The most precious little boy in a grainy picture I first saw sixteen years ago is now a handsome 17-year old young man. Writing that gives me pause. I am so damn proud of my son, Yosef – the high school wrasslin’, Chik-Fil-A working, nice youth man, and good student he is.
I’m annoyed that Yosef towers over me at almost six feet tall and, like any teen, that he tests the limits of curfews, tries to sleep until noon on Saturdays, and can be not-so-nice to his “so annoying” little siblings.
Yep, whether adopted or biological, these teenage years are tough.
Sh*t’s getting real.
This Gotcha Day is a welcome distraction. Celebrating sixteen years since returning from Ethiopia with our toddler, I can take a break from trying to raise a man. Quickly, though, I begin to think about the limited “daddy” time that remains with Yosef in the house.
It seems like, both, yesterday and forever ago that we first watched a video of Yosef’s bio-mom say she wanted her baby to get an education in the hope for a better life. He has. I am proud that we have succeeded by her standards. I’m not so delighted that Yosef may never look her in the eyes to confirm that to be true.
We were always going to save for a trip to Ethiopia – next year. But, four other kids, mounting responsibilities at work and home, and too many sports practices later; here I am thinking that Yosef may never visit his homeland or look the courageous woman that gave him life. That hurts.
If I go too far down the “Yosef will never meet his biological mother” rabbit hole, I start to harbor anger for her having come to the orphanage the day before we arrived, in 2007, by accident. Meeting her where she traveled from – several hard hours away in the southern region of the country – was not accessible to us like it was to every other family we traveled to the capitol city of Addis Ababa with. Everyone else met a biological relative that trip. Not us. That guts me when I let it.
Sh*t’s getting real.
Sixteen years later, the joy I feel for having adopted has always been balanced by the pain that the process internally percolates. That’s what makes adoption and foster care so damn hard. It’s the wondering if behaviors are “normal” or a result of past trauma, the late night discussions about whether your kid is attached to you (and you to him), it is walking the fine line of Yosef being unique but not different but different all the same, the awkward silence as you meet new people who try to piece your family together.
Over the years, things have gotten easier and harder.
Yosef does not need us to meet his basic needs or take him to school. No, now he needs help with warning lights on the dashboard or signing up for the SAT. Yosef navigates odd issues no one would think about. For example, as he applies to colleges, Yosef is realizing the benefit of checking “African-American” on his application forms. He is coping with feeling badly as his (mostly white) friends struggle with ridiculous admission standards at Florida state universities that Yosef will get a slight reprieve from. Yosef still can be uncomfortable in groups of black people – especially when accompanied by his all white family. Will that girl he likes have parents that won’t be as keen on her dating a black man?
Sh*t’s getting real.
The truth is, I don’t much think about Yosef being adopted most days. He doesn’t either. Until he does. That’s both a measure of success and a flaw at the same time. It’s good and bad. That is adoption.
That sh*t’s real.
Nonetheless, I love celebrating Gotcha Day. Adopting Yosef was the greatest achievement of my life. I think that Yosef’s bio-mom would be very proud of our young man. I am. I’m so proud of the man he is becoming and the dad Yosef has made me – even though it can be so hard.
Especially as sh*t gets real(er).
