If I received a dollar for every time someone remarked on my internationally adopted son’s luck, I would be living the high life. I would own a lavish horse, possess a yacht, and have a vast estate, all under my company, MyFortunateKid, LLC. Unfortunately, no such dollar comes my way, which is quite unfortunate, as my son from China and I hear comments about his supposed fortune constantly.
These remarks make me uneasy. Although they are always delivered with kind intentions, warm smiles, and friendly gestures, hearing “he’s so fortunate” leaves me feeling awkward and restless. I often struggle to find the right response, leading to a clumsy reaction that might make you question whether English is my native language.
It took time for me to understand why the phrase “he’s so lucky” unsettles me so deeply. It’s not because it isn’t true; my son did come from a foreign orphanage where he faced abandonment, neglect, and fear. Reconciling the joyful child I’ve raised with the scared toddler I adopted can be challenging. While “lucky” doesn’t fully capture the transformation in his life, I do appreciate the good intentions behind those words.
Is my discomfort rooted in the fact that I feel like the lucky one? The unwritten rules of adoptive parenting suggest that I should say, “He is so fortunate!” Yet countless times, I have exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, no! I’m the lucky one!” This belief resonates with me deeply. While I feel profoundly grateful for the cosmic events that brought my son to me, my personal sense of gratitude isn’t the reason behind my unease with the label of “luck.”
The phrase “he’s so fortunate” feels intrusive because adoption, while a significant part of my son’s history, does not define our everyday life. At the grocery store, during school events, or in the produce section, he is simply my son—no qualifiers necessary.
Imagine me in the grocery store, trying to fill a static-filled bag with bulk oats while keeping an eye on my son, who has just asked a male shopper if he’s expecting. As I rummage through my purse for my ringing phone with one hand, a voice from my left suddenly exclaims, “Aw! He’s so lucky!” Huh? Who exactly is lucky—the supposed pregnant man or my child? Did he receive a complimentary sample? Oh, right, he’s adopted.
The comment “he’s so fortunate” thrusts adoption back into my daily life, a reminder seven years after our journey began. Day-to-day, I don’t think about China, an orphanage, or adoption. Just as I don’t consider family planning or childbirth when I see parents with their biological children at a park or in line at a café, I don’t see adoption when I watch my son play air guitar or sneak soda into the shopping cart.
I don’t want my son to feel like he’s lucky. I don’t want him to feel saved or burdened by the idea that he owes me something. He doesn’t. I want him to understand that he is deeply loved, that our family is as real as any other, and that he offers so much more to the world than mere luck. The most beautiful aspect of our adoption journey is that I, as his mother, recognize adoption every day without it defining our relationship.
This article was originally published on Aug. 9, 2015.
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Summary
The author reflects on the discomfort that comes with comments about her internationally adopted son being “lucky.” While grateful for her son, she emphasizes that adoption is just a part of their lives and doesn’t define their everyday experiences. She wishes for her son to understand his worth and the love within their family, rather than feeling a sense of obligation tied to his adoption.
Keyphrase: adoption and identity
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