Fifteen days

It’s close now, so close and your spirit is beginning to find it’s place amongst ours.  Slowly but surely we slide your furniture into it’s place in your new brother’s room.  And then, at a time when I am so overwhelmed that I am spinning, I slowly search through online bedding to find the one that speaks to me, then I spare no expense as I purchase it.  Why? I don’t know why.  It’s like who you are is revealing itself to me, one aspect at a time. And when I recognize you I just want to hold on forever.

I shop for your clothes at a snails pace.  Friends who offer to help are rebuffed because I need this time.  Each and every item I pick out from your toothbrush to your backpack to your boxer briefs, must tell this one story: the story that you are loved, and your are ours.

When your face prints out on your travel documents, a face from several years ago when your papers first started their journey into the “adoptable” system in China, I am hit afresh by a new wave of wonder.  Little you, so small, so vulnerable, completely alone in a land of 1.3 billion, have somehow made your way to us.  The things you have been through awe me and grieve me, the journey you have made to become our son . . . well I wish you never had to make that journey.  And yet. And yet.  You are so loved, you are so wanted, you are so chosen.  We are so glad you will be ours.

This is the paradox of adoption.  It is a process of the greatest of grief and the deepest of joy.  To walk this journey with you means to enter both those emotions, and so many more in between.

And now, I have entered the labor daze. That place in the birthing when everything stills and quiets around me.  When it doesn’t matter if the room is bright or dark, when I can’t even hear who’s talking.   It’s just you, me, and this process of bringing forth life from potential.   It’s a peaceful place.  A place of expectant trust.  There is nothing else to do but hold on and moan and cry and trust that those around me won’t let this pain tear me apart. And after, after, comes the moment when you will slide into our lives, when your physical self will manifest itself to us for the very first time.  When you will learn to breath, and cry and yes, laugh in our world.   The moment when I first bathe you, when I take in the smells of you, the smells I have never smelled before.

I’m about to make you mine.  You will never be less hers.  You’re just adding a mama, not losing one at all.

Let’s do this, my son.

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