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Tomorrow morning we leave for Korea – my son, a Korean adoptee and me, his adoptive mom. I lived in the rainbow and unicorn world for many years, through the adoption process and long into his childhood. We had fun, checked all the joyful boxes, all of them and more, with zest and love.

Life got more complicated as he got older – bigger kids, bigger problems, everyone knows about this – and I was neither prepared or equipped. Am I now? No, I am not, although I have scratched the surface and found a deep, rich vein of resource. Podcasts, books, people, vocabulary, awareness, kindness, recognition, people, stories and vast reserves of love.

For years and years I have wanted to go to Korea and he said no. Okay, not ready, maybe never. That is for him to decide. Now the stars have aligned for reasons unknown and, magically, the timing feels very right. Earlier would have been off. We were both untethered, off-kilter, possibly desparate (me), possibly too young (him). In Beth Syverson‘s words, I walk beside him on this journey although, to be frank, I hope to walk a few paces behind him in Korea. Quietly.

Korean Street Toast is on our agenda. It’s a sandwich, from what I understand, a sandwich you buy and eat on the street. Yes, I want to learn ALL about Korea, anxious over-achiever that I have been trained to be. YES, this is a long time dream. YES, rainbows and unicorns are lurking. Should we get there and eat that toast together, that’ll be gravy on my mashed potato heart. Score.

Now for some gilgeori toast, Korean street toast, to wash it down. Gonna drown my sorrows in egg, cabbage, carrot and milk bread. And restore myself with the five flavors of omija – sweet, salty, sour, bitter and pungent.

In November I am going to Korea with my son, who is a Korean adoptee, a first time visit for us both, something I have wanted for a very long time. Twenty-five years ago, when our adoption process began, I was hope-filled, abundant with love, open-hearted and serenely euphoric.

They told us he is “your own”. They told us he was “placed for adoption”. They told us that October 17 would be his “coming home” day. I had questions then: is he healthy?, what do I say when people ask me if I want children “of my own”?, will he love me when I am old? will he love me at all? when will he notice that we do not look alike?, so many questions, so many questions. And so much love. Love harder, deeper, more ferocious than anything I have felt or will ever feel. Without question he was my own. Mama bear style. Fierce, committed, devoted.

I felt proud, not proud as in I had done something charitable. God no. Just proud. Proud to be a parent. Proud of how staggeringly cute he was. Proud to be all puffed up with love. Proud that he was happy, and clean, and adorable.

Adoption is fraught, and fraught in countless ways beyond my comprehension. But I drank the koolaid. I thought I had this down, I believed him being my own was enough, I drank the koolaid. It was indeed sweet, salty, sour, bitter and pungent.

Truth: maybe I did a bad thing, or participated in a bad thing. Took him from his own. Took him from his home. Truth: my heart was and is all in. Truth: a beautiful thing, adoption, is complicated and maybe not so beautiful and, without question, built on heartache. He has another mother and another father. I know this, I have always known this and they are weft and weave of my family. Their son is my family. Or is he? Am I expecting way too much? Where is home?

So, we are going to Korea. My heart is open, he will lead the way and I will watch, absorb, learn and detach. His number one desire while there is to “eat street food”, mine too, with him. I drank the koolaid on the “stay put and let them fly” message, too. I’ll be there, heart in hand, and here always, holding down the fort, this home, whether or not it is needed.

Posting this now although it is just a few crumbs of what I am feeling. This “reckoning” is, frankly, major.

I read. I feel for the pulse. I worry. I love.
I am finding a lot to read about the pain, damage, dishonesty, greed and cruelty surrounding adoption.

am I a mother? I do not know. What do other mothers say? Could I feel more strongly about the person I call my son? Another unanswerable question. Guessing yes. And then no. My heart swells and swells. Thank you to those who gave me a kid to care for.

twenty four years ago my husband and I joyfully, beyond measure!, transported a beautiful baby from the airport to our home. I believed then and believe now that we were not replacing the people who created, birthed and, – must have, how could they not have – loved this child. I believed then and believe now that no one can be loved too much.

perhaps adoptive parents are a small piece of collateral damage. Hanging on so tight, letting go so loose, loving hard and expecting so little. Probably, for me, expecting too much.

was it wrong, what we did? More and more I wonder. A sandwich analogy seems frivolous. On the other hand, food is sustenance, as is love. We loved and love him so much, this person who is not ours or mine or anyone’s other than his own. Open-faced it is. We did our best to lay a foundation with hopes he would fly, open faced, open.

Leberkase. How have we not met?

Literally “liver cheese”, at least in name. What IS it? Oh, it’s like headcheese, the cheese part being a descriptor only, not a dairy thing.

The German Gourmet, right here in Falls Church, Virginia, has a sandwich featuring leberkase, thinly sliced. A house dressing!

Am I the last to know? That’s just it with sandwiches: intrigue, mystery sauces, and parts literally unknown. Up the wazoo.

Muenchener – Thinly sliced leberkase, smoked Gouda cheese, sauerkraut, tomato and a house dressing on German rye bread…..$8.25

Thank you, Mike Rhode at ComicsDC.

Hear, help or hug? This toaster conveys the trifecta of super-communicating.

I am still thinking of Emitt Rhodes and still spinning his record, spinning his songs into the still air of our home. “You must live till you die. You must feel to be alive.” Which begs all sorts of questions concerning semantics. What is it to feel? How does one define being alive? Sentience, what is it good for? Absolutely something!

For whom does the bread toast? It toasts for thee. Sandwich people (everyone!), whether one feels the need to make toast for oneself or a toast steward, aka cook, is dispatched, for love or money, to do it for you, it toasts for thee. Toast, the Maillard effect, the warming, browning, transformational process of heat waves on plant sugars is the kickstarter, catalyst, miracle of cooking.

I feel it. The bread feels it. The toaster basks in sentient satisfaction and the triple hit of generosity – anticipating the act, the toasting itself, then reflection on toast buttered, or not, and eaten with gezellig.