Birth
of An Adoptive Mother
Birth of An Adoptive Mother
by Amy/Freshly-Squeezed  In the mall recently, a woman stops me as I push my daughters in a
double stroller. Oh, they're so sweet," she says, leaning down to smile at them.
"Wow! Your older one really looks like you!"
I thank her and we make small talk. It's only later that I contemplate what she has said: My older daughter looks like me. That is both miraculous and amazing. You see, my older daughter didn't grow inside me. I didn't labor and give birth to her - not in the flesh, anyway. Sometimes, days go by and I never remember that fact - I'm so busy mothering her, that I forget how it was that I became her mother. Sometimes, it doesn't even seem possible that I didn't give birth to her: Is there anyone that I know better in this world? I know her scent, her fears, her infectious giggle, her big blue eyes - deeper than the bluest ocean. I know her love of macaroni and cheese and Cinderella. I know how to comfort her, I'm learning how to raise her. I have all the joys and all the qualms that any mother has. In many ways, I became a mother the way every woman does: I prayed for a child and I was struck with fear when I realized she was really coming. I bought a crib and I folded and refolded baby blankets, wondering what she would be like, what she would look like. I worried that I wasn't ready to be a mother; I was awed at the fact that I was going to be one, regardless. I talked for hours with family and friends about my hopes and dreams and trepidation about this baby. Like any mother, I really had no idea what to expect - I had no idea how my life would change, or how much I'd fall in love with my brand new daughter. Unlike other mothers, I received news of my baby's impending birth from a phone call, not from the first pangs of labor. I did cry throughout her birth - not from physical pain but from a joy and a rawness so real that I still can't quite name it. I have never been so amazed nor so terrified in all my life. I've also never been quite so thankful to anyone as I was, and will always be, to Emma's birthmother. Thank you, thank you, a million times - thank you. Words will never express my gratitude nor my respect for you. Two years later, I was making my way through my second labor, this time, from the physical end. I was exhausted and despairing as time dragged and my pain intensified. The nurses implored me to try a little more, push a little harder. I remember sobbing that I wanted to see my daughter. "You're going to see her," They said. "As soon as you push her out!". "No, I want to see my older daughter," I remember sobbing. And suddenly, I realized that was exactly what I needed: I needed her with me, to see that she wasn't forgotten, I was, and would ALWAYS be her mother, no matter how many children emerged from my womb. They prettied me up a little and brought her to me briefly - just the feel of her chubby little hand in mine gave me the peace and motivation I needed to bring her baby sister into this world. Gestation is about biology; motherhood most distinctively is not. I thank God that I was given the chance to know this firsthand. |
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