What they don’t tell you
I have written extensively before about my loathing of mothers who have said to me over the years, “you can’t know until you’re a mother.” Blech. I hate the superiority of that statement, the you versus them, the mommy club. It really strikes me like a club over the head. But last night, I ran into this exchange from the opposite side. I was chatting with friends, one with two biological children, one with an adopted black child just like me, and other folks. One of the other folks made the comment when we were discussing habits and child rearing that I might not have the same experience as the woman with her “own” child. Like a steel door shutting down I put her in the category of the “unknowing” – my own child is Tin, I knew it the day I laid eyes on him, I had my doubts about bonding with a child not my own UNTIL I laid eyes on Tin and there is no doubt, not a shred, that this is my son.
No one can tell you that. This is a visceral experience, this is not something that every mother feels (biological, adopted, ____), this is something that happens between two human beings. I am his mother, he is my son, enough said.
