I woke up at loose ends. Well, actually, I woke first just before five and thought I heard Saskia crying and then thought I had dreamed I’d heard her crying when it was quiet and then heard her crying. The dear papa brought the girl to bed and got her a bottle and then we snuggled up, the three of us and… I didn’t really sleep again. I kept comforting her when she called out. There was some dozing, though and before seven, the girl and I were up.
So, I guess I’m trying to pull myself together after less than a fully restful night’s sleep.
I wondered if she woke up because she’d picked up on the conversation happening around her as she was playing when her grandparents—her first mama’s mother and stepfather—were visiting, the conversation in which I was reminded that the decision to let Saskia go isn’t made and then done, but revisited or remembered with different meaning over time. Saskia’s grandmother, Janet, ventured that it’s harder for Caroline now that Saskia’s more of a cute kid and less of a baby. “She’s not really a baby person,” Janet explained. “She’s good with kids.” But then, also, she talked about how the adoption feels differently depending upon how the rest of her daughter’s life is going.
Both of those things make such sense.
It’s really good to be reminded that the biggest decisions in our lives aren’t simply crisply made and then we’re “done” with them. Of course, like a scar, like rings round a tree, like anniversary markers or the most important relationships, we do return; we do reflect and we do make different meaning from the same event again and again.
It’s really hard to be reminded that such a big decision resonates that way for each person involved. It’s really hard to realize—again and again—that our delight is so intertwined with another person’s sadness, another person’s loss. It’s so hard that the way it turned out can be a relief in ever so many ways and still remain so fraught.
**
We talked, very quietly, while Saskia was in the throes of granddaughter delight chasing Jacques round and round the kitchen and dining room, about Saskia having heard by now some of the story: she wasn’t in my tummy. She was in Auntie Cece’s tummy. Her mama and papa love her so. I showed her Jamie Lee Curtis’ Tell Me Again About the Night I Was Born. Janet read through it with interest; she sounded relieved and surprised that nothing was being kept from Saskia, that we feel like it’s better for Saskia to have her story always be hers, not change or have a sense of furtiveness attached, like we’ve kept a secret from her. I told Janet that in her preschool class there are other adopted kids, and their parents are similarly open when talking about adoption.
That said the whole story—the fact that adoption isn’t ever a simple story, not really—does elude her. It will elude her, probably for a long time or at least the complexity will feel, for who knows how long, just beyond her grasp. Maybe all children feel that their parents’ complexities sit just beyond them.
**
And what of Saskia’s complexities? When she woke at five, I found myself wondering whether she was somehow stirred up the visit. She did wake at five another morning this week, though, and early rising like that is so very rare for her it could be the two mornings were tied to each other.
One friend, whose daughter is also adopted, told me she resists the impulse to pathologize her daughter’s experience and feelings surrounding adoption. It’s important not to borrow trouble, that’s for sure. At the same time, I don’t want to be an ostrich. With open adoption, in comparison to international adoption from a far-off place without any identified family to know, there’s something tangible; there are family members with whom to build relationships. I’m very grateful for this; open adoption appealed to me for this very reason. And yet it’s complicated because the reality of relationships is that they are beyond any one person’s control, certainly beyond mine.
I realize that I’ll be going back to this place again and again, like the scar or the tree ring, peering at my daughter and hoping I am seeing clearly enough to support her as she figures out her whole story.
**
By the way, I often wish there were more picture books about adoption, specifically open adoption. I’m pulling for Bob Graham to do one.
