I confess (and I'm hoping this will not start any flaming from more progressive adoptive parents out there), we don't spend a great deal of time talking with JR about his adoption. We're not dishonest. I always answer whatever questions he has truthfully. I just don't volunteer information. I've never mentioned the existence of a birthmother to him, which probably has more to do with my own insecurities than anything else. He knows he didn't grow in my belly (he grew in my heart), but he's never asked whose belly he did grow in. He also knows he lived in the baby house, that mommy and daddy came to get him at the baby house, and that his friends E and E lived in the baby house, too. Today, at his instigation, we talked about the fact that he use to live in Kazakhstan and that other friends of his lived in the Ukraine and China and VietNam and Guatemala. We talked about the fact that in each one of those cases, the mommies and daddies had to go to the far away country to bring their baby home and the fact that there are lots of ways to make a family.
In the meantime, given the fact that most of our neighbors and friends who are parents bought their tiny city homes just before the real estate boom and before they realized that 1 tiny child means at least 1000 square feet more toys and paraphernalia to house, playground adult conversations often center around homes (looking for bigger homes, being priced out of bigger homes, rehabs and expansions, etc., etc.) At dinner, I was filling WS in on some of today's playground gossip about housing and made the remark that I love our block and don't want to leave our block.
The little amazing one pipes up, "I know where I don't want to live. I don't want to live in Kazakhstan." WS spluttered into his bowl of pho. Who knew JR even knew how to say Kazakhstan, let alone knew that it was a place to live?
lots and lots of sourdough–my routine
1 week ago