If I had a dollar for every time someone glanced at my internationally adopted son and proclaimed, “He’s so fortunate!” I’d be living the high life. I’d own a sleek yacht, a stylish horse, and a sprawling estate under my company, LuckyChild, Inc. Sadly, I don’t have that extra cash. My son, adopted from China, hears how “lucky” he is almost everywhere we go, and it makes me uneasy.
While I know people mean well—smiling warmly and giving friendly pats on the back—those words still unsettle me. I often find myself fumbling for the right response, stammering in a way that might make you think English isn’t my first language.
It took me some time to grasp why hearing “he’s so fortunate” feels so jarring. It’s not that it’s untrue. My son spent his early days in a foreign orphanage, abandoned, malnourished, and scared. The transformation from that child to the playful little boy I have today—who dances in his boxers to classic rock—is nothing short of miraculous. While I recognize the kindness behind the compliment, I have my own reasons for feeling out of sorts about it.
Could it be that I feel like the lucky one? Is that where my discomfort stems from? The unwritten rules of adoptive parenting suggest I should say, “He is so lucky!” But I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve exclaimed, “Oh no, I’m the lucky one!” I genuinely believe that. Though I feel overwhelmingly grateful to the universe for bringing my son into my life, that sense of gratitude isn’t the root of my unease regarding his being labeled “lucky.”
The phrase “he’s so fortunate” disrupts the narrative of our everyday lives. Adoption is undeniably a part of my son’s history, but it doesn’t define our daily existence. Whether we’re at the grocery store, a school event, or just hanging out, he isn’t simply my adopted son. He is, without any qualifiers, my son.
Take, for example, a moment at the grocery store when I’m trying to manage a static-filled bag of oatmeal while keeping an eye on my son, who has just asked a man if he’s expecting a baby. In the chaos of my purse, my ringing phone gets lost amidst the commotion. Suddenly, I hear a voice say, “Aw! He’s so lucky!” Lucky? Who? The male shopper? My son? Did he score a free sample? Oh, right—it’s because he’s adopted.
That statement unexpectedly brings adoption back into focus after years of integrating it into the fabric of our lives. On a daily basis, I don’t think about China, an orphanage, or adoption. Just like I don’t think about conception or childbirth when I see other parents at the park with their biological children. I simply see my son, whether he’s pretending to play air guitar or sneak soda into the cart.
I don’t want my son to feel lucky; I want him to feel loved. He shouldn’t feel that he was saved or that he owes me anything—because he doesn’t. I want him to understand that our family is just as authentic as any other, and he has so much more to offer the world than just being fortunate. The beauty of adoption lies in the fact that I see it every day, yet I hardly notice it at all.
This article was originally published on August 9, 2015.
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In summary, while the phrase “he’s so lucky” is often said with kindness, it can inadvertently highlight aspects of adoption that are no longer central to our everyday lives. My son is my child, and I want him to feel loved, valued, and empowered beyond any notions of luck.
Keyphrase: adoption and family
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