Tomorrow my sweet, funny, smart, and darling daughter turns 3. Three. THREE. Seriously, how did that happen? I can still feel her warm solid frame in my arms under the Ethiopian sun. Now she is almost always wiggle and twirl and skip and negotiation.
(When she asks me for something and I say 'no', her eyebrows go up and she talks really slow and loud, as if I only didn't understand and that's why I wouldn't agree to her demands. More on this later. You just may belly laugh.)
So tomorrow that happens and we have a day planned that starts with strawberries and hot cocoa and ends with doro wat and injera and will be fun and sparkly and perfect.
But tonight I just need to cry a little. (And write a little.) Because, for us adoption is full of toddler smiles, sticky fingers, sweet brown toes, a to-die-for-afro, sibling squabbles, buckling car seats, and time outs (or time ins). It's just normal stuff, really. But under the layer of normal, crazy life, there is a current of what it is to parent a child who did not start out in our arms. Our 3 bigger kids have a minute by minute story, "Then your daddy I and drove to the hospital. I squeezed his hand and said. . . " or, "And then I heard your first cries and it reminded me of a baby sheep." And tomorrow we celebrate Rebeka's birth and it IS a celebration, but it's also a very real, very poignant, and very BIG reminder of what she's lost. She doesn't get a minute by minute story. She gets almost no story for the first 3 months of her life. And she also doesn't get the person who brought her into this world. Big time loss people.
I know that she has all of us, and she is a happy, whole girl for sure. Please don't try to tell me all the ways she and we are fortunate. We are. We are all blessed beyond measure because of and in spite of adoption. But tonight, I'm just going to pray. I'm going to pray for her mama, who may or may not be thinking of Rebeka's minute by minute story. I'm going to pray for Rebeka, for the day when she realizes the greatness of her loss. I'm going to pray for us, that we can be the parents Rebeka will need us to be. And I'm going to cry a little too.
(When she asks me for something and I say 'no', her eyebrows go up and she talks really slow and loud, as if I only didn't understand and that's why I wouldn't agree to her demands. More on this later. You just may belly laugh.)
So tomorrow that happens and we have a day planned that starts with strawberries and hot cocoa and ends with doro wat and injera and will be fun and sparkly and perfect.
But tonight I just need to cry a little. (And write a little.) Because, for us adoption is full of toddler smiles, sticky fingers, sweet brown toes, a to-die-for-afro, sibling squabbles, buckling car seats, and time outs (or time ins). It's just normal stuff, really. But under the layer of normal, crazy life, there is a current of what it is to parent a child who did not start out in our arms. Our 3 bigger kids have a minute by minute story, "Then your daddy I and drove to the hospital. I squeezed his hand and said. . . " or, "And then I heard your first cries and it reminded me of a baby sheep." And tomorrow we celebrate Rebeka's birth and it IS a celebration, but it's also a very real, very poignant, and very BIG reminder of what she's lost. She doesn't get a minute by minute story. She gets almost no story for the first 3 months of her life. And she also doesn't get the person who brought her into this world. Big time loss people.
I know that she has all of us, and she is a happy, whole girl for sure. Please don't try to tell me all the ways she and we are fortunate. We are. We are all blessed beyond measure because of and in spite of adoption. But tonight, I'm just going to pray. I'm going to pray for her mama, who may or may not be thinking of Rebeka's minute by minute story. I'm going to pray for Rebeka, for the day when she realizes the greatness of her loss. I'm going to pray for us, that we can be the parents Rebeka will need us to be. And I'm going to cry a little too.
4 comments:
I totally get it, Sarri. Birthdays bring a lot of happy/sad feelings over here too.
It's a smart thing you are doing, giving that loss some room to be, instead of believing it to be nulled somehow. Having happy times doesn't erase the hard stuff, and I bet she will be grateful to you one day for allowing the loss and pain to be a part of all the love.
Hugs to you, Sarri! And happy birthday to Rebeka! I totally get what you're saying here.
Just read this post. You have such a gift for words. You really do paint a picture. Thanks for all you share. :)
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