This isn't the family I thought I'd have

One decade ago we became parents. I am so tired.

Talking to the therapist today about the grief and therefore guilt that go along with adoption. People who are raising other people’s children often grieve over the loss of the genetically related child they didn’t/couldn’t have. And then they feel guilty over it, thinking (perhaps) that the feeling of loss means that the adopted child isn’t good enough or something. People really get hung up on that biological relationship thing. I suppose it’s pretty deep in our species survival hardwiring. But I don’t have it all that strongly. I would be crazy with it if the world needed more people, but as things stand I think there’s more than enough procreation going on. And as for my particular genes, I think my siblings and cousins have done more than their shares to keep the family line going. I have 12 nieces and nephews, and I also have five cousins who are doubly related to me because my mom’s sister married my dad’s brother. And those cousins have passed our grandparents’ genes on to another dozen or so kids.

Anyway, adoption wasn’t a last resort for us. It was a choice between different family-building processes. So we didn’t have months or years worth of failure trying to breed our family. We never had any imagined child who combined the best of each of us. So we sidestepped a big part of the emotional issues that many adoptive parents have to deal with.

Unfortunately, another part of parenting which isn’t necessarily about adoption does bother me. And maybe Pauline, too, but I won’t speak for her. What bugs me is that this isn’t the family I always imagined I would have. I think it’s more about having special needs kids than about the fact that they’re adopted. We don’t play together, laugh together, enjoy spending time together much. The stress level is too high, and I’m too depressed and frustrated.

The family I grew up in was unusual in how close we were, I guess. And how functional, in the sense of being the opposite of dysfunctional. Friends have said I grew up in some cross between the Waltons and the Brady Bunch. Of course, it wasn’t all sweetness and daisies all the time. I have scars from a fight I had with one of my sisters, who had sharp nails and knew how to use them. We squabbled and argued and fought because we were siblings. Dad’s job was sometimes stressful, money was tight, Mom didn’t exactly love housework (and we caused an awful lot of it). But none of us ever got into any major trouble, we all did pretty well at school, and we were dragged to church every Sunday. We lived in a nice house, not huge but enough, with a very good yard to play in. My parents did everything in their power to make sure we were in good schools. We wore hand-me-downs and shopped at K-Mart, but we always had everything we needed. And most of all, we had the security of knowing that Mom and Dad loved each other and loved us. My parents have been married for more than 50 years.

We had fun playing board games and eating popcorn by the fireplace. We went sledding together in the winter. Getting McDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner was a rare and exciting treat. We rarely talked back to our parents, well, maybe my mom wouldn’t agree with that. But never in a million years would any of us have treated my parents the way my children routinely treat us.

Which makes me realize that I haven’t written much about the kids and their various issues. Stay tuned.