If I had a dollar for every time someone gazed at my internationally adopted son and exclaimed that phrase, I could afford a lavish lifestyle. Picture me owning a magnificent horse, a yacht, and expansive land, all under my company, LuckyKid Enterprises, LLC. Unfortunately, I don’t receive that dollar, which is quite unfortunate, as my son, who hails from China, and I hear about his so-called luck at almost every turn.
This constant refrain makes me uneasy. Even though it is always expressed with genuine warmth, big smiles, and friendly gestures, the comment “he’s so lucky” leaves me feeling awkward and fidgety. It often renders me speechless, leading to a response that might make you question whether English is my first language.
It took me some time to understand why those words are so unsettling for me. It’s not because they lack truth; my son spent time in a foreign orphanage, where he faced abandonment, malnutrition, and fear. Reconciling the joyful toddler I brought home with the whirlwind of energy he is now—dancing around in his boxers to The Rolling Stones—is a challenge. While “lucky” doesn’t fully capture the transformation of his life, I do appreciate that the kindhearted people who say it mean well.
Is my discomfort rooted in the feeling that I’m the fortunate one? Is that the core of my unease? The unspoken guidelines of adoptive parenting suggest I should say, “He is so lucky!” Yet, more times than I can count, I have insisted, “Oh my goodness, no, I’m the lucky one!” and I genuinely mean it. While I am profoundly grateful for whatever cosmic forces brought my son to me, that sense of gratitude isn’t why I feel uneasy about him being labeled as lucky.
The phrase “he’s so lucky” feels jarring because, while adoption is an integral part of my son’s background, it doesn’t play a role in our everyday lives. Whether we’re at the grocery store, the school play, or anywhere else, he is simply my son—no qualifiers needed.
Imagine me at the grocery store, attempting to fill a static-cling plastic bag with bulk oatmeal while keeping an eye on my son, who has just asked a nearby male shopper if he’s pregnant. As I rummage through my purse for my ringing phone with one hand, a voice from my left suddenly declares, “Aw! He’s so lucky!” Who is lucky here, the male shopper? My child? Did he score a complimentary sample? Oh, right, he’s adopted.
The phrase “he’s so lucky” disrupts my motherhood narrative, which is now seven years in the making. It catches me off guard because, in our daily lives, I don’t see China, an orphanage, or adoption. Just like when I observe families with presumably biological children, I don’t think of family planning, childbirth, or hospital stays. When I watch my son playing air guitar or sneaking a soda into the shopping cart, I don’t see adoption.
I don’t want my son to feel lucky in a way that implies he was saved or rescued or that he owes me anything. He doesn’t. I want him to know he is loved, that our family is as real as any other, and that he has so much more to offer the world than mere luck. The most beautiful aspect of his adoption is that, as his mother, I see adoption each day without noticing it at all.
This article was originally published on Aug. 9, 2015.
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