It All Started With a Bag of Rice

A few weeks ago, in the rush to get dinner on the table, I overheard a disturbing conversation between Ian and Marina. As per the status quo, they had been bickering most of the afternoon.

Ian: Look Marina, that woman is Russian. referring to the WaterM*id Rice Lady. Who, is clearly not Russian, but I think is supposed to represent a genie. She is a cartoon figure with bouffant hair, Asian styled eyes, and balloon pants. These pants do look an awful lot like the pants the male Russian folk dancers wear in some pictures we have in Marina's baby book. I'm guessing it was the pants that led Ian to say that.
Marina: No, she isn't. If Ian had said, 'The sky is blue,' Marina would have answered the same way.
Ian: Yes, she is. voice changing to taunting, sing-song I bet she is your Russian mommy.

Heretofore, I had only half attended their words; I instantly snapped to attention. I'd never heard any of the birth children tease, question, or ridicule Marina's status in the family and the direction of Ian's comment alarmed me. They fight, but with honest, above-the-belt punches--things so silly I usually laugh, "You're fighting over that?!" To me, because of my own sensitivity and insecurity, this jab belonged in an entirely different category. I thought, "Oh, no! Has he said these ugly things before, when I haven't been around?" In the next instant, I also remembered how as a child, I tormented my younger sister (both of us born to our parents as full biological siblings) with tales of Mom and Dad finding her in a basket on the front porch. I can still hear my own taunting, sing-song voice, "You're not my real sis-ter...You're not my real sis-ter." Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. Most likely this was a new take on normal brother/sister stuff-not adoption related at all-at least on Ian's part. Nevertheless, I couldn't let his statement go unchallenged, though I wish now I had waited and heard Marina's response.

Me: firmly No. Marina only has one Mommy. Who is that?
Unison: looking guiltily at me and answering reluctantly You. They didn't realize I was listening.
Me: repeating words I have said a million times. Yes, I am Marina's mommy. Marina grew in another lady's tummy--her birthmother--but I am her mommy forever. Looking sharply at Ian. Just like I'm your forever mommy. Adding briskly to signal this conversation was C-L-O-S-E-D Now, get that rice put up and finish setting the table.

I turn back to the pot on the stove. The children turn toward the pantry. It is clear from their hushed tones that they think I am no longer able to hear them.

Marina: Ian, let me see that bag.
Ian: No.
Marina: louder hushed tones Ian!
Ian: Why?
Marina: whining Let me have it!
Ian: Why do you want the rice?
Marina: I am going to punch it.
My back was to them, but I hear Ian hand her the bag and she hits the rice bag with a balled up fist. It's amazing it didn't bust all over the floor.
Ian: suppressed giggle You punched her! You can tell he did not see this coming from his little sister and is highly amused. They have gone from being arch enemies to best buds--also typical.
Marina: triumph mixed with bitterness. Yeah. I punched that Russian momma.

As I'm sure you have guessed, this is not the end of the story, but this entry grows long. Follow-up post to come.