ONE YEAR LATER: a birth story of sorts

I had imagined a delivery room, nurses and doctors, a beautiful agonizing birth story to share with friends and family for all time. I imagined my love standing with me, cheering me on, and maybe others with us, looking on, worry and joy mingled on their faces. I imagined a screaming squirming baby placed on my chest. Whispering the perfect name plucked out right for her. I imagined kissing and hugging and cuddling. I imagined so much for our first meeting. The first time I see those piercing beautiful eyes.

.     .     .     .     .

We drove through the night. My heart pounding hard, counting time. Excitement. Nerves. Disbelief. Elation. Anxiety. All the feels in every beat, in every breath. Both of us praying in unison without words, groans and sighs and whimpers and nervous smiles. 

796 miles. 12 hours. We drove out of the frozen woods into the warm plains. We drove out of darkness into light. Out of unknowing to the sweet face of our brave girl. 

On this day one year ago, February 18 2014, we met our daughter for the first very first time.

Our story is quite different than anything I had imagined, even with the added adoption twist. My girl was almost three and had been living with foster families for nearly two years. 

When we arrived at the DHS building we were a mess. We only had time to drop our things at the hotel and change our clothes. My husband and I stood in line to sign in. I was using all my energy to focus on my breathing, trying desperately not to pass out or have an anxiety attack. I imagine one might liken this to Lamaze breathing, right there in line. 

Then he touched my elbow then nodded to his right. Sitting on the chair next to the line was this beautiful, amazing, sweet, wonderful face. This incredible little girl whom we had been praying for, dreaming about, longing for, wanting, loving was sitting right there. I squeezed the good man's hand tight to keep myself from folding right then and there. We've known her and loved her, even without a picture or a word about her for months on end. She had been a part of our family since the first call about her. Every major decision we'd made for the past two years included her. And finally, she's right here, part of my beating heart walking around outside of me. And I can't scoop her up. I can't hold her and kiss her and hug her. I know my girl. But she doesn't know me. 

Soon we were shown to a play area where she was waiting. The door opened and she looked our way. Everything fell away. All the hours driving and the worry of getting here to this moment, the fundraising, the paper work, the roadblocks. Gone. Only us and our sweet brave girl. 

She said, "Hi." 

The heavens gave way and the angels did sing and God smiled. 

For in this moment we were, all three of us, finally in the same room. Our delivery room. All delivered from so much, into much much more. 

God is all about adoption. The salvation story, the good news, really is a story of adoption. And if you remember one thing about adoption let it be this: God will let nothing get in the way of bringing children home. 

Our story is rather backward. And there is so much beauty in the backward. My girl called me Jenna for the first six months we knew each other. I, on the other hand, distinctly remember being 6 years old and wondering what my mom's first name was, having just occurred to me it couldn't be Mom. We had to ease into life together, walking a tight rope between too much affection to scare her and not enough to show her our love. She already formed much of her personality, a whole life history which was a huge mystery to us, life experiences we may never know or understand. She had a name. A beautiful name chosen by another. In some ways these things we missed out on, her first years, naming her, nursing her, bring incredible sorrow. But I realize that it's selfish of me. I want those things for me. And by meeting her not as a baby but a child we get to allow her to be herself, to be who she was created to be. I didn't have to pick a name that spoke volumes of my dreams for her and her personality in the very beginning moments of life, she was already named and lovely. I think, I hope, she feels some freedom in that. 

After being home for about six weeks she started calling me Mama Bear and I died. No sweeter words were ever heard. I jumped and sang and we celebrated long.

It's true. Our story is different and unique. 

But really, I got everything I had imagined.

Our phone call was our positive pregnancy test. We were expecting. 
A picture sent by email from DHS was our sonogram photo. Our baby girl.
And 10 months or 40 weeks after meeting her for the first time {did you catch that crazy "coincidence"?} our family grew by one.

This is the beautiful agonizing story to share over a lifetime.
The good man did hold my hand while I breathed deep and pushed through.
And we were surrounded by friends and family as we made it to the end, long labor reaching the final moments, relief. We sat in our living room (I always wanted a home birth), all family huddled together holding our breath in the weight of this moment. We watched the judge sign the most important papers in our history together -- our girl was ours, forever and always -- and cheered loud.

And the most beautiful surprising part for me -- her birth certificate. It states she was ours from the very beginning. Born to us. Somehow magically we were together before we met. Meant to be. 

I wouldn't change our story for anything. I wouldn't change MY story either.

Nine years of infertility is brutal. I lost bits and pieces of myself along the way. I became unrecognizable for a time, an empty womb, an empty shell. And then...the holes left by bits lost were filled with new joy and life and hope. And somehow I made it back. I climbed out of the valley and found myself again. There had been times I asked why, wondered what the point of it was. I questioned God and doubted His plan. I screamed at the sky and dared Him to prove. And I won't lie, I had asked them a lot even in the midst of the adoption process. 

It has been one year today that this brave beautiful girl has changed my life. I cannot imagine it any other way. The road to this moment one year ago was hard. The road to one year later was hard too, in different ways for sure. But I know now there was purpose behind the chaos. Reason behind the hurt. There was a grand plan, far more than I could have asked or imagined, underneath what I saw as mess. I felt like a failure after leaving grad school, so much so that I nearly lost contact with all my friends there. Ashamed I quit. And now I know there was a purpose behind it. Had we stayed in Denver we probably would not have been able to bring her home. And there's more: If not for infertility and our broken state, would we have been open to adoption like we were? Would we have been available and willing? Would we have had the empty space in our hearts and home for her to fill perfectly? I can't say. And I really don't want to think about it. 

Here and now, these moments are my dream come true.