The other day I was walking through the streets encircling our current home. It was before 8 am and both my boys were so wiggly and sad, the best thing to do was load them into their side-by-side stroller and soak in some fresh air and morning sun.
My favorite mornings are the mornings we get out when the sun has barely risen, my coffee is warm, and I have time to stroll the neighboring streets.
We were walking and they were holding hands as they often do; resting on the top of the stroller were my forearms and the book I was currently reading. I walked slowly while I read out loud.
“Oh are they both yours?” The question caught me off guard, which it shouldn’t have, considering this question is asked multiple times an outing.
I look up from my book, but don’t slow my pace as I respond, “Yes, they are!” I smile and keep moving past the passerby, not wanting to stop and talk. Sometimes I stop and talk, other times I don’t. On this particular morning, I needed this quiet walking time with my boys before the busyness of the day.
I pick my book back up but she turns her direction and puts her hand on my forearm. “My daughter has twins,” she offers.
“How sweet! Twins are sweet. Double the blessing,” I counter with a smile. “Have a good—”
“So are yours twins?” She interrupts, peering into the stroller. The boys are smiling and waving. I’ve stopped walking and set my book down.
I exhale slowly, smile, and say, “Nope! Just close in age.”
“So they’re brothers?” She asks her question in a new form.
“Indeed.” I say, staring into her eyes as kindly but firmly as possible. My boys’ story isn’t mine to share with every single person that asks. And to be quite honest, I don’t like when people skirt their real questions. To be honest, I am not a fan of passivity.
“So where’d the curly hair come from?” She stares at me with no smile. It’s always about the curly hair, always.
“Oh, we adopted.” I offer.
“OH HOW AMAZING,” she beams at me suddenly, like I am a completely different person. “You’re a super mom! I could never adopt. I couldn’t love a child that isn’t mine. So tell me, how did you get two around the same time? Did they come to you at the same time? Where are they from? Why didn’t their real moms want them?”
I stare at her, exhausted. I imagine my boys growing up: how will they perceive these constant questions? How can I teach them to protect their story as they need to, to share what they want, and to be proud and confident in who they are?
I sift through my many thoughts and things I want to say to her. I decide to say, “Oh, I am just a mom, there’s nothing super about me. You’d probably be surprised at your ability to love, you love your spouse right?” I nod to her ring, assuming her spouse isn’t blood-related.
“Well yes, but that’s different. So were their moms on drugs?”
I look at her, my heart racing. I do my best to keep as cool as possible, to help her understand: “You know, it’s really not different. I love both of them as though I birthed them, but also as though I adopted them both. To me it’s the same: I’m their mom.”
She stares at me like I’m a talking donkey. My heart slumps, wondering if this is yet another conversation with someone who won’t truly listen and change their way of thinking.
But maybe a seed was planted. Maybe she will go through her day and think on it. Maybe she will read something and realize adoption is a valid way to create a family, that we are no superheroes, and that we love our children via adoption just as much as the ones we birth.
Because we do.
We love them just as much.
Written by Natalie Brenner
Natalie is a wife, mom to virtual twins and two girls via foster care, and photographer living in Portland, Oregon. She is the author of #1 new release, This Undeserved Life. She likes her wine red, ice cream served by the pint, and conversations vulnerable. Natalie is a fierce believer in the impossible and hopes to create safe spaces for every fractured soul. She’s addicted to honesty. Natalie is a bookworm, a speaker, and a lover of fall.
