It’s not often that I think of being a part of an adoptive family. It’s been a part of who I am for so long, it has become my normal. Those of you who quietly have your children from your own bodies, in your own towns… you seem like the unique ones. To me, the words dossier and LID are as central to the arrival of a child as contractions and due dates are to you.
In fact, weeks can go by without me considering my family’s international build. But as news came of our newest addition’s imminent arrival, it’s been brought to the forefront again.
My siblings and I each claim a different continent as our birthplace. We don’t share the same birth mother, pigmentation, or even original language. We range from my porcelain paleness to Little Bit’s nut-brown hair and caramel skin to our newest boy’s pitch black eyes.
But when Little Bit gets sleepy and whispers my Russian nickname, when I sort through this middle American family’s stash of Chinese New Year decorations, when I hear his laughs and feel those beautiful hands in mine, when I look at a boy who will soon know me as Jie Jie, I know that I have never loved anything more in my life.
We’ve never needed DNA to connect us.
We have something so much better.