Someone Else’s Baby

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One incident from my daughter’s childhood has stood out in my mind the past few days. I often took my children to parks and play areas. While my son was in kindergarten, I took my daughter to a nearby playground, and let her dig in the sandbox while I sat a couple feet away from her on the edge of the box. Other moms and children came and went, when one mom approached the area, and began to exclaim, “Where is this baby’s mother?” I gave her a confused look, because I was closer to my daughter physically than any other mom, and then responded “Right here beside her.” She looked surprised, muttered, “Oh,” and then went to another area of the park with her child in tow.

I immediately understood the issue. I am a blondish Caucasian, and my daughter is a petite Asian. It was just the first of many times people have assumed we could have no relationship because of our appearance and races. Ava was adopted from China as a baby, so naturally we do not favor each other. I always knew I wanted to adopt internationally and cross-racially. I took on this dream when I was in junior high. The dream originated with the understanding from the Bible that every single person is a child of God, and deserves to be loved and wanted. I knew there were lots of children in the world who needed homes, and I wanted to provide those. How that child looked was a non-issue. And if my dreams had really continued, I would have adopted many more from around the world. (I keep trying not to envy Angelina Jolie for being able to do just that.)

Yet, the world continues to be filled with people who think their “own” children are of more value than other children. The devastating refugee crisis in Syria is a perfect example. We turn our eyes, and try to wash the blood from our hands, ignoring the innocents who are living in pure hell, while spouting invalid information about protecting ourselves. We have elected officials who claim we have to have our “own babies” for a civilization to grow and thrive, and refuse to acknowledge the many cultures and skin colors which make up “America,” instead wanted to create a culture of exclusion. We live in a world where stats bear up the belief held by many that white children matter more than non-white children. We have a government keen to exclude millions of more children from health care and programs to help those in poverty, while beefing up the already largest military budget in the world.

Every baby is our baby. I come at that from a deep-seeded spiritual belief, grounded in the message displayed throughout the Bible. We are responsible for the children of the world. Even if someone does not agree with this theological statement, it is simple common sense to care for the children of our society and our world. We cannot completely remove ourselves from others. We are interconnected in more ways we can image – whether economically, socially, or scientifically. Labeling a baby as “someone else’s” is like saying our foot or hand does not belong to us.

We are all one body. Each child is our own. We are all in this together.

 

 

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The Lucky One

 

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Ava and I at the baby shower my church gave soon after bringing her home.

19 years ago today, a tiny little girl was born in Southern China. She was possibly premature, and circumstances were challenging at best. The mother was unable to keep her, even though I imagine she loved that baby as much as any of us do when we hold a newborn. She loved her enough to make certain she found a home until a couple from America could arrive to bring her to a new home. 9 months after that difficult day of birth, those new parents arrived to find an infant wearing a Hello Kitty bib and obviously well-loved by her caregivers. Baby Ava looked at her new parents with a puzzled face, trying to figure out this odd-looking couple. She received the devoted attention of her big brother, new grandparents, and many well-wishers with casual grace in the weeks that followed. She couldn’t have been loved more.

As do many mothers, I recall the early days with my babies with great fondness and moist eyes. I had waited so long for this little girl to arrive in my life, and the days were more joyful than I could have imagined. So many others – friends and strangers – seemed happy for us as well. Yet, one sentence kept being repeated. “She is such a lucky little girl.” Even in China, people would approach us with the only English they knew, which was “Lucky girl.” I never wanted to receive such words about my daughter. Sometime in 8th grade, I realized I wanted to adopt, especially trans-racially. That was back when I was toying with going to the far reaches of Africa and translating the Bible for my life’s work. That desire faded within a year, but the idea of adopting children did not. I knew there were countless children who needed homes, and I didn’t particularly feel the need to have birth children. (And I know there are many women who feel this biological need, and I certainly do not wish to downplay that. I’m just made differently.) It never felt to me like I was doing a child a favor – I just thought of this as the way I wanted to arrange my family. My teenage musings had me surrounded by 4 or 5 children, all adopted from around the world. I can’t tell you the envy I felt for Angelina Jolie when she began to live out my dream.

I always knew I was the lucky one – not my baby girl. God had gifted me with the most incredible child – not perfect; no child is – but just perfect for our family. When people wanted to compliment me on the decision to adopt, I always responding by telling them I was truly the lucky one. Both my children are such complete gifts, the best things in my life. I offer untold thanks for them each and every day.

Every family is centered around the concept of hospitality. We welcome new persons into our inner circle, whether by choice or by blood. We choose to offer the most intimate part of ourselves, the good and the bad, the strong and the weak. We support them in the difficult days, and let them comfort us when our tough times come around. Ava and I have comforted each other when the tears came, and laughed far more often than that.

She is a gift, and on her birth day each year, I give thanks to the petite Chinese woman who offered this precious child for our family.