Adoption | Amy Medina

To My Sunshine

On May 24, 2024

My dear Grace,

Raising you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

From the first day I laid eyes on you and you gave me your radiant smile, you have been sunshine in my life. Happy and fearless—that’s the way I would describe you from the time you were a baby. You sang “Amazing Grace” to an entire school full of kids when you were just two years old. Dad taught you to do backflips into the pool when you were three. You are always ready to jump into the next adventure with both feet.

But one of the most special things about you is your love for people. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more people-oriented than you. When you were a toddler, I remember showing you the HOPAC school yearbook and being flabbergasted by how many names you knew of students and staff. As you grew up, whenever you met a new friend, you would always run into the kitchen and grandly announce, “I love [this person!] and I love her mom too!” I don’t know if you’ve ever met a person you didn’t like. God gave you the gift of loving others enthusiastically. 😊

Finding Grace in Infertility and Loss

By Amy Medina

On December 11, 2023

In Adoption, My Memoirs

Last week at a pre-op appointment, I needed to sign a document that read, “I understand that I will not be able to become pregnant if I undergo this procedure,” and my breath caught in my throat and tears stung my eyes.

The next moment, that reaction surprised me. I am 47 years old and I haven’t thought about becoming pregnant in years. I long ago lost the hope of bearing a child and eventually lost the desire as well. But somehow initialing my name next to that sentence compressed the last 20 years, and I was suddenly a young wife again, crying over Dollar Store pregnancy tests that stubbornly refused to show me two pink lines.

Have I Failed My Children?

By Amy Medina

On March 1, 2023

In Adoption, Parenting

“It’s such a shame that they failed two of their children.”

I was in college, and my friend was referring to a Christian family with adult children, two of whom had gone off the rails into drugs and unwed pregnancy.

My friend had young children of her own, and as someone several years ahead of me, she was a mom I greatly admired. She and I both knew that she would certainly not fail her children. I tucked away this lesson: My children’s choices would be a reflection of me.

***

Around the same time, I attended a large children’s ministry conference where a seminar speaker declared that ADHD was not a real condition – a child who couldn’t pay attention or sit still was the sad result of bad parenting. As an elementary teacher, I suspected the speaker was wrong, but it didn’t stop me from being marinated in the idea that I was responsible for my children’s behavior.

“First-time obedience” was the mantra of my era of Christian parenting. None of this “count to three” stuff; you were not a good parent if you had to ask twice. If they didn’t obey, it was on you. Being a responsible, perfectionist person, I took this seriously. I was up for the challenge.

When I first became a parent, this worked. I’d been trained as a teacher. I knew how to hold children to high expectations without raising my voice or losing my cool. And my stubbornness could match the most strong-willed of children. I remember a fellow mom responding with amazement at how quickly my kids complied when summoned from the playground. Yep. I was not going to fail my children. No siree.

It worked, that is, until it didn’t work. Then it became a dumpster fire. And demanding “first-time obedience” became the gasoline that made the fire explode. With one child in particular, the more I dug in my heels and expected obedience, the more the opposite happened. As I increased the consequences, so did my child’s unhinged behavior.

On Transracial Adoption

By Amy Medina

On January 16, 2023

In Adoption, Parenting, Race and Diversity, Re-Entry to America

There was a lot I didn’t know when I adopted my children.

Since then, I’ve wondered a hundred times if we did right by our children when we adopted them. Adoption heals a wound, but I underestimated the depth of the wound and overestimated the ease of healing it.

Several months ago, I was asked to do a webinar on my advice for raising adopted children overseas. I turned it down. I can’t give advice on this because I’m still raising my children. Ask me again in ten years, and I’ll see if I have advice. Maybe only once I’ve heard what my adult children have to say about it.

For the bulk of their childhoods, Haven of Peace Academy shielded my children from the pain. They were different by being raised by white parents, but lots of children at HOPAC were different for lots of other reasons. Most were born in one country and raised in another, many were biracial, almost all knew what it felt like to navigate various cultures. My children were stuck between worlds, but so were all their classmates.

I ripped my children from Tanzania and dropped them into America in the spring of 2020, when the world had shattered into uncertainty, and racial anger that had festered for decades was exploding to the surface. We lived like hobos that spring with no place to call home, and the night in June that we arrived at my in-law’s house, there was a curfew over all of greater Los Angeles because of George Floyd rioting.

I wondered what world I had brought my Black children into.

Imagine telling your children about the things that people who look like you have done to people who look like them in the country you brought them to live in.

Astray

By Amy Medina

On October 20, 2022

In Adoption, Parenting

Last night my stomach tightened as I pulled Johnny’s red jacket out of the dryer. This is the jacket I described to the police officer. Will I ever be able to look at it the same way again?

*

This past Sunday morning at 8, I holler at the kids to get moving. Johnny isn’t in bed, but that is normal. As the youngest, he usually is out of bed before anyone else on weekends. Routine bedlam ensues, with teenagers jostling for the bathroom and grumbling over who ate the last piece of banana bread. At 8:40, Gil and I bellow for all to get into the car.

Only when everyone is clambering out the door do we realize Johnny isn’t in the house. I huff, questioning why he would go out to play when he knows we are heading to church.

Johnny is my independent, curious one. He’s the child most likely to make himself a spinach and mushroom omelet for breakfast, experimenting with spices. The night before, he was obsessed with conquering a new Rubik’s Cube. He told me recently that he is too old for hugs and kisses now, and I conceded on the kisses but declared that I will hug him for as long as I live, so too bad for him.

His three teenage siblings are often too busy for him, and Johnny doesn’t like playing by himself. His screen time had been confiscated for this weekend, so that’s likely what drove him outside. He loves roaming the neighborhood on his bike or hoverboard, but today both of those things are still in our garage. Plus, he knows there are three rules: Don’t leave the house without telling a parent. Don’t leave the neighborhood. Don’t go inside anyone’s house.

Category: Adoption Page 1 of 8

To My Sunshine

Finding Grace in Infertility and Loss

Have I Failed My Children?

On Transracial Adoption

Astray