Where Is Her Mother? Adoption Families.com

Where Is Her Mother?

“Where is her mother?”
I am at the toy store with my kids, my light-haired, hazel-eyed son and my golden-brown-skinned, black-eyed Korean daughter. They play with the display toys as I stand watch nearby. A woman stops to chat.
“She’s very active for such a little thing,” comments another woman.
“Yes, she is,” I reply.
We watch a few minutes more.
“Um…do you know if her mother is anywhere around?” the woman asks in a concerned voice.
“Yes, I’m her mother.”
“Oh…oh!”
I smile to put her at ease, but flustered, she smiles then beats a hasty retreat to the next aisle.

We live in a diverse city on the West Coast. I have rarely ever heard a racist remark. I have only once, on vacation in a smaller town with far fewer Asians, heard a looking-down-the-nose remark about my kids obviously being from different fathers. (My husband says I should have responded, “yes, and different mothers too.”)

Many of the comments people make when they don’t recognize my daughter as belonging with me reflect an honest concern that she might be lost. As a mother, I understand this. I automatically reach out to stop strange kids from falling off the slide or wandering out of the play area. “Wait for your mom,” I’ll say.

Exchanges like this amuse me, but I still feel baffled by them, even as I acknowledge the logic and admit that I too might well make the same assumption. But I feel so close to her, and she is so like me in so many ways, that I think—however illogically– it should be obvious to everyone that she’s my daughter. Don’t they know how she turned to me for comfort from the day I laid eyes on her? Don’t they know how she slept cradled in the crook of my arm? Can’t they tell that she never strays far from me, looks up at me with total trust? Can’t they tell how much her personality is like her brother’s?

Of course they can’t. But the point is, we–our family–can. She is so much ours that sometimes our whole family momentarily “forgets” she’s adopted. Three weeks after she arrived I had a conversation with a cardiologist who asked lots of questions about her brother’s health. I actually answered several before it occurred to either of us that his health had no genetic bearing on hers. A couple of years later, when we learned my son is allergic to nuts, my sister warned me to have my daughter tested “because allergies can run in families”.

I even gave birth to her in a dream once. A dream so real that the memory of it brings the memory of birth pains. But even as I dreamt I realized that the baby held up to me in my dream hospital room was the rosy-cheeked, smiling tot I had met nearly a year after her birth, not the emaciated preemie she’d been born as. Before me came, not only another woman who actually bore the pains of birth, but many caring nurses and a devoted foster mother who had to feed the tiny baby with a teaspoon. Every day I reap the rewards of their sacrifices. I give thanks for them, but often it seems rather surreal, because in my heart I can no longer remember a time when this child was not my daughter.