That was fine as long as I lived in Ecuador and was surrounded by people who looked like me and my theory was seldom put to the test. When I moved to the USA and I became the "person of color" in the eyes of society, I began to think about this very differently. Suddenly, I did not think it was so polite when people pretended not to see my color. Most acted surprised and generally embarrassed when I referred to myself as Hispanic, and all but said: "My, I didn't notice until you mentioned it!" It was actually kind of funny to watch.

But having people notice my race became important to me. Being Hispanic is something I'm proud of. Being Hispanic means I come from a people who speak Spanish, who are generally loud and usually emotive, who are deeply loyal to family, who are warm and embracing. And my skin color, well, that is the outer cover of that complex and rich culture. So, when people would tell me they were color-blind, I wanted to say: "Don't be! I'm proud of being brown and I want you to notice. My color links me to a family I left behind and miss terribly. If you don't see my color, you don't see them!" But I was too conscious of the delicate, politically correct nuances of a society I had just begun to understand.

When I became an adoptive mother, however, this idea of color-blindness was, once again, in the forefront of my mind. This time, however, I had a more precious subject to both educate and protect from misplaced political correctness: my two black children. I started to notice that people would lower their voice to a whisper if they had to describe someone with the word "black." It was as if they noticed race but would not say it out loud lest someone know that they noticed.

But children know nothing of this concept. They just see what they see and they say what is on their minds. They are honest that way! So rather than teach our children to love and accept everyone in spite of their color, we have sought to teach them to love everyone and to celebrate, acknowledge, and respect their color and all that comes attached to it.

I'm learning I have to walk the walk, so to speak. One afternoon, Isabel was having an online class with a group of other homeschooled students and a teacher. In these classes, students are just a name on the computer. They interact with the teacher by microphone or by typing their responses; there is no video component. The teacher posted two pictures of basketball players, one dunking the ball and the other one dribbling. She asked the kids to tell her similarities between the two of them. Six-year-old Isabel told me she wanted to tell the teacher that both players were chocolate (she started using food words to describe race when she was three and still enjoys describing people as chocolate, cheese, coffee, and so on). And I panicked. The teacher is black and my first thought was to worry that, never having seen Isabel and not knowing that Isabel herself is black, the teacher would think that we make people's color a big deal in our house.

And then I caught myself. We do! We talk about how beautiful our different hues are. We talk about how Isabel and Noah's deep brown skin is so pretty and how my coffee-colored skin is pretty, too. We talk about how God made each of us just the color we need to be and how it is so amazing and wonderful that we have a family where each person is beautiful in their own unique way. We celebrate color. We buy dolls of different skin tones, we buy books where characters are not homogenous. We put our hands together to look and "ooh" and "aaah" over our individual skin tones, and we talk about our friends who have blonde or red hair, green or black eyes, brown or black skin, and everything in between. We have a blast discussing God's creative palette!

We also talk about the culture that comes along with color. We talk about Hispanic traditions and we visit my home country of Ecuador so Isabel and Noah can understand what my color means to me. We talk about African-American traditions and we visit with black friends who help me to show Isabel and Noah people of all walks and professions who look like them. We care for their hair in traditional ways and we surround them with books and art and music that highlight black artists. And we do the same for my husband's European background.

So, Isabel's noticing the two players' color had nothing to do with lack of political correctness and everything to do with her noticing the beauty with which they were colored. I want my child to be proud not only of the color of her skin but also of all that it means to be black. And, no, it's not an insult to use that word, so please don't whisper it.

However, about a year ago, I started following a couple of great adoptive momma bloggers who are gurus when it comes to African-American hair care: Keep Me Curly, and Chocolate Hair/Vanilla Care. With tips and encouragement from those communities, I decided to try a process called "shingling," in which you apply product to wet hair in layers, then let it air dry freely. The results are breathtaking, and Isabel looked so pretty with what she calls her "wild" hair.

At first, though, she was uncertain about her look. She had not seen herself with an afro since she was a baby, and she could not remember what it looked like. She felt it was too big. She worried she looked silly and she was concerned about going out to run errands with me. As I pinned a bow to her tresses I tried to encourage her, telling her how beautiful her hair is and how it is designed to be styled in afros or cornrows. I reminded her that my hair cannot effectively hold either style, so her hair was special and created just for her. Finally, I told her we would look around together and find other black people wearing afros, so she could see not only how pretty they look but also that other people enjoy their natural hair.

She was excited and we were lucky to find a woman in the first store we entered who was sporting a short, yet full, afro. Isabel pointed and smiled and I winked at her from across the aisle. But that was that. Sadly, we were unable to find anyone else. Everywhere we went, little girls had their hair in braids and older women had hair that had been chemically straightened. Moreover, we kept getting good wishes on detangling the hair later – and what seemed to be looks of pity or concern -- from black moms.

