If I received a dollar for every time someone remarked about my internationally adopted son being “so fortunate,” I would be quite wealthy. I could envision owning an extravagant horse, a yacht, and a vast estate, all under the umbrella of my fictitious company, MyFortunateChild, LLC. Unfortunately, I don’t earn those dollars, which is a pity, as my son and I frequently encounter this comment wherever we go.
It makes me uneasy. Even though the sentiment is always accompanied by warm smiles and friendly gestures, the phrase “he’s so fortunate” leaves me feeling awkward and fidgety. I often struggle to find the right words in response, leading to a jumble of phrases that might make one question my command of English.
Initially, I couldn’t pinpoint why “he’s so fortunate” felt so disconcerting. It’s not that the statement is untrue; my son spent time in a foreign orphanage. He faced abandonment and hardship, and reconciling the joyful child I now have with the frightened toddler I adopted is a challenge. While “fortunate” may not fully encapsulate the transformation in his life, I do understand the kind intentions behind those words.
Perhaps the discomfort stems from the feeling that I am the lucky one in this equation. The unspoken rules of adoptive parenting suggest that I should echo, “He is so fortunate!” Yet, I have repeatedly affirmed, “Oh no, I’m the lucky one!”—a belief that resonates deeply within me. But while my gratitude for our bond is profound, it’s not the reason behind my discomfort regarding the label of luck.
The phrase “he’s so fortunate” feels jarring because adoption, while an integral part of my son’s background, doesn’t define our daily lives. When we are at the grocery store, at a school event, or simply enjoying our time together, he is not my adopted son—he is simply my son.
Imagine this scenario: I’m at the grocery store, trying to fill a static-ridden bag with oatmeal while keeping an eye on my son, who just asked a nearby male shopper if he is pregnant. Amidst the chaos of a ringing phone and an uncooperative bag, a voice exclaims, “Aw! He’s so fortunate!” My immediate reaction is confusion. Is the shopper lucky? Or perhaps my son? After all, he’s adopted.
The comment forces adoption into my everyday life, despite it being seven years since we began our journey together. My experiences as a parent—watching my son play air guitar or sneak soda into the shopping cart—don’t invoke thoughts of adoption. I perceive families with biological children at the park without considering their conception stories, and I wish for the same when it comes to my child.
I don’t want my son to feel fortunate, saved, or burdened by any idea that he owes me anything. Rather, I want him to understand that he is cherished, that our family is as genuine as any other, and that he possesses invaluable qualities beyond mere luck. The beauty of adoption lies in the fact that, while I embrace its significance, I also experience the everyday joys of motherhood without always seeing the adoption narrative.
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In summary, while the sentiment of my son being “so fortunate” is well-meaning, it oversimplifies the complexity of our lives and the richness of our relationship. Adoption, though a vital part of our story, does not overshadow the everyday experiences we share as a family.