Ain’t nothing like the "real" thing, baby
We had a friend sleep over last night. Poor OmegaDad was amazed that two girls could make so much noise, and kept trying to find a quiet spot in the house. He was also amazed that the two didn’t destroy the bathroom when they took a bath together (one way to keep two girls entertained is to lock them into a room with a bathtub filled with bubble bath).
All went well. There was one Solomonic decision required by me the first day, in which there were three pieces of bubblegum and K. accused OmegaDotter of giving her the two split pieces and taking two full pieces for herself. At which point the judge (that would be me) decided that the only fair thing was to make them both spit the gum out.
Har. Just call me mean mommy.
But by this morning, the love and togetherness was wearing off, and the drama began.
In the midst of the drama, the girls were watching Shirley Temple in the family room while I piddled around on the intertubes. The harmonicas were being played, and suddenly voices were raised. And then I overheard:
"Let’s ask the lady!" sayeth K.
"What ‘lady’?" asks OmegaDotter.
"The lady in the office."
"Well, duh, that’s my mom!"
"No she’s not! She’s not your real mom!"
"Wha–? She is too my real mom! What do I call her? ‘Mommy’! So there!"
"She’s not your real mom! She adopted you, so she can’t be your real mom!"
"She is so my real mom!"
"Nuh-unh!"
"Unh-hunh!"
"Nuh-unh!"
"She is so!"
(Six- and seven-year-olds have such a command of logic, language, and rhetoric…)
At this point, hearing a certain amount of puzzled panic in the dotter’s voice, I thought I should intervene.
OmegaDotter was buried in blankets on the futon, sucking her thumb and looking thunderous. K. was kneeling with her head down on the futon, pouting and picking at imaginary fluff. When I came in, K. went bounding out and up the stairs. OmegaDotter looked at me with her lower lip stuck out. I sat down and poked my head close to the dotter, and whispered, in a mock drama whisper, "Hey, girlie girl. Am I plastic?"
She shook her head.
"Am I imaginary?"
She shook her head, and said, in injured tones, "K. says you’re not my real mom!"
"Well, sweetie, I’m your real mom. You have two real moms, your mommy in China and me. And I’m real–poke me!"
And she poked me, and giggled, and snuggled a bit, and we went upstairs and got the girls to kiss and make up.
And a few minutes later, another drama began. And another a little later.
Oy! The Drama! (Picture OmegaMom rolling her eyes at the prickliness of girls.)
Anyway, I was actually surprised by the whole thing. Obviously it’s the first OmegaDotter’s heard of this concept. I thought it was something that just oozed from the primordial conceptual soup that floats around preschool and kindergarden. Guess not.
So, sometime soon, I expect to hear the dread, "You’re not my real mom, so I don’t have to do x, so there!"
posted in Adoption | 4 Comments
