Sometimes people don’t know what to say when they learn we adopted three girls. Other times people genuinely mean to say that the girls are lucky we adopted them. And I cringe every time.
My oldest daughter has surging feelings whenever she hears
it. Who would call a child born positive
for drugs lucky? Or one raised in an abusive or neglectful home? What is lucky about living in an apartment
with an empty fridge or maggots in the corners? And most universal to adoption
stories, what child is lucky to lose his or her first family? It’s best not to
suggest to our firstborns that their younger siblings are lucky.
My thoughts on it are a little different. First, I rarely use the term lucky for any
situation. I don’t believe in luck. Setting it aside and dealing with the actual
intent of the statement, I am equally uncomfortable with my littles being
called lucky. While my oldest girl
focuses on the circumstances that allowed us to adopt, I am acutely aware of my
failings. I am not a perfect mom. I am not a perfect anything. That might seem trite or inspire an eyeroll, but
I am being very serious. These girls
have been through enough; they don’t need a lousy mom. I’m aware of how frequently I mess up and can
make myself crazy thinking about the ways I may be messing up without knowing
about it! What’s lucky about being
raised by someone like that?
My sister has another perspective. Her mouth is too colorful to quote, so I will
paraphrase. She says we retired and could have followed the American Dream
scheme and lived a lifestyle that didn’t include scraping money together or doing
without some luxuries we ‘earned.’ Our daily
life could have been my pursuing a career in my interests and my husband
enjoying well-deserved rest. We could
travel and dance and play. We could have
a disposable income!
Instead, we decided to jump back into the thick of
child-rearing at the cusp of empty nesting.
These girls have been through trauma—and so have countless others. Some of those others won’t be adopted. They won’t land in a permanent place with
people they can call their own. In her more
aggressively-phrased way, my sister says we’re freaking amazing (but she didn’t
say freaking).
That makes me so uncomfortable! I was uncomfortable enough to end the conversation,
and very uncomfortable writing it here. The good that comes from it is a
determination to make my life agree with her assessment. I pray, “Let it be, Lord!” Let me be freaking amazing! Let the girls be
blessed with a healthy permanent family to change their statistical
trajectory. And, Lord—Lord—please save
those masses of other kids who need the same!
