Six months ago, you sat with me as I wept selfishly and I told you that I didn’t think that I was allowed to feel. I wasn’t allowed to feel any amount of joy or even anticipation at the impending birth of my son the following day. No one in my life was brave enough to support the feeling that I’d waited so long for – nearly ten years of heartache leading up to this. No one wanted to tell me to have shred of hope that I’d walk away from the drama that had only unfolded four weeks prior with a baby in my arms.
Most women get nine months to prepare for this day. I got ten years…or four weeks. Depending upon your perspective. I had the latter perspective that day. And I was scared to death. Scared to feel anything at all. Terrified of hope. In a place that I never dreamed that I would be.
Because no one in my life wanted me to hope. I do not to this day hold against anyone who has loved me and lived with me through my pain the protective mechanism that must have kicked immediately upon being “chosen” for the adoptive placement of an infant boy yet to be born…within just a few months of waiting, and a local placement no less. That NEVER happens. No one who loved me wanted me to be hurt. But that also meant that no one who loved me wanted me to have hope. Because hope breeds disappointment.
Happiness NEVER happens. Blissful rewards NEVER come our way. We are just destined to be painfully denied over and over and over again. We are destined to be hurt. We are destined to be on guard with who to share our deepest secret with. And the irony of it all is that our deepest secret is something so simple. “I want to be a mother.” It seems such an essential right of being a woman that so many of us take for granted that right of being normal. That feeling that we have waited for and longed for as long as we can remember. Because it has been ingrained in us from the beginning: little boys play with toy trucks and little girls play with dollies. Because girls become mothers. That’s just the cycle of life. The way it’s supposed to be. This is all decided from the moment of conception. Living it out is the hardest part.
So today, as I look into the wide, bright, and wondering eyes of my beautiful baby boy, I think of you, Whitney. When I see his smile (children smile an average of 400 times per day, by the way - - we could ALL learn a lesson from that), I think of you. You believed in me, and only you did. You reassured me the evening before his birth and you have supported me every day after, regardless of your own continued struggles. Because only you could have the right words to say, at the right time.
I can never thank you enough for believing in me. You have no idea the strength that I have drawn from that experience. It’s something I will never forget and if I can return one ounce of it back to you in terms of support, I would do it over and over again. As many times as it takes until you too are happy. Because you are my sister and I love you.
Most women get nine months to prepare for this day. I got ten years…or four weeks. Depending upon your perspective. I had the latter perspective that day. And I was scared to death. Scared to feel anything at all. Terrified of hope. In a place that I never dreamed that I would be.
Because no one in my life wanted me to hope. I do not to this day hold against anyone who has loved me and lived with me through my pain the protective mechanism that must have kicked immediately upon being “chosen” for the adoptive placement of an infant boy yet to be born…within just a few months of waiting, and a local placement no less. That NEVER happens. No one who loved me wanted me to be hurt. But that also meant that no one who loved me wanted me to have hope. Because hope breeds disappointment.
Happiness NEVER happens. Blissful rewards NEVER come our way. We are just destined to be painfully denied over and over and over again. We are destined to be hurt. We are destined to be on guard with who to share our deepest secret with. And the irony of it all is that our deepest secret is something so simple. “I want to be a mother.” It seems such an essential right of being a woman that so many of us take for granted that right of being normal. That feeling that we have waited for and longed for as long as we can remember. Because it has been ingrained in us from the beginning: little boys play with toy trucks and little girls play with dollies. Because girls become mothers. That’s just the cycle of life. The way it’s supposed to be. This is all decided from the moment of conception. Living it out is the hardest part.
So today, as I look into the wide, bright, and wondering eyes of my beautiful baby boy, I think of you, Whitney. When I see his smile (children smile an average of 400 times per day, by the way - - we could ALL learn a lesson from that), I think of you. You believed in me, and only you did. You reassured me the evening before his birth and you have supported me every day after, regardless of your own continued struggles. Because only you could have the right words to say, at the right time.
I can never thank you enough for believing in me. You have no idea the strength that I have drawn from that experience. It’s something I will never forget and if I can return one ounce of it back to you in terms of support, I would do it over and over again. As many times as it takes until you too are happy. Because you are my sister and I love you.
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