THE SIMPLE TRUTH OF ADOPTION

In all the praise and joy and celebration of this amazing journey and gift of adoption, there is a hidden side of grief and loss that lingers. Always. Ebbing and flowing around milestones and memories, firsts and anniversaries. 

We celebrate. Oh yes, how we celebrate. With cupcakes and steamers and candles and balloons. I go all out for every little thing. The first call about her. The first time we met, first day home. The first time she called me "mommy." Adoption day. Everything. Because we have traveled long, all three of us, and we have suffered great losses and rejections and been left behind. We have traversed "The System" and come out alive and together. We celebrate because we made it. Because she deserves it, always. Because we have all, all three of us, been through the wringer and some days just need frosting and balloons, if only to celebrate the simple act of getting out of bed.

And in every celebration there it is, faint yet unmistakeable. Haunting, hovering, whisking through every moment, more strongly at times. Grief. Loss. Sorrow. And I'm not saying it's a bad thing. I'm not saying I wish it away. I'm not saying I loathe it and wish we would, she would, "get over it" or forget. It's there. It's the quiet, silent truth of adoption: there is loss and grief. 

Grief and loss always precedes adoption.

I'm not her first mother. Or her second. Or her fourth. There is a long line of women who have come before me. Nursed. Comforted. Rocked. Kissed. Held. Cared for. Fed. Loved my child. They have given her life. Named her. Witnessed her first steps, her first words. They have taught her her very first lessons. 

I could go on about how I weep for this loss of mine. I will never see her crawl or wobble on her newly walking feet. I probably will not know the answers to her questions when older, "what was my first word? My favorite baby food? When did I get my first tooth?" Those firsts and memorable moments will never be shared between us.  I could tell you more about that and in my struggle I have been selfish in that way. I have cried over what I have lost. 

But she has lost so much more.

She is not with the mother who carried her under her own beating heart for ten months, who labored with her, who held her tight in the first moments of life, who named her. For known and unknown reasons, this relationship is changed, lost to the way it was meant to be. There  is great loss in that. For both of them, for the entire birth family. 

She is not with the mother who cared for her in her grief and confusion in the first days of foster care placement. Who comforted her and held her as she learned about her new life. She is not with the mother who heard her first words, who watched her walk then run, who cheered her on in small victories. She is not with the mother who taught her colors and counting and the Alphabet  Song.

There are women who, while we celebrate amazing milestones, miss her greatly. And I wonder how much she really does miss them.

These women, all of them, have contributed in immeasurable ways to the little amazing person she is today. We are indebted, grateful, and so thankful for each one of them. Her birth mom who gave her life, her beautiful eyes, and her name, who is half of her. The foster families who cared for her while she waited for the next stage of her journey. And the last foster family who cared for her as if she was their very own. There are no words that aptly speak my appreciation, love, the happy tears of my heart. 

She has been loved for,  cared for. She has attached to these women, called them Mommy. To her, they were her mommy through and through. And to all these women, and families, she has said goodbye. Not even that most of the time -- one day there and the next, not. I don't pretend to know what that feels like for her, for them, what that will feel like in 10 years, 15 or 20 years. I don't pretend to know the immense amount of loss, and courage and bravery it takes to lose multiple mothers in her short little life, and still smile with joy. I just know something was great lost and mourn with her. 

There is loss in adoption. It's a simple truth. We celebrate. With abandon. And there are small moments of sorrow. It ebbs and flows. Maybe one month it is only a faint memory and the next we can see she is struggling. I know this will continue, my prayer is that she knows in her core she does belong here, she was wanted, she is loved. She was chosen. She is precious.

But more than knowing that we love her, I pray she knows the Father loves her. 

And this is the beauty of our faith, of the work of the cross. In this together, we all have lost. We all have been lost. We are separated and we know we don't belong. And that is the wonderful work of grace and our salvation -- by His blood we are found, made new, adopted into His family, we belong and nothing can separate us. My prayer for her, for all our children to come, is that above all else in this world they find and know their identity in Christ. 

I only wish I could communicate this better in the very moment of sorrow, to family members and friends. Sometimes we need alone time. Sometimes she acts out from fear or sadness. Sometimes she needs an extra squeeze. Sometimes she does not want to be touched. We talk about her "belly mama" and I know she will eventually have the tough questions. We talk about her foster family, again the tough questions will come. And we try our best to allow her space to share these feelings of grief, of missing friends and things she loves, of being frustrated, upset , and sad. 

And we celebrate the triumphs. The little victories. The simple special moments. 
We celebrate our family. 

Happy Early Birthday, Honey Bea. 
I hope in all the missing you feel, you know your life has brought so much joy and light to ours.