Parenting
My son is one of the most courageous individuals I know. While that may sound unusual for a five-year-old, it’s undeniably true. My partner and I welcomed him into our family through adoption from China when he was just three years old. In a single day, his entire world shifted—and so did mine.
He awoke in the only home he had ever known, an orphanage where he was cared for until that point. The caretaker who had looked after him from infancy likely spoke of the joys of having a forever mommy as she dressed him, but the concept of family and permanence was foreign to him.
Later that same day, he was introduced to a vibrant redhead who spoke in a strange accent (that would be me). Following a whirlwind of paperwork and hurried farewells, the woman from his orphanage departed, taking with her the last remnants of his familiar life.
In that moment, I couldn’t tell who was more terrified—this fragile little boy or myself. He was so small, his skin pale, and his ribs were visible.
For eight months, I had gazed at his photos—almost the duration of a normal pregnancy—dreaming of the day I would become his mother. I had convinced myself that I loved him already. However, we later realized that he had likely been bundled up for those pictures. The reality was that he was underweight, malnourished, and dealing with significant medical issues that had not been disclosed to us. We were caught off guard.
Just like that, I understood that a picture could conceal a multitude of truths.
In that instant, I also recognized that I didn’t love this child. My feelings were far from love. Instead, I felt a wave of panic and a sense of aversion, followed by guilt for having those feelings. This little boy was sick and had an unpleasant odor. Yet, he was now my child. Forever.
I remember sitting on the cold bathroom floor of our hotel in China, thinking, “I can’t do this…I can’t be his mom.” I can still visualize that moment, resting my cheek against the tub while tears streamed down my face behind a locked door. No one knew how terrified I was.
I contemplated leaving him in China, even though I knew deep down that I couldn’t. We brought him home. Were my actions driven by maternal instincts, compassion, or a desire to maintain appearances? I’m not entirely sure. I try not to dig too deep into that question because the answers are too uncomfortable to confront.
Eventually, we settled into a new routine. Our days were filled with endless doctor’s visits: specialists, nutritionists, early intervention. Despite the upheaval in his life, he adapted remarkably well. He started to trust us and learned English at an astonishing rate. And he could eat—this little guy could really pack it in.
I still experienced moments of doubt and anxiety, but his progress gave me hope. If he could adjust, I believed I would find my way there too.
Loving him became a conscious choice. The phrase “fake it till you make it” has never felt right to me, but that’s what I ended up doing.
While social workers prepare adoptive parents for bonding, the emphasis is often on the child’s adjustment, not on the parents’ emotional connection. It’s an incredibly challenging experience to feel detached from your child. I know this all too well; I have been that parent.
Reflecting on our journey, I am in awe of how far we’ve come. My son is now a confident and vibrant child who brings so much joy. He has filled out, shedding that frail appearance. He understands that there will always be food on the table and what it truly means to be part of a family.
Seven months after his arrival, I walked past the living room where he was watching TV. “Come sit here, Mommy,” he called, patting the couch. I hesitated; I was busy and didn’t have time to stop for a show about dancing Australian hipsters.
But I sat down anyway, and despite my exhaustion from the constant appointments and emotional struggles, I felt a moment of peace. He climbed onto my lap, tugged at my hands, and wrapped my arms around him. “Mommy, we best friends,” he proclaimed. I pulled him in a bit closer, resting my cheek on his head and breathing in the sweet scent of a little boy. In that moment, I realized I was no longer pretending. I thought, “We’ve arrived.”
It hasn’t been an easy path. Our story isn’t a fairy tale or a scene from a heartwarming movie, but the bond I share with my son is all the more precious because of the fear I once felt about our connection.
We chose adoption, and while I say that I chose to love this child, I now understand that love had chosen me all along.