When we adopted each child, we were passionate about educating ourselves about their race, their heritage, and their identity. We also did our fair share (and required) homework of adoption issues of attachment, bonding, and parenting. I think, deep down in the hidden places of my heart, that I've always been more concerned about my children's race issues than I have about their adoption issues. Not issues of could I love my children even if they are so different from me. Hardly. Not at all. More the issues of would my children love me because I am different from them. When they look at me and see my white skin and my white life, would they still accept me as the person they want raising them?
For now, my color doesn't bother my kids at all. Color blindness goes both ways. From me to them and them to me. What bothers them is that they didn't grow in my stomach. Each and every one of them has expressed that to me more than once. My straight hair and freckles and hazel eyes are insignificant. They miss that "very beginning" with me that all the other children they know seem to possess. We have wonderful talks about it--how precious their birth mothers are/were. How blessed they are to have two families. (They really are.) How being "different" does not make their lives any less significant. How being placed with David and me was tough and hard and fabulous and wonderful and miraculous and unfair all at once.
I have many years of parenting left to go. I am still prepared for a time when my color will disappoint them. When they no longer care about not growing in my tummy but are frustrated that they had to grow up with Caucasian parents. I am hoping it will be a short season of disappointment, though. And that our family--our precious, different, stand-out-in-a-crowd, tough, blessed, committed family--will trump our racial differences.