Learning with my Boy(s)

I know that it will be Mother’s Day here on the Eastern side of the United States in less than two hours. And I should either be moping or celebrating, as I tend to fluctuate between the two on the (dreaded) day. But, instead, I have a story to tell.

I’ve been talking about things revolving around Munchkin with my oldest son for the past two weeks. They’re coming out to visit this coming Friday. While we always talk about the Munchkin freely in this house, I step it up a notch as a visit approaches. I do this with other things like the day of a t-ball game. He doesn’t transition well because of his personality (which is totally my genetic fault). So, I tend to talk things up in big and exciting ways in hopes of getting him excited for whatever is at hand. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. So far, he’s always been excited for a visit from/with his sister.

In the truck on our way home from the March for Babies in Pittsburgh today, we were talking about things. The conversation lead us to this point.

Me: Well, D is Munchkin’s Mommy.
BigBrother: I didn’t know that.
Me: Yes. Just like I’m your mommy, D is Munchkin’s Mommy.
BigBrother: And she’s my sister?
Me: Yes. She grew in my uterus just like you and your brother both did. So, yes, she is your sister.
BigBrother: *absolute silence*
Me: And I’m her birth mommy.

That was the wrong thing to say. Because that sentence was followed with:

BigBrother: NO! YOU’RE MY MOMMY!

Nevermind that I’m also his brother’s mommy. But obviously the world freaked him out. I tried explaining it over again that D was Munchkin’s mommy-mommy and that I was “just” the Munchkin’s birth mommy. He wouldn’t have it. There were no tears. But he simply wasn’t going to accept that word. At all. So, I went a different route.

Me: Would you feel better if I said I was her birth mother?
BigBrother: Yes. You are Munchkin’s birf-muffer.

And so, in short, he likes me. This is good. When relating this story to D this evening, she let me know that the whole territorial “my mommy” thing is totally age appropriate. I figured it might be but this is my first experience with the issue. I think I handled it well, reassuring him that I am his mommy and that I’m not going anywhere and that I love him even when he’s mad or sad or worried or scared. He kept talking for far longer than he usually does on any one given topic so I know he was processing lots of things that, despite constant talk of his sister, are newer concepts to him as he continues to grasp vocabulary and bigger concepts each and every day.

Part of me thinks this story is cute. I like to be liked! I like to be loved! But at the same time, it catches me off guard. I have always said that I will accept whatever title the Munchkin wants to give me. I have always said that whatever she was comfortable with calling me, I would be comfortable with as well. Unfortunately, I never thought about the age-appropriate processing of my own, parented children and how they might react to different titles and names at different times in their lives. Having not yet lived through the territorial phase, I didn’t really know that children could react so vehemently to the word mommy. I understand it now, having watched his face and heard his words. His thoughts and fears are valid. I accept them and I want him to know that I am here. I will always be here. It’s what I do.

It’s just something in open adoption that I hadn’t quite considered. It’s not that I don’t consider my children when making decisions regarding our open adoption relationship. I do. Very much. I wait to tell my older son about a visit until I am 98% sure it is going to happen and we fall into the two week window. Any longer than that and not only is it too long for him to have to think about but plans that are farther than two weeks away can change more quickly than ones that fall within that two week window. (I, unfortunately, learned this by letting down the Munchkin once. It’s a lesson I won’t forget.) I make decisions regarding visits with their schedules in mind. I encourage my older son to be vocal about his sister when he wants to and I don’t really push it when he’d rather talk about t-ball. But I didn’t ever realize that the issue of titles, one that is so fraught with drama and angst everywhere else in the adoption world, would affect my three year old son on a core level.

I learn so much. Everyday. And sometimes it is through the eyes of a little boy who loves so much and so hard that I manage to find faith in humanity again and again.