Christina, Downloaded

Something has clicked for Evan recently. He knows that we adopted him and he knows that he grew in "a mother's tummy," that mother being Birthmother T. But in the past few days these facts have become meaningful.

Case-in-point the following unprompted conversation we had on Tuesday morning. He and Tyler were getting out of the shower and I was in the midst of helping this one dry off and that one put on his underwear. "I grew in a mother's tummy," Evan said.

"Yes," I said back.

"What do I call her?"

"T.?"

"No. What do I call her?"

"Birthmother?"

"Yeah. Birthmother T." He thinks. "Do I have a Birthfather?"

"Yes."

"Birthfather W.," he replies. He knows this already.

"Yes," I say. "Birthmother T. and Birthfather W."

"Where do they live?"

"In Atlanta, Georgia."

"Atlanta, Georgia? What's that?"

"Well," I explained, "you know how you live in Chicago, Illinois? They live in Atlanta, Georgia."

"Can I see them someday?"

"Sure."

"Can I call them on the telephone?"

This on stumped me. I wasn't prepared for that. When he asked about seeing them someday, I pictured when he would be eighteen, which was the age his birthparents felt comfortable doing. But calling? Like right now? Like go find the number and let's give them a shout out?

"Actually," he said while I sat there looking dumbfounded and trying to consider a response, "I don't want to call them."

Whew! "Okay, we don't need to call them. Do you want to see their picture again?"

"Yes."

"Hopefully I remember where I put it." Since we moved, I put the pictures somewhere "safe," which could be a million places, some of which may not spring to memory.

And then we all moved on, I continuing to try to get them ready and they reverting back to whatever nonsense they were up to prior to this conversation.

Now I have to go back to all my adoption books. I thought I recalled them saying that kids aren't supposed to figure things out until early grade school. I figured I had a few more years on my hands. Looks like no.

Also this week he has been trying out new mommies. Last night his school held Family Night, where all the kids bring their parents and siblings (and in Evan's case, grandparents too). They go through their day's activities in 10 minute intervals -- so we start out with snack time then activity time then outside time then music time then story time, etc. Evan was less interested in participating with the group and much more interested in "trying on" his pal, M.'s, mommy. Evan would approach her and sit on her lap. He did this several times during the evening.

And today, out of nowhere, he started calling me Mommy Shaver. "Hey Mommy Shaver. Will you come sit with me on the mat?" Or, "Mommy Shaver, can I have some more water please?" Yeah. Mommy Shaver. Cracked me up. But in calling me Mommy Shaver, he is differentiating me from Birthmother T.

He has been having some major separation anxiety issues with me in the past months, and things have really seemed to have come to a head lately. Apparently at group, he spends the last hour of the day worrying if I will be there to pick him up. (I have been late all of twice since he started going to school there.) At home, he doesn't like it when I'm not right there with him. Though, if he's at home with just Jonathan, there isn't that same attachment and missing feeling.

Tonight when we were watching an HBO Family special on kid musicians, Evan remarked that he wanted an eleven-year old Irish flautist  to be his mommy. "But I'm your Mommy," I said.

"Well, I want to try her," he said back.

By the way, that particular segment showed a few girls doing that Celtic Irish dancing, the one where they keep their upper bodies as straight as possible and flail their legs knees down like nobody's business. Tyler started going haywire dancing with them. And it all came together. Tyler dances like the Irish dancers. He totally contorts his legs everywhere, but pretty much does nothing else with the top of him. I had to rewind the small bit a bazillion times so that Tyler could continue watching people who dance like him. When you combine my heritage (1/4 Irish) with Jonathan's heritage (1/2 Irish), Tyler ends up being more Irish than anything else (Filipino, German, English). The dancing is in his blood!

Anyway, one last bit about Evan and his adoption is that he said to me in passing something along the lines of me being "another mother" of his. I didn't try to brush the conversation aside, but in the same breath he moved on to a completely different topic (it's like he has ADHD or something!). So I decided to just go with the flow.

I think all this stemmed from a conversation that Evan overheard this weekend between Jonathan and our nephew. G. is only eleven and naturally inquisitive. He mentioned something to Jonathan about us being Tyler's real mom and dad. Jonathan took the opportunity to let him know that we're Evan and Tyler's real mom and dad. Both of us are their parents, equally. G. quickly agreed and got it, but I think it sparked a deeper understanding of adoption for Evan. 

We once talked with his psychiatrist about the adoption and he had cautioned us not to make it any big deal. Don't hide it from him, but don't dwell on it either. There's a fine gray area here that we need to walk, and I need to get my bearings. And go back to those adoption courses we took. And have some major discussion with our family social worker and Evan's group leader.

Never a dull moment around here, that's for sure.