I read this letter from one adoptive mom to others, and I HAD to share it!! I hope you are as blessed by it as I am. I can relate to this so well up until this point... I know many more hard times are to come.
Here is the link to the original post
Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,
I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met
you at my son’s school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met
you by accident.
It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize
the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about
what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy.
You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.
Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was
the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just
be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply
wasn’t in God’s plans for you to have a child, this child whose
hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about
what happened to their cousin’s neighbor’s friend. Maybe you ignored
Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into
your lap. Maybe you depleted your life-savings for it. Maybe it was not
your first choice. But maybe it was.
Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?
I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone
reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes, but the
extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk
banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive
delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax
and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.
I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit
reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes, so
many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The
hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and
whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.
I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.
I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to
cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because,
well, these things fall through, you know.
Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it
to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby’s room, buy
a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and
held it to your cheek every night.
I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked
and bleeding, from cleaning every square inch of your home the night
before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your
mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.
And I know about the followup visits, when you hadn’t slept in three
weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show
that you had it all together, even though you were back to working
more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family
and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.
And I’ve seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in
dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand
what’s being promised and what’s not. Struggling to offer your love to a
little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting,
loving, flying, nesting, coming home.
I’ve seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born,
trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that’s emerging. I’ve
seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she
doesn’t have to go through with this. I’ve seen you trying so hard to
give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in
those moments—while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing
if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an
abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time.
Not knowing so much.
I’ve seen you look down into a newborn infant’s eyes, wondering if
he’s really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense
long enough to give yourself over completely.
And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night.
His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against
I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.
I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the
judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath
maybe you didn’t even know you were holding for months. Months.
I’ve seen you meet your child’s birthparents and
grandparents weeks or years down the road. I’ve seen you share your
child with strangers who have his nose, his smile … people who love him
because he’s one of them. I’ve seen you hold him in the evenings after
those visits, when he’s shaken and confused and really just wants a
stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.
I’ve seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project
from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so
that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes
or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child
from a lot of things — but you can’t protect him from being different in
a world so intent on celebrating sameness.
I’ve seen you at the doctor’s office, filling out medical histories,
leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little blanks don’t turn into
big problems later on.
I’ve seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that
have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how
come, mama? How come?
I’ve seen you wonder how you’ll react the first time you hear the
dreaded, “You’re not my real mom.” And I’ve seen you smile softly in the
face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock
yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of
I’ve seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is
lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being it is the other
But most of all, I want you to know that I’ve seen you look into your
child’s eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own
eyes there, you see something that’s just as powerful: A reflection of
your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst
of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like