, but also to feel the impact of that statement deep down in his gut as if his other life was a story he read somewhere and his present life is what is real.
Having already raised one child who could not attach, I consider it a blessing that his heart’s cry is to belong.
And it’s my job to help him feel that way.
So when I point out to him that the things he focuses on only continue to make him feel like he is an addition to our family and not just our family, he pauses and thinks about what he’s saying and how the words he uses reinforce his feelings of separateness.
Yet, I still wonder, “Will he ever get there?”
Are you my mother?
The way Silas feels reminds me of a book I used to read to my baby brother by P.D. Eastman called Are You My Mother? It’s about a baby bird who hatched from his egg while his mother was out looking for food. When he broke through the shell and found her missing, he went on a journey to find her.
He didn’t know what she looked like, so when he came upon a kitten, he asked, “Are you my mother?” The same thing happened when he came upon a hen, a dog, a cow, and an old car.
Finally, he came upon a bulldozer, which scooped him up and plopped him right back in his nest as his mother returned with a big juicy worm. The bulldozer, which he called “Snort,” brought the baby bird home right where he belonged.
I believe Silas is searching for this feeling. Possibly, all adoptees are searching for this feeling, the feeling that when you walk into your home, that’s where you fit. It’s your place in the corner of the world where your mind and body can settle, and you can become all you were meant to be.
Your home may not be perfect. It may not be ideal. But when you walk through the door and see your family, you are the missing piece of the puzzle that, once you’re there and connected, will make the picture complete.
I pray I am able to help him get to that place in his heart. It took me over 50 years to finally feel like when I walked through the door, I was where I belonged.
Home.
I thank God for this often and pray my son will one day feel settled in his corner of the world, too.
*Note: Some names have been changed to protect the identity of the children.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Dylan Sauerwein on Unsplash
