I did neither, though. I held my tongue as she continued talking.
She was in the midst of relaying some things she was trying to work through (hypothetically) with her boyfriend and his two children. There was the question of whether she would want to have a child with him, herself. She was explaining how it would be too hard on the other children if a new child were brought into the mix; how it would make them feel jealous and left out. As her mind wandered down this path, she arrived at the idea of adoption. Maybe that would solve the problems..a child that wasn't REALLY theirs. Because he wouldn't be the REAL dad and she wouldn't be the REAL mom and this would prevent any jealousy from the other children because IT wouldn't be a REAL child. Of course, this child would just be so grateful to them and it would be nice to be appreciated.
I was shocked into silence. Each "real" that escaped her lips drifted across the table and slapped me in the face. Over and over. All I could hear was "NOT A REAL MOM." The words echoed in my head. I could feel my heart speeding up and the tears wanting to come. How could she say this in front of me? To me?
Am I not real? I feel real. I felt real when I hugged my son good bye before I dashed out to meet her. I felt real earlier when I was explaining to him why he can't run out into the road and when we sitting at the table laughing over lunch. I have felt real every day of the past six years. When did I become "not real?"
If I'm not a real mom, what am I? An imposter? A fake? A temporary? Unnatural? If I am not real, what am I?
I am a mom. Just Mom. Not adoptive mom. Not second mom. Not legal mom. Definitely not fake mom. When my son calls for me to come see his latest lego creation, he says mom. I wipe bottoms, find lost loveys, beg for better aim at the toilet, fret over healthy dinners, and wonder how a little body can eat so much. I love this little boy with every single fiber of my being...I can't even understand how I love him so much. But I do. I am a real mom.
He is my son. My very real, very loved son. Not my adoptive son. Not the boy we adopted. He's my son. He's my buddy, my baby...my boy.
There is no other label that need to be affixed to either of us. He is my real son. I am his real mom. We are a real family. End of story.
Sometimes, I forget that not everyone thinks this way. I will forget that there are people out there whose frame of reference for love is so narrow that they can't conceive of loving someone not biologically related to themselves. They love because they are suppose to. These same people can turn off love, should it be determined that a relative is not, in fact, "really" related (as she later remembers is the case with her little brother..only now he's not her brother, because they aren't related).
Don't get me wrong, I am aware EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY that another woman (who is AMAZING) gave birth to this little buddy of mine. She carried him for nine months; she knows him in ways that I never will. I am ALWAYS aware that my greatest joy in life came from someone else's greatest sadness. I have not forgotten her and neither will my son. That same woman choose ME to be the REAL mom to a REAL little boy. She wasn't looking for a nanny or a temporary guardian. She was looking for someone to love her son as their own. That is why she chose me.
I am not going to lie- the words hurt me...way down deep, in places I can't even think about without feeling my chest tighten. It crushes me in ways that make me want to curl up and cry. In ways that make me want to fight to PROVE myself. When we set out to adopt, I knew that I would encounter these people and that I would have a lifetime of explaining and proving. But when it comes from a obtuse comment from someone that "loves" me, the poisonous words go deeper than they should, because I have my walls down. Because, after all, she loves me.
More so, though, it angers me because she truly believes these things. It breaks my heart because she genuinely does not see that love can be that big. She will profess to want a great, open love, but truth is, she has no idea what love actually is. Her idea of love is shallow, convenient, and self-serving, and therefore, her life will never be touched by the great love that could be. My love is like an ocean and hers will always be a puddle. She will never understand this until she lives it...and maybe she never will. This thought overwhelms me with sadness for her and the limited life she has and will always have.
Suddenly, her voice draws me back down to the table...back down to the fork I have sat down, the chair I have leaned back in, and the cheeks full of heat. She has finally noticed my lack of attention, although not my offense at her statements. My eyes focus again on her face and now that she knows she has my attention again, she continues.
My heart slows and my cheeks cool. I am not going to slap her. I'm not going to run out of the restaurant. My heart hurts for us both because this narrow love of hers will always keep us at a distance. In that moment, I pity her more than I have anyone else in my life.
As we part ways, she whispers "love you" and hugs me tight. I whisper it back, knowing full well that we are speaking different languages. And while it pains me to witness her puddle, I'm more than willing to keep inviting her to the ocean.
Who knows, maybe one day she'll meet me in the deep waters.
