I am not an adoptive parent nor, thus far, have I ever felt called to adopt. In fact, most of what I knew or had experienced about adoption was academic, at best.
I grew up during the Vietnam War. Certain graphic images and military words are etched into my memory: Mekong Delta, Ho Chi Minh, agent orange, napalm bomb, Viet Cong…and the image of a young American soldier sloshing through a muddy rice field in the relentless pouring rain.
Adoption is part of our story, but it does not define our day-to-day lives. It’s been almost five years since we brought home our baby boy through the miracle of adoption.
The tank squats low and heavy in the middle of the city at the center of a roundabout, a giant hunk of refuse. Dark, cold metal, it absorbs the tropical light like a black hole.
I wanted to be the courageous birth mom. I wanted to be the attentive adoptive mom for my son. I wanted to be the always loving mom for my three biological children. I wanted to prove myself worthy for the daughter I placed for adoption…and years later re-adopted into the family. And I wanted to do it all without breaking a sweat.