The Light at the End of the Tunnel

Emilia's adoptive mom and I had coffee the other night-- no kids, just us ladies. Truthfully, I was a little stressed going in to it as these meetings are typically super high-emotion (duh) and this proved true, but in a very very good way. We each kept saying things that the other was feeling too (always nice to know you're on the same page) and talked about how the puzzle is complete now that we're together. I respect this woman so incredibly much; she's an amazing mother, friend, wife. She always follows her heart and doesn't let the negativity of the world around keep her from this. Sure, she has flaws and makes some mistakes, but what I admire most is her ability to admit this and talk about whatever issue arises. She's taught me to talk about how I'm feeling which not only strengthened our relationship, but my relationships with all my friends and family. She fills a missing piece in my life no one else could, and I believe will all my heart we were destined to be family. She not only adopted my daughter, but also me and has accepted me into her family with undeniable grace, love, and humility. While giving my daughter a home, I got a family as well-- another set of parents (though I love my own deeply- Mom, Dad: don't be offended you, could never be replaced), a little sister who lights up my life with her brilliant 6-year-old mind, and two ridiculous cats. The greatest thing anyone has said to me is when Emilia's dad told me I was not a guest in their home- I was family. I thank God, in all His mysterious wisdom, for bring us together and saving my life.

Adoption.

When will I be able to get off this rollercoaster? I'm getting nauseous. The ride isn't fun anymore. Seriously.






Oh yeah, never.

Basically.

Basically I just miss Emilia like crazy but then I look at pictures her mom posts on FB and I almost don't recognize her. Like she doesn't feel like my baby anymore. Like this little girl that I'm missing and feeling completely broken about doesn't really exist anymore. So what's the point.

Family

As I prepare to move southward for school, I spent nearly all day, three days in a row, visiting Emilia and her family. While it's incredibly hard to say goodbye for now, those three days were some of the happiest I've had. I got to see Emilia walk eight steps by herself. I got to put on a lemonade stand with her big sister. And I got to simply be a part of their family, feel exceptionally loved, and know (as I always have) they were meant to be part of my family forever.

Baby Steps.

19-august-2011

            My daughter took her first steps today. It's hard to convey a cohesive explanation for how that feels to a birth-mom. I did not get the overwhelming joy of witnessing these first feeble attempts at bipedal movement, but heard of it second hand via text [let me not minimize the amazingness of hearing about it at all-- I know many birth-moms are not so lucky and I am whole-heartedly grateful for these small windows into my sweet baby girls life]. Some most easily grasp the excitement of the situation. Other may grasp theoretically the idea of the pain and loss incorporated. But no one, aside from another birth-parent, can truly know the confusingly overwhelming swirl of emotions that occur upon hearing big news like this, which Emilia's birth-father aptly described as "disorienting". It hits you like a sucker-punch to the gut and as you lay gasping on the ground all you can think is how badly you ache to see that little person, to whom you gave life and how proud you are that they're growing up, yet simultaneously re-realizing they are not your child.

           Over the last few months, things in my world of adoption have miraculously switched from significant stress, sadness, and emotional chasms, to one of free-flowing love, respect, and a happiness I could never dreamed of a year ago-- a transformation I can only attribute to the Lord and the way He works in both my and the adoptive mothers hearts. To be able to watch my little girl develop, smile, laugh, play with her big sister; to see how undeniably loved and happy she is; rates higher than any gift I have or will receive.

             If you asked me a week ago how the adoption was going, I would have said something like "great! I love the time I get to spend with Emilia and her family, but I'm also learning to love the time we spend apart and be happy in my own life. The pieces of my heart seem to be repositioning themselves back to their original place in my chest and slowly returning to working order. I'm looking forward to going away to school next month, and even though I know I will miss Emilia, I'll still see her relatively frequently and I think that's enough now". As I'm writing tonight that's all still true, I just didn't realize my heart pieces are still a little bruised and there are still days (like today) where they seem to scatter all over again.

            Just like Emilia slowly learning to walk, I'm slowly learning to find my new normal; my new happiness. She and I can stumble our way through this chapter of life-- sometimes falling a little, sometimes a lot; sometimes picking ourselves up, sometimes needing a little help and a hug. Each day our legs will grow stronger beneath us and we'll fall less and less until one day we will run side by side-- smiles on our faces and love in our hearts and know without a doubt, we not only survived, we conquered.

In an alternate universe...

Despite my certainty in my adoption choice, my mind can't help but wander to what might've been. In that alternate universe where I chose to raise Emilia, she wouldn't have stranger anxiety around my parents. She would know them and love them even at one year old. I know she will know and love them eventually it's just heart-breaking to see her shy away from them. Not only did I take her away from my arms, I took her away from theirs.  And sometimes that's too much to take.

Falling

I want to tell her everything I'm feeling. The lack of control. The complete anguish. The part of my heart that's missing because she's holding it in her arms, while my chest lays gaping and my arms empty. I want to tell her all this, but I can't. No one else can undertand the pain of this adoption better than her, but every joy for her is a pain for me. Every joy for me is a pain for her. If I say all these things that overflow from my heart, it will break hers. There's no way to communicate that even though this feeling nears the asymptote of unbearable, it doesn't mean I don't love her and think she's an amazing mom. It doesn't mean I think I made the wrong choice. I just means I'm falling apart.