Let's Talk About Transracial International Adoption

When I started this blog, I knew nothing about mommy bloggers or the blogosphere or twitter or Blogher. I thought blogging was something that you did so that grandmas could be more involved in your kids' lives. I had a vague notion that sometimes it got bigger than that. Sometimes, communities formed around certain topics or experiences. In the way back of my mind, I did hope that I might bump into other mothers with families like mine. Adoptive families. Multiracial families.

Somewhere in my technologically-challenged stuck-in-1985 brain, I imagined that some other mother up way too late at night might Google words like adoption, Haiti or transracial parenting and stumble across me. We would chat and bond and become friends and exchange hair tips. I have started many posts on these subjects and then deleted. Too personal, too raw, too scary, too me.

The way Google works, though, apparently, is that you actually have to type the words into the computer and publish them. Because even the GREAT and POWERFUL wizards behind the GOOGLE curtain, while well on their way to taking over the universe, have yet to find a way to delve into our brains and write for us. I am sure that they are working on that.

I have been startled and tickled by how blogging connects me to other woman - and a few men - across the country and the world. I am addicted to reading stories and finding writers that I enjoy. I love chatting with no restrictions based on time or distance. It's like the plot of a science fiction novel and a morning chat over coffee all wrapped up in a nice package and I don't even have to take off my pajamas.

I am astonished to be making friends and I want to share other things, adoption things, so that I have a chance of connecting with others. But, starting puzzles me. Do I backtrack and tell our adoption story? Do I jump right in where we are? When I write these posts I choke on what I'm not saying. I choke on everything that's happened in the last three years. I am afraid of judgment. I'm even a little afraid of understanding. It's so much easier to write silly, funny stories about toddlers and triple strollers.

If I'm writing to reach out, to find others with similar experiences, then I have to say the magic words.

We are an adoptive, multiracial family. We are white parents raising a black child. In 2005, we committed to adopt two children from Haiti, our daughter Ess, who was ten days old, and a four year old boy. I was seven months pregnant when we accepted their referrals. He and Ess came home to us the week of my son Gee's first birthday. That gorgeous boy was, for a time, our oldest son.

Attachment and bonding with him did not go well (first understatement of the century). He was angry (second understatement of the century). He exhibited trauma and survival behaviors. With two babies and him, we were in way over our heads (third and final). (...) Our adoption of him disrupted last summer and he transitioned successfully to a second family. It is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me (no understatement).

There we go. Rip off the tape fast, like a band aid. I've said it all. Adoption. Disruption. Trauma. Attachment. Abracadabra. Allacazam. (Nervous, hysterical laughter.) I'll work on filling in the (...) part of the story. At least now, I can post without my inner censor ringing bells at me.

Chew on those words for a while Google wizards. While you're listening, can I have a brain? And a diamond necklace? And a new car? No thank you on the flying monkeys. I have three already. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's. Oh right, I am home.