My good friend Michelle sent me a message last week to let me know about the book One Little Girl written by Rocket Barber and illustrated by Scott Harris. I’m on a never-ending quest to find appropriate adoption books for my family. When I say my family, I’m specifically referring to the people who live under my roof and, even more specifically, my sons — the ones I parented after relinquishing their older sister.
It’s hard sometimes, as so many adoption books written for children are written for adopted children. While One Little Girl could arguably be a book for adopted children, it presents the stories of the adoptive parents and the birth mother with the same amount of care, weight and length.
We first meet the adoptive parents before they are married. They fall in love, get married and decide they want to have a child. But, time passes and they do not. The theme of the story is wrapped up in this line:
Although they were still happy,
they were a little less happy
than they could have been if
they had a baby
to share their love.
We then meet a “Lovely Young Girl” who is “clever” and, as you might guess, finds herself pregnant. The words used to describe her pregnancy are not overly negative. In fact, she is described as being “both excited and scared.” They do emphasize the “quite young” part a few times, which doesn’t sit overly well with me, but not obnoxiously so. It doesn’t get into why she can’t care for the baby herself, other than her age, which — again — isn’t what I wish to convey, but again, the heart of the message feels pure.
The only thing that doesn’t really sit well is the illustration and wording when the girl chooses the adoptive parents.
When my baby is born, I would like you
to be the Mommy and Daddy.
I love my baby very much,
and this is the greatest gift I can give her.
The illustration is, as you might guess, a package wrapped up in a bow.
I hate this analogy. The giving and receiving of gifts as it pertains to adoption. Especially considering that on the next page the adoptive parents refer to the giving of the baby as “a great gift.” I just don’t like that terminology in this context. It sits wrong. It feels wrong. I recognize that as my personal preference and my own issue, but it sits wrong all the same.
We are treated to the birth mother saying goodbye to her daughter, telling her that she loves her and handing her over. Instead of just disappearing into the ether like some other adoption books have done to the birth mother. I appreciated this page because of the emphasis on love. If anything, I want my sons to understand that I did not relinquish their sister due to a lack of love. I loved her very much — unconditionally. I am hoping this page will help reinforce that as they continue to build their understanding of what adoption is — and isn’t.
Obviously, there are some things in this book that are not the same as my story. Munchkin isn’t blonde nor is she blue eyed. The book doesn’t go on to say whether or not an open adoption happened and how that works. The book doesn’t even remotely address the fact that the birth mother did not get pregnant on her own and that there are birth fathers out there who love their children as much as the mothers in question.
But, to be honest, the book didn’t piss me off either. Which is my indicator of a relatively good children’s book on adoption. Because some books do make me cuss. They are written without concern that birth mothers’ children will be reading them, without a care that other children might also form their understanding of adoption based on the words in the book. This one takes care, despite the gift context, to show that this was a loving decision between people who cared deeply for this child.
I should say that the illustrations are beyond gorgeous. (And that there’s no pregnant young girl holding her belly with a forlorn look on her face like we see all the time. Hooray!) However, please beware the font. It’s — well — it’s unique.
The book’s author is — not surprisingly — an adoptive father. I was interested to learn that his daughter, the subject of this book, is six months older than the Munchkin. I feel like he tried, very hard, to capture both sides of the equation — without making it feel like he was trying too hard. And, trust me, that’s hard to do. (Note: The illustrator has brothers who were adopted.) I’d still really like to see a book of this nature written by a birth parent. (And no, my friends, this is not where I excel. So don’t say, “There! That’s your book!” My child storytelling is somewhat… lacking.)
I do wonder if the dedication of the book is to their daughter’s birth mother. It reads, like the hook of the book:
This book is dedicated to Judy Smith, without whom, we would still be a little less happy than we could have been.
I also wonder, taking it back to the hook of the book quoted above, if their daughter’s birth mother is ever “a little less happy” than she would have been if she had parented. For all of our talk about accepting our decisions to relinquish and being happy where we are in life, the truth is that the sting will always be there when I think about my decision to place the Munchkin for adoption. I can’t tell you what life would have been like if I had parented or how happy/unhappy I would be with my current life. But I can tell you that there will always be a sadness — a little less happy — because I let her go.
I suppose, when I’m honest, that’s the other thing that smarts about the book. The happiness factor. It feels like we put a lot of pressure on our children when we equate them with our happiness. Furthermore, placing the weight of your happiness on someone else’s loss seems to be a little… much. But it’s a book for children and getting deep into the one person’s loss is another person’s gain isn’t really the point of this book. I suppose. Perhaps just a mention of a tear. A bit of sadness. I don’t know. Something that acknowledges the duality of adoption; anything.
But…
I like the book. There, I said it. I read it in my kitchen when it arrived and I cried. The sad cry of a mother who let go. The anguished cry of a mother trying to figure out how to help her sons understand why she would do that, why she would let go. The slightly happy cry that, for once, my place in an adoption book was more than two sentences long. The birth mother matters in this book, and not just as a means of delivering the child. The love is what matters.
And that’s what I love about this book.
Last year’s Adoption Reading Challenge was a success. I don’t care if you didn’t read all of your books and feel that you failed; it was still a success. People who aren’t touched by adoption read books they never would have read. People who are touched by adoption read books they never would have read. We expanded our knowledge, ranted a little bit and had a lot of fun. With books. That? Is a success, my friends.