Isabel noticed a display of boxes of chemical straighteners and asked me why black women want to do that to their hair. I told her that many women feel that keeping their hair or their children's straight is easier because natural hair requires a lot of care (as she knows very well!). I explained that everyone has different beliefs, and some people feel like they are more attractive if their hair is straight. I told her that, while there is not a right or a wrong way to feel about hair, I would not straighten her hair for two reasons: because the chemicals can cause damage to the hair; and because I feel that her hair is a big part of who she is, part of her ethnic background, part of what makes her beautiful and unique, and I would not alter it until she was old and informed enough to make that decision herself.

In her excitement about shopping, Isabel, thankfully, forgot to look for other afros for the rest of our outing. I noticed, though, and was disappointed. While we did see plenty of children with styled natural hair out and about, we didn't see many adults with it, and we didn't see any hair "out." The next day at church, an older African-American friend of mine commented on how beautiful Isabel looked and how soft her hair felt. She told me she had never felt such a soft afro and asked what I put in it. She mentioned, off handedly, that for most women of her generation, seeing a child with an afro meant the mother did not know how to style the hair, but that she knew this was not the case with us. Then I began to understand our experience around town the day before.

Joining the two communities I mentioned before has turned me into an advocate for natural hair. The number of people who follow natural hair-care websites has grown exponentially since we adopted Isabel and I began styling her hair. Even more interesting, a number of those joining in are black moms of black children. I have at least two African-American friends who are making the transition from straighteners back to natural hair, and many others who are thinking about it seriously.

Knowing all this, I had expected to see many more afros in the stores than we saw. I'm not sure why exactly. I think, for me, that would have been a clear sign that times are changing. But I have to remember that I live in a small town in the South. Change happens in waves, and it seems to start in larger cities. It will trickle down to us. Who knows? Maybe our family can get something started.

And yet coming home can be bittersweet. In my country, formal adoption is not the norm and transracial adoption is even rarer. Because our children were transracially adopted, we have to deal with being a conspicuous family in a culture where it's common to ask questions that would be considered the epitome of rudeness in the U.S. This can make for some painful and uncomfortable moments.

One weekend during this summer's trip we found ourselves surrounded by children during a puppet presentation in a park in Quito, my city of birth. As Isabel and Noah stood in line with the other children to receive candy and gifts, a woman approached them to ask their name. As I do any time I see a stranger approach my children, I quickly moved closer to show that we're together. The woman looked at me and said:

"Are they yours?"

"Yes!" I replied, forcing a smile, yet knowing what would come next.

"No, they are not!" she insisted, as I figured she would.

We went back and forth a few times before she realized that the tall, white man next to me was my husband. This caused her even more confusion, because I continued to insist the kids were ours without further explanation. I never rush to explain that Isabel and Noah were adopted. I simply say that, yes, they are mine, because they are and I feel I owe no explanations to strangers. Adoption does not define my children. It is part of what makes them who they are, but they are so much more than "adopted children." They are first and foremost our son and daughter. I kept my smile and my cool until she said:

"You are a liar!"

By that point Isabel and Noah had received their candy, and I was finished with this conversation, so I grabbed my children's hands and began to walk away. She called after me:

"The color does not match!"

Because Isabel is now six years old and Noah is five, I knew they could understand the conversation. I felt the need to reply rather than ignore, so I said:

"One's sons and daughters are not just biological, ma'am."

At this point the woman's face lit up in a huge smile of understanding and she replied:

"Well, that is true!"

During our two weeks in Ecuador, I found myself repeating this last statement about the nature of family many times over. I had at least three or four similar conversations and I always ended them with that phrase: a family doesn't have to be made biologically. Invariably there was a smile of comprehension in the face of my questioner as if, all of a sudden, a light came on. Loving a child not born to you seems to be a concept that can be universally understood; many people who have never experienced adoption nevertheless feel a deep love for a godchild, a close friend's child, a niece or a nephew.

As painfully frustrating as these conversations were, I gained a deeper understanding of how to discuss adoption with people who have never experienced it, and whose main concern is that they feel they could not love a child not born to them. After all, don't we love our spouses, our in-laws, our stepparents, and other family and non-family members who are not biologically related to us? Humans have a great capacity to love, and being reminded of this capacity brings those we meet one step closer to understanding adoption.

"He's coming! Hurry, run!"

"Ahh…run! The monster's coming!"

I was half listening to my conversation and half processing this game when I realized that the "monster" they were all fleeing was my four-year-old son, Noah. It looked innocent enough, but I noticed that some were using his name:

"Run away, Noah is coming!"

