Conspicuous

Our family is conspicuous. We stand out in a crowd. People look, take notice. A Chinese daughter, an Ethiopian son and two white parents make up our wonderful, beautiful family.

It's what happens with trans-racial or in our case multi-racial families. It's not the norm but it is who we are.

I knew that going into the adoption process. I tried to educate and prepare myself for the inevitable questions that may arise from people who are not as open or knowledgeable about the ways families are created. I armed myself with a tool kit of answers and tucked it securely in my back pocket. I thought I would be prepared.

I was surprised at what I found. The questions never came. Instead we were flooded with support. People told us stories of friends and relatives who had adopted from China or other countries. I remember an elderly gentleman approaching us at a restaurant with a picture of his Chinese granddaughter. He smiled and said he could not imagine life with out her.

The support continued when we started the adoption process for Lion. People were excited. They were glad we could expand our family and happy that Bunny would have a sibling.

When the four of us are together, no one says anything. There may be looks but I don't notice them. Instead I am focused on my family and the joy it brings me. No one questioned us about our family. I didn't need to educate anyone. We were a family and no one said anything to the contrary. Until yesterday when I was stopped dead in my tracks by a five year old.

A little girl stopped me after Bunny's ballet class and asked if I was her mother. When I responded in the affirmative, she said "oh. I thought you were the babysitter." I was surprised but said "no I am her mother". And gesturing to Lion, I said "I'm his mother too."

The girl then whispered something to her friend. I could see the wheels spinning in her head. I knew there had to be questions but I did not say they were adopted. I simply gathered my children and headed home, leaving any questions to be addressed by her mother.

The more I thought about it, I was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Bunny's classmates have seen me with her and Lion all year long. They must have noticed the differences. There are other Chinese children in her class but they are picked up by Chinese mothers and they do not have African American siblings. But no one questions it. I am Bunny's mom.

I am Bunny's mom. I am Lion's mom. It doesn't matter what anyone else says or thinks, I am proud to be their mother.

Skin

It's his comfort, his security. He climbs up on my lap, puts a finger in his mouth and reaches out his other hand to stroke my face and neck. The touch of my skin to his calms him. He nuzzles his face into my neck or places his forehead against my cheek.

He can only fall asleep when he is touching my skin. As he dozes off, his fingers dance over my face touching my eyes, nose or cheek. I can tell he is asleep when his hand lazily brushes past my neck before resting on his chest.

He pokes my belly and then his. Laughing at the similarities, the roundness, the softness. His eyes light up when he realizes our belly buttons are the same. Poke momma. Poke Lion.

My skin also bears the signs of his love. Bruises from excited or frustrated bites. The caresses of my face can turn into slaps or pinches. "No, no. Be gentle", I tell him. "Show momma love." The hits turn back to touches. The finger returns to the mouth. Calmness returns.

My skin is his comfort, his security. His skin and my skin are one and the same. It's what he needs now to feel safe.

There will come a time when he places his hand on my arm and he notices the differences. Dark cocoa brown and light peach are not the same. My skin will bear the wrinkles of time, his the softness of youth. How will I explain?

I will take his hand and touch it to my face. I will remind him of this time. I will remind him of the comfort and security he found. I will remind him that the touch of my skin to his was how we bonded, how we came to love and trust each other.