Adopted or not, I love my children the exact same way

I realized something today:

No one has ever asked me if my biological son was adopted.

After all, you wouldn’t look at his light blond hair (even next to his brunette parents) and inquire as to whether or not we “got him out of foster care.” You wouldn’t want to make it weird, right? No one wants to accidentally bring up old scars or even imply that a child is different.

So, why is this the first thing people ask about my other son?

Yes. Obviously he is adopted. But the only reason that’s apparent is simply cosmetic. He has more hair products than I do, and his skin is a few shades darker. That’s it.

Otherwise, you’d never know.

Because they are both my sons. There is no difference.

adopted love

I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to carry a child, as well as adopt. Doing so allows me to say with absolute truth that there is no difference in the love you feel for your children.

In fact, I sometimes forget that I didn’t birth my second son. Because, though I didn’t knit him in my womb, I sure did nurture, grow, and pray for him in my heart. The ups and downs, the unexpected roadblocks, the pain—it was a pregnancy of its own.

My firstborn filled half of my heart, and somehow I knew adoption was going to fill the other. I knew my second child was out there waiting for me, and I knew our bond would be more than biology.

So, if you’ve ever wondered, let me settle it for you:

Yes. You do love adopted children with the same ferocity as your own flesh and blood.

I feel the same thing when I kiss my boys’ sweet, soft faces—overwhelming love. Joy. Warmth.

I experience the same emotions when I cuddle my boys—whole. Full. Grateful.

My heart jumps when I look at my infant son, the same way it does when I gaze at my toddler. When my baby reaches up for me, I’m blown away with affection.

The heartbreak of fevers, teething, and sickness is equal. The fear of starting school… the worries of how others will treat them… the pride when they accomplish their goals… the tears that form from just thinking about them… it’s every bit the same.

After all, I don’t imagine myself at my son’s graduation, holding the sign: “congrats to my adopted son.” You won’t find me dancing at his wedding to a “mother-adoptive-son dance.”

Because there are many adjectives that do a better job of describing both my children:

Beautiful. Sweet. Funny. Kind. Wanted. Loved.

Of course, that’s not to say I won’t talk about his adoption story. I won’t keep it a secret from him, and I surely won’t distance him from his culture.

But, his differences are not the first thing I want you to notice.

Because while he may not blend in with the physicality of our family—he’s still ours. And, our actions, our words, and our love will never suggest otherwise.

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