As any concerned parent, I wanted to make sure that my son was a willing participant and that he was not being shunned by the other children. I caught Noah as he ran past me and asked: "Baby, do you like being the monster?" He nodded, smiled at me, and ran away, growling and making paws of his hands. OK, no harm done. He obviously did not think anything of being the monster they all avoided and was enjoying the role. I silently prayed, as I watched, that he would always have that innocent, open outlook.

When I reflected back on the events of the day, I realized that what happened was natural. Noah is usually the youngest, he enjoys chasing other children while growling, and he doesn't get his feelings hurt easily. What a better combination to be nominated monster of the game? But I am, by my own admission, hypersensitive to my children's future struggles because their situation is, in so many ways, unique. They were adopted into a multiracial, multicultural, multilingual family.

When I taught high school, I used to do an activity to raise awareness among my students about the ugliness of stereotypes. We would openly discuss the origin and validity of stereotypes they had heard, or even believed at one point, about people of other races. I loved how open and honest the kids were, and I always felt that, at the end of the hour, we all walked away better informed and more compassionate.

One of the questions I would ask is how many of them had ever been followed in a store by a security guard, had noticed people crossing the street if they saw them coming, or had, in any other way, been made aware that people feared them or didn't trust them. Invariably, it would be my males of color (black and Hispanic) who would raise their hand. Every now and then I would have females of color raise their hands, as well. I would then tell them that I was followed in a JCPenney when I was in high school. Many of the kids who would raise their hands were straight "A" students, good kids who did not get in trouble. Others were kids who looked rough but had hearts of gold. Usually, they expressed dismay and hurt at being distrusted.

I'm not going to get into the reasons behind this phenomenon. But, lately, the voices of my students have begun to hit very close to home. I started to think about how cute Noah is. He has always been. When he was a baby, people would stop on the street to fuss over him. He has a dimpled smile, big brown eyes, and a winning disposition. As he grows, however, he will turn from a cute little boy to an ugly-duckling elementary school child to an awkward, moody, teenager. And not just any teenager -- a black teenage-boy. I wonder if the same people who flirt with him in the grocery store now will clutch their purses a little tighter when they see him coming 10 years from now. My sweet, compassionate boy, a threat? It is a hard pill to swallow, and yet it may just be his reality in a few years. This is not a rant against society or an attempt at making any kind of social commentary. These are just the ponderings of a wistful mother.

The other week my six-year-old daughter, Isabel, came crying to me because one of her friends had told her they were no longer friends. My heart broke with hers, but I knew what to say and how to console her: Friends may be mean, they may have a bad day, they may be grumpy. She understood; she has been grumpy herself, she has been mean to others before. But, when teenage Noah comes to me, hurt because someone played "monster" with him and he was an unwilling participant, what can I say to mend his heart? How will I explain that one? 

How do I thank the woman who changed my life twice by giving me such precious gifts that I can never repay? I don't think the word to express what I feel toward her has been invented. It is so much more than gratitude, or admiration, or even indebtedness. I am a mother because she is not and I am reminded of her sacrifice every time I look at my children.

One of the things we had to consider while going through the process of adoption is how open we wanted our relationship with the birthparents to be. The spectrum is wide, from no contact whatsoever, to visits in your home or theirs several times a year. We thought about this long and hard, and chose our place on the spectrum carefully and prayerfully. But, in the end, the decision was made for us by the kids' birthmom.

For whatever reason, she chose not to have contact with our children. I cannot judge her. What do I know? I've never been in her shoes. I choose to believe that she felt her pain would be a little easier if she didn't know them or see them. Perhaps she had never heard of open adoption and didn't know she had another option. I do know in my heart that it was not the heartless act of a careless mother. From what I know of her situation, an adoption plan was a courageous choice, meant to give her children a life she knew she could not. That's a woman who loves her children in my book.

But adoption, as happy an event as it can be, is not all rainbows and butterflies. In adoption there is loss and, believe me, my husband and I are the ones who suffered the least. Yes, we mourned the loss of the biological children that never were, but in the end we are parents. We have these two amazing beings who fill our lives with laughter and joy.

On another side of the adoption triad is a woman who walked into a hospital pregnant walked out with empty arms, back to real-life, minus baby. On the final side of the triad are two children who are loved by their parents, but who are left with lots of painful questions that may never receive answers, and that become deeper and more thoughtful as they get older.

Isabel began asking such questions early on. The one I dread most is: Why didn't she want me? Now, I know that's not true, but how do you explain that to a little girl?

There are seasons when the questions cease for a while, and then there are seasons when it seems like adoption is all that's on her mind.

A few days ago she came to me and said:

-Mami, I saw a picture of S. holding me as a baby!

-No, Baby, we don't have a picture of S. holding you, I replied.

