When I was asked if I liked kids, I’d reply, “It depends on how they’re cooked!”
 
However, that was before children. Not surprisingly, after I had some, I changed my tune. I discovered an 'acquired taste' that I’ve cultivated since 1985. It’s comparable to my fondness for stinky cheese and a 2003 Aussie Shiraz. Yes, I wish I’d stumbled upon motherhood, earlier. I would’ve been popping out babies quicker than my Irish Catholic cousins.
 
Perceived as an unlikely candidate for motherhood, I lacked domestic and nurturing skills. I’d spent considerable time in Never, Never Land, sailing around like a kite without a tail. In my free-spirited youth, I embraced the 60s as an activist. I was rebellious, independent, opinionated, pro-choice, anti-war, and agnostic. I had my fair share of adventures, too.
 
The truth is, I was afraid to have children. I was convinced that risky behavior during my 'experimental years' had damaged my gene pool. If I had kids, they’d be born with two heads. God’s wrath would rain down upon my arrogant self. She would humble me through my offspring. She did. The miracle and wonderment of motherhood brought me to my knees.
 
So, why was I dragging my feet until the ripe old age of 36 to start my family? You can’t clap with one hand and I simply couldn’t find the perfect man to father my children. When I finally met Mister Right, he was short, dark, handsome, and already had two kids. I embraced him, his children and a rich cultural background, that contrasted deeply with my own, rather ‘bland’ pedigree. I hadn’t noticed the subtleties of our interracial union, until we had our babies. Even then, the distinction had to be pointed out to me. It was. Usually, by strangers.
 
The day after the delivery of my first son, I felt that biracial barb 'sting' my mocha heart. A crisp nurse entered my hospital room. She was bringing my beautiful, baby boy to breastfeed. A puzzled look furrowed her brow. She quickly sized me up: fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes and incongruent with the bundle of butterscotch baby that she was holding in her arms. Faster than she could say, “Oops, WRONG BABY,” I flew out of bed. “Wait! That IS my baby!” I declared emphatically, as I thrust my wrist in her face. “Check our name bands. Look! We match!”
 
"I AM the mother,” “this IS my child,” and “I have the stretch marks to prove it!” That became my mission and my mantra.

Countless times, I would publicly assert with my rebel yell, “They’re mine!” Countless times, I’d register the reaction of surprise and thinly veiled disdain. Don’t people know that my kids resemble their father? Don’t they know that brown eyes are predominantly the only iris color in many populations? Can’t they see that I’m their mother even if I don’t look like her?
 
I’ll never forget my first trip to India to visit my husband’s village in Goa. My kids were going to meet their grandmother for the first time. I packed a full array of Power Rangers, binkies, bankies, bubbas and dappers for the 22 hour flight. The kids were snug as bugs and buckled into their seats next to me. They were playing quietly with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Suddenly, young John, launched the green action figures tumbling into the aisle. A vigilant (and perturbed) flight attendant immediately swooped down to retrieve Michelangelo, Leonardo, Rafael and Donatello. Handing the Ninjas over to John she instructed my children, “Go back to your seats with your mother!” Bewildered, my kids looked at me. I explained. “Well, I AM the mother of these kids.…but, NOT of those,” referring to the green, mutant turtle tikes.
 
When the children entered schools, our lives were suddenly impacted with structure and societal expectations that pushed our boundaries. Our new challenge would be to bubble in ‘race.’ Given the confines of the categories that would define us…we couldn’t! Biracial children are suddenly confronted with an identity crisis in trying to embody racial groups that are categorized separately under the American system. What do you tell your young child when questions are initiated about skin color? “Mommy, how come I look different than you?”
 
Basically, children assimilate biracial identity in several phases. 1) each parent projects their singular racial profile upon the child; 2) the child is conflicted when making a choice of being of one or the other; 3) this issue may be confounded when the parents do not agree upon what is to become the chosen identity; 4) society challenges the identity that is accepted by the child and the parents.

There were tears. One afternoon, I was picking up Baby Julian after kindergarten. I had already detected the rain cloud that had gathered above his head. He climbed into the truck and started bleating like a lamb, “Maaaa…Maaaa…the kids said that you’re not my…. Maaaa.” “What makes you think so?” I inquired gently as I collected him into my arms. “I don’t look like you…Maaaa.” I had totally forgotten.
 
I had to think fast. “Show me your bellybutton,” I asked. He lifted up his T-shirt to locate his navel. “Now, look at mine,” I said. “See? I’m definitely your mommy. Look! We match!” Distraction worked with ‘Shock and Awe.’ I watched as the rainbow smile transformed his stormy face into sunshine. We drove home and spent the remainder of the afternoon pouring over his baby pictures. The photographs enabled him to visualize his birth and dispel the thoughts of doubt that flooded his mind. This helped him validate my mommy-ness. Thank goodness for those Kodak moments.
 
At school, my children were marginalized by demographics and data collection assessments that offered limited options. ‘Hodgepodge,’ not being one of them. My kids hounded me with their questions. “What ARE we, mommy? Daddy lived in Kenya, are we African American? What IS Caucasian? Are we too brown to be white? Are we Indians? If we’re Indians, how can we be Asians? Aren’t Chinese Asians? We don’t look Chinese. Teacher said we’re ‘Other.’ What other? Aren’t we Americans?”
 
I suppressed my gut reaction, “you are what you eat.” Instead, I lay the blame squarely upon my husband. This is his fault. Ask Daddy! He is a Goan. Goa is a Portuguese colony in India. ‘Indian’ would seem logical, and that’s captured in the ‘Asian’ category. But, just like him to muddy the waters, my husband, with his Portuguese birth certificate. The Goan culture is a seamless blend of ethnic and Portuguese traditions. That said, it begs the question, then, are we ‘white?’ The United States Air Force labels my husband ‘white.’ They should know, they gave him wings. Let the debates begin.
 
America is a brave new world for children of multicultural unions. I wish I’d been better prepared as a woman and a mother to raise ‘ambiguous’ children. How could we bridge the racial divide when the lines were so blurred? Grappling with their identity taught me the importance of not being willing to give up a piece of yourself, in the process of conforming to the societal constraints that would define us.
 
Circa 1994, during a brief moment of clarity, I finally resolved our identity crisis, once and for all, “We’re Californians!” That registered with them and they were delighted. No more 'Goan Crazy!' They turned out better than my best batch of brownies and I couldn’t care less if the numbers got skewed during the collection of demographic data.
 
September 2007, my youngest son started college at UCI. I have another one at UCSD and two more that are married with children. These days when I take inventory at the homestead, I come up with pets - 5 dogs, 4 cats, 1 bird, 1 fish, and my husband. Empty nest…sort of. I look forward to weekends and holidays. That’s when the college boys come home, primarily to eat something hot besides Rammen. They bring their friends. They gridlock the laundry room and put plenty of spin on my washer and dryer. They make me laugh. They make me cry. I miss them when they leave.
 
At this stage in life, knowing what I know now, I wish I’d had more kids.
 
Cook them ‘well done,’ please.