About the Birth Family

This is a post that we've been planning for a long time, but one that is a bit difficult for us to post.  Why?  Because as our friends, family, and fellow adoptive families, you have been such a HUGE part of this process.  You have walked along side us every step of the way and we have truly enjoyed being open and honest about EVERY aspect as of this process.  We believe that by being so open about everything and sharing it all, it takes away the some of "scariness" of international adoption, and possibly opens your heart to the same possibility.

There is one thing, however, that we have decided to not share and keep close to the vest instead, and that is our child's birth story.

A lot of people have asked about his birth mother, birth father, circumstances surrounding Ty becoming a part of our family, etc.  Believe me when I tell you that we KNOW that these questions come from a place of love, concern, and care.  If you're one of those people who have asked, you know that we are sharing very little information and that that is how we want to keep it.

Here is what we will tell you: We know very little information.  We will, God-willing, meet his birth mother on this first trip.  She is young (as most first time moms are in ET, not surprising, as the life expectancy is only 56) and seemingly healthy (praise the Lord!).  She made the most incredibly selfless, honorable, and unfathomable decision - to give her child a chance at life.

Like I mentioned previously, keeping the details of the situation to ourselves was a very difficult decision to make after we have been so open through this entire process, but it is something we feel is important for our son.  The rest of the story will be his to tell when he is ready.  It is something that we will share with him as it is age appropriate.  It is something that his sisters and grandparents alike will not know until he is ready to share it with them.  It is something that is sacred and personal and precious.

Something that helped us make this decision is the following article.  I hope it helps you to better understand why we are choosing to handle this the way we are.

MY RIGHT NOT TO TELL
by Ilie Ruby

Everyone wants to know the story of how we adopted three children from Ethiopia. But do I have a right not to tell it, existing as I do right out here on the front line, looking as I do, a Caucasian mom with three African kiddos? Taking my children to the grocery store or to the library without announcing where they came from? Do I have a right to live in the world, fully and enthusiastically and not announce my history or that of my children? I think, yes.

Adopting a child is a lot like opening a big thick book right in the middle. There are already several stories unfolding: the children’s, the birth parents’, and of course, ours, the adoptive parents’. After we have opened the book, we begin the process of creating a new beginning right in the middle of the book. That is how it starts.

The word “story” has come into play in many different ways since we began our adoption journey. When we started talking adoption, especially interracial adoption, with other adoptive parents we were told that we would be shocked at the number of people that would ask about our child’s background, effectively his or her life story.

I naively didn’t believe that this would happen. After all, you wouldn’t randomly knock on someone’s door and ask them to share with you private traumas and personal struggles. We were advised to say, “That is private information” or “That is my child’s story to tell when he/she is ready” or “None of your business.” Truth be told, I have used all of these.

My children have told me the stories of their lives, as much as they remember. Or as much as they have chosen to share. And new stories spring forth at the most random of times, even now, two years later. It is sacred ground. Still, not a week goes by that I am not asked if my children’s parents are dead, if they are orphans, what happened to them, whether they are “related,” how we “got” them, whether they suffered starvation or other forms of trauma or abuse and how long they were in an orphanage. I am routinely followed by a well-meaning librarian throughout our local library as she tells me stories about orphans. I am stopped at least twice a week by strangers who ask if my kids are “mine.” I am asked all these questions and more and while I have grown a bit weary, I try not to be offended. I know that my children’s story is compelling. I understand that mine is as well. Most people don’t adopt three children from Ethiopia at once. And we are a sight because we are a multiracial family.

While I subscribe to the philosophy that educating people and enlarging the circle rather than closing it is ultimately what is best for the world, I am admittedly secretive when it comes to sharing my children’s personal stories. Because it is my children’s private information we’re talking about. In our world, intimacies are only for close friends and close relatives, and even then there are boundaries. I have found that, at least right now, there is no way to tell my own personal story without broaching promises that were made when I decided to adopt my children. It has taken me some time to realize that explanations as to their origins, their histories, their relationship to each other, and how we “got” them, are not obligatory. When it comes down to it, stories belong to those who live them. I just say what they tell us in adoption 101, as unfulfilling as it is: there are many children who need homes in Ethiopia and each of them has a different story. I can’t take credit for the comeback. It was gifted to me from a very experienced adoptive mom of six Ethiopian children. Yes, there are more of us out there.

Ethiopia carries with it a lot of baggage — poverty, orphans, AIDS — you will see all of this if you travel there. My husband took many beautiful but heart-wrenching photographs while we were there, but I’m not sure that the world needs to see more of these types of photos. Maybe that’s why I am compelled to talk about the beauty of Ethiopia that no one knows about. You have a good conversation, you are kind, you share a bit about your life, you show you are a good person, and someone wants to give you what little food there is, to hand-feed you. It is an act of love and one of the most meaningful gifts a person can give to another person. This is what I experienced first-hand.

These are the stories I am willing to share, at least right now.

I will also tell you that my eldest daughter has this sort of warmth. People comment that they can see it in her eyes. They can feel it when she smiles. Maybe one day she will tell the stories of her life. I’m not sure. At 10, she has just announced that she wants to be a writer like her mom, but it is her decision.

I promised to protect my daughter from the get-go, just as any mom of biological children would. The same goes for all of my children — their lives, their pasts, and their futures. As a mom, new to the business or not, it is my most important obligation. So I’ll be cagey, secretive, boring. But my children will still happily show up — to birthday parties, to soccer games and to campouts. They can stand on their own and are happy to engage and make people fall in love with them. And then, curiously, people stop asking to know their story.