-But, Mami, I saw it on the computer screen!, she insisted.

Our screen saver is an ongoing slide show of family photos. I realized she had seen a picture of her foster mom holding her the day they placed her in our arms. It made me smile because her foster mom is white and Isabel is black. My little girl still does not associate families by color, as do most children at her age. This is not unusual, given that there are five families formed through transracial adoption among our close friends.

-Baby, that is not S. That is a lady who took care of you when you were little.

-Oh. Well, where is S.?

-I don't know, Baby.

-Where does she live?

-I don't know, Sweetheart.

-Oh.

Then off to play she went.

Isabel had never before expressed a desire to see her birthmom or to know where she lives. But I know these are shadows of things to come. How I wish I could provide her with a picture. How I wish I could see a picture. I want to know where she got her big brown eyes and her beautiful mouth. More than anything, I know the feeling of belonging that I experience when I look at my own mom and see the family resemblance.

There is loss in adoption, and the mirror is a constant reminder. Isabel and Noah are blessed to have one another: They look like each other, they have that connection. Many adoptees do not and we can't minimize the importance of family resemblance. Matt's family has strong genes. There is the Johnson's mouth, the Johnson's hair, the Johnson's you-name-it. When they discuss the cousins' traits I ache for my kids who will never be part of that conversation.

No matter where I was on the openness spectrum of adoption before, I have now become an advocate for the open end. What child would not benefit from more people his or her life who loves his and cherishes him?

There are lots of misunderstandings about open adoption out there, and they mostly come from a place of lack of knowledge. Yes, there are situations in which a relationship with the child's birthmother may not be best. But when this is not the case, I now believe that the decision about how open to make the adoption should be considered carefully, with research, and with the child's best interest in mind.

Since we did not have that choice, I can only pray daily for S. and tell my children what I know about her, making sure they always know the difficult choice she made for them and how much love, pain, and selflessness is involved in that choice.

*Dear S., if you are out there, I hope someday we meet face to face. I want to thank you in person for the way you changed my life and introduce you to the two incredible human beings you brought forth.*

This need to categorize our family also appears to include understanding why we chose to adopt children of a different race. We have been asked all kind of questions on the subject. We've been asked if we were trying to take a social stand against racism. We've been asked if we preferred black children to white or Hispanic children. We've been asked if we could not "get one" who "looked like you." We've been asked if we thought we would wait less time if we chose a child of color. We've even been asked if our children were "cheaper," which always bothers me.

The truth is we did not choose to adopt a child of color. We simply chose to adopt a child. Race and gender were of no concern to us. In fact, when our social worker asked us if we had a preference we looked at her as if she had grown another head. We felt that a child in need of a home is a child in need of a home. We are not heroes, we are not trying to make a political statement. We were not looking for a "deal." We just wanted to be parents.

To be perfectly honest, there are adoption agencies that give people a financial break if they are willing to adopt children of color, but our agency does not; that was one of the reasons we chose it. We also knew that, if we were open to a child of any race, we would probably be matched more quickly and had a higher chance of being called about an African-American or biracial child. At the time, our agency had more African-American children available for adoption than families that were open to adopting them. And so we checked the box: "no preference" and let the chips fall where they would.

I realize and respect the fact that there are people who do specify gender, race, and age. I believe each family must make those decisions for themselves. This is simply our journey through the process of making adoption decisions.

In fairness to the child, however, we knew it was important that we make an educated decision. We would not have brought a baby of another race into our family if we knew that friends and family members would never accept him or her. The primary concern our loved ones held was the risk of raising children who would be confused about their place in the world, not feeling as if they belonged to one race or the other. We understood that concern and we made a commitment to our children and to each other that we would learn about their culture and raise them to understand and appreciate their ethnic background. We would not raise them as if they were just like us, but we would become a multicultural family that lived and moved comfortably in three cultures and two languages.

For us this has meant learning to care for Isabel's hair at home, finding ballet studios and team sport venues with a diverse group of children, seeking to form relationships with people of various races, homeschooling our children to raise them to be bilingual, talking about racial differences, and even finding a church that has a good number of transracial adoptees of all ages. We did not choose to adopt children of color but we were chosen to adopt them, and, because of it, our lives have become richer and fuller.

After we adopted domestically and began to introduce Isabel to our friends, one of the first questions Caucasian moms would ask me was: "What are you going to do about her hair?" This question was usually accompanied by big, wide eyes and a shake of the head full of sympathy and pity. To most women who are not black, the hairstyles we see gracing the heads of small black girls seem complicated and daunting. I admit that the thought of caring for an African-American girl used to terrify me when we began the transracial adoption process. I was completely ignorant of all things related to black hair until Isabel came into our lives and, with her, her head of thick, curly, gorgeous locks.