I’ve been reading a forum post by adult adoptees talking about the idea that “She loved you, so she gave you up,” and about meeting bsiblings who said “Ha, she really loved me–so she kept me.” Here’s the thing: my husband and I do plan to have and raise a child in a couple of years, and I fully expect to love that futurekid more than I love the son I placed. But it’s not because of my son–he’s perfect, charming and lovely, such a merry baby–it’s because of me. I don’t let myself love him as much as a mom would because it would just hurt too much; it would be too hard to go about my life without being his mom. For a few months after the placement, I was completely devastated, and just melted down–I started to hear voices for awhile. And then I just made a decision, consciously or unconsciously, to scale it back; now I love him like I would the child of a close friend, and that’s how I think of our relationship right now. I know that it’s not how his parents think about it, though. My husband and I have both talked about that, about how we wish it could just be that we’re friends with these excellent people who happen to have a son who looks like us. I know that that’s not the healthiest wish, and it’s probably a good thing that we’re not pretending about anything; I don’t want the kid to be confused or upset when he gets older, so a loving honesty is probably the best thing.
The kid’s mama confirmed with me that we’re meeting up Saturday; we have to get up super early for the drive, which Mr. Book is not happy about at all. I don’t know yet whether I am to bring anything–I brought dessert to our last meeting–so am delaying the planned baking of Oreos until I know. I suppose I need to think up pseudonyms for everyone–I can be Susie Book, my husband can be Mr. Book–but beyond that, I’m not sure. Let’s see. For his mama, I will use Ruth–she reminds me of the biblical Ruth, loving and patient. For his abba, Ruth’s partner, I’m thinking Nora. I’ll save an explanation for when things are slow around here. 😉 And I guess I’ll call the little lad himself Cricket. When I was a kid, I would read the children’s literary magazine by the same name when I could find it (rarely); it was something I really looked forward to and didn’t get very often, and it felt like a window into something very exciting and unfamiliar.