So Many Mommies

Translator's note: The Sesotho word for Mom is M'e (pronounced may).

It started with Trent on the phone as Paul was getting ready for bed. "Who dat?" Paul asked.

"It's Grandma," I replied.

"Who Grandma?"

(Now, there is something you must know about Paul, and perhaps about other English language learners and/or cross-cultural kids and/or boys. Some things he has to witness only once to master. (Buying a hot dog at a concession stand, for instance. It took only one experience for him learn to pull two "paper monies" from his chore bank, march confidently to the complete stranger at the concession stand, and request in perfectly clear English, "Hot dog an' bun an' ketchup, please.") Other things we have worked on every day for five solid months, yet they remain a puzzle. (Such as the letter U. Just this morning he showed me the paper filled with letter U's that he had worked on yesterday. "What letter is that?" I asked. He stared at it doubtfully. "It's in your name," I supplied helpfully. "A!" he declared confidently. "Um, no." "P-A-U-L," he whispered, reviewing the letters in his name. "P?" "No, it's not a P!" "U?" "Yes! U!") So, does he know who Grandma is? YES, he knows who Grandma is!)

"Grandma is Daddy's mommy,"I said.

"Daddy has a M'e?!?" he asked incredulously. Pause, then, "You's have a M'e?"

"Yes, Nana is my M'e."

"Nana is you's M'e?!? You's have a M'e?!?"

"Yes, I have a M'e. Nana is my M'e." (I cannot even tell you how many times I repeat myself. I am a broken record player, saying the same things over and over and over again.)

Now, being as this was bedtime, and theoretically time for sleep, Paul felt the need to discuss this revelation more in depth. He proceeded to list EVERY SINGLE friend he had in America and ask if they all had a mommy. Then he wanted to know if their mommy had a mommy. Yes, they all had mommies and, so far as I knew, their mommies all still had mommies.

"Why dey so many mommies in America?"

Why, indeed. That one caught me a little off-guard. Was he ready for the discussion of the unparalleled blessings of our middle class American existence - clean water, adequate and nutritious food, jobs, public education, social service programs for those in need, relative freedom from violence and war, health care?

But then he launched into a list of those children he remembered from MIS who got 'em new mommies and daddies. "...den Palamang get 'em new mommy and daddy when you meet me MIS," he finished, snuggling into me. "Who get 'em next new mommy and daddy?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know..." I supplied lamely, thinking of all those precious little brown faces coupled with illness and poverty coupled with changes in the Lesotho adoption process coupled with serious debate about African intercountry adoption in general.

But he continued, "Big boys and big girls, too? Dey get 'em new mommies, too?"

"Oh, well..." I knew the grim futures faced by those who age out. I'd seen them on the streets, threadworn and hungry, scrounging for a few loti in exchange for guarding the cars in the church parking lot. I also knew whom he was thinking. At MIS the big boys and girls often care for the littles, and Paul had pointed out in pictures one particular big boy who was his abuti, his brother figure. "We can pray that God will find them ALL new mommies and daddies."

"And Retselise and his ausi, too?" he asked, twirling my hair.

"Yes," I choked. Oh, God, this is so hard. "Them, too."

With that assurance Paul fell fast asleep, hand still clutched in my hair. And I was left to disentangle the blessings of so many mommies in America with the tragedy of too few mommies somewhere else.

To sponsor an unadoptable orphan, literally to become his or her family around the world, visit Make Way Partners in Sudan or Help One Now in Haiti.