Two years ago, early morning, our daughter was born. We’d spirited ourselves to St. Vincent’s Hospital in Worcester, because her mom (first/birth/mom) was in labor there.
All births are surreal in some sense, and super-real in another. What science fiction compelled sex to lead to pregnancy and pregnancy to produce a human? I used to be an abortion counselor and I’ve given birth three times myself and I still can’t quite wrap my mind around that whole sex to pregnancy to babies thing. I happen to love the birth process (and by that, I mean, I’ve been at a bunch of births besides the ones I was in labor for, including a home birth and a couple of c-sections; I’m not a believer in one perfect or right birth experience, I revere the whole wash of it). Saskia’s birth was no exception. Once she emerged, petite, gorgeous creature, the complicated nature of how everyone surrounding her ended up around her seemed to fade for a little while. Firstly, she was the most glorious baby.
That said there is a great deal about this moment—and more so about the bravery it took to push a tiny human out and hold her and then allow someone else the honor of mothering her—to the story. Along with everything else, adoption could be considered the definition of sacred trust. Two years ago, I was profoundly changed by the featherweight placed in my arms and the gravitas of this particular family constellation forged by that beautiful and tiny girl coming into the world. It was Super Tuesday and it seemed that, for many of us, dreams loomed large that winter of ‘08. For my husband and myself, Saskia happened to be the biggest dream.
**
Ours is an open adoption, which means different things to different people and in our case means that Saskia has a whole lot of family (nine grandparents!). And while she knows the people and identifies them as hers, to the extent a young toddler comprehends what words like cousin mean, this year of being two is bound to include garnering a much greater understanding of her place in the larger constellation.
We’ve been reading Jamie Lee Curtis’ adoption-affirmative book Tell Me Again About the Night I Was Born recently (we have a copy in board book form). In it, a preschooler enjoys the story of her birth, from the perspective of her parents arriving to meet her at the hospital nursery, holding her, bringing her home, an airplane ride away. We’re reading Guji Guji, too, a more fantastical (and, I must add, wonderful) tale about adoption that features ducks and crocodiles. Saskia’s own experience entails openness and differentness that’s not all that visible (she is biracial, and yet she’s very light, and it turns out that many friends insist she looks more like me than my other children do—go figure).
A few weeks ago, I was at Sunnyside (Saskia’s preschool) for a meeting in which parents described how the school supports families in sharing diversity (the meeting was with site visitors from the NAEYC, and the school is up for a leadership grant about this very thing). Another adoptive mother told of coming into Sunnyside after the finalization of their younger son took place. The preschooler’s moms came in—bearing pictures of their family and reading a book about families—to share their news with the classroom. She explained, “The kids looked at us, two moms, in our forties, baby boy with different colored skin, adoption… none of it was new. The kids were familiar with all of it and accepted everything with ease.” I hope (and even believe) that for Saskia whatever sense of differentness she may feel will be made easier by not being isolated in such a very different family constellation. She has, and will have, a lot of company.
**
Adoption* is far from the only thing defining Saskia and today she’s two. Here’s what I want to say: Happy Birthday!
Somehow, I was waiting for her to come into my life (cue dee-dee-dee-dee music, I know) always. And although I’ve written about this before, I have to say it again: I feel a sense of good fortune about Saskia’s presence in my life that doesn’t have adequate or articulate words. She’s such a spirited and self-confident and sturdy person, so articulate and funny and fun (except, honestly, when she hits or bites, and fortunately, that behavior is on the sharp decline). I love the way she shakes her head to get the hair out of her eyes (after refusing to have it pulled back). I love the way we play kitties when we climb the stairs and how, when she plays, her voice plays kitty, too (becoming higher pitched and softer). I love that she can jump with both feet. I love that she sleeps with books in her crib and that she reads to herself and has memorized parts of so many of her favorite stories. I love how she asks to have her back rubbed at naptime. I love her love of chocolate chips and ice cream. I even love how much she enjoys smearing ice cream or yogurt on her face. I love how she talks, talks, talks and talks. I love that she was talking to an imaginary friend this week (Ruthie, or Ruffi). I love that she clearly loves all of us and that she clearly feels so loved.
*Here are a couple of links to pieces on this blog to read more about our adoption experience to date and here’s a link to an essay I published in the SNReview that also focuses upon our experience.
