And the questions begin

We have always been very open with Providence about her adoption, and as she gets older we've added more to the story based on the questions she asks and what we think she's ready to understand. In the last year we've begun telling her a little bit about her birthmother (who we simply refer to as Miss Jacquelyn so as not to confuse P.J with the term "mother" or "mom"). Going through the adoption process for Justice was so helpful as P.J got to witness things firsthand and connect the dots to her own story. Since Justice's birth P.J has been asking much more detailed questions about Jacquelyn and her own adoption.

So last week as I was walking by P.J's room, nearly an hour after she'd gone to bed, I heard her say, "My friend at school said that having a baby in your belly is what makes you a mommy." I stopped and turned on my heels, took a deep breath, and sat at her bedside. God is so good and He comes through for me every time I get thrown these curveballs. I had to explain to my daughter that night that just having a baby in your belly is not what makes you a mommy. P.J had already begun asking me several times a week just how she got IN and then OUT of Jacquelyn's belly, so I knew it was on her mind, but I'd never had to explain that Jacquelyn wasn't really her "mommy," before. It was tough to explain, but I was able to help P.J understand that even though Jacquelyn carried her in her belly for 9 whole months, when P.J was born, Jacquelyn just wasn't ready to be a mommy, because she knew she couldn't give P.J everything a baby needed, and THAT is what a mommy does. So she asked ME to be P.J's mommy for her. We talked about all the ways that I'm P.J's mommy, even though I've never had a baby in my belly. It was a good conversation and I feel P.J had a good understanding of things when I left her room.

I came downstairs and began telling Zach about the conversation, and I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. It was the first time when I felt a little out of control. P.J was told something at school that wasn't necessarily untrue, but it is where P.J's story is concerned. She is different than nearly all of her friends in that she didn't grow in her Mommy's belly. An innocent conversation among preschoolers led to a lengthy conversation at home about how P.J came to be, and how it wasn't the same as her friends. At the age of 3 1/2, this is not a big deal. P.J knows her adoption is what makes her special and that God chose her to be our daughter. She knows she's the answer to years of prayers, and she knows without a doubt that WE are her Mommy & Daddy. She is not insecure about this in any way….yet. But it was hard for me to know that already, at her age, that what she's being told at home is being "challenged" by her friends at school. That she will be told things and asked things her whole young life by kids who just assume that she's a biological child like they are, and may not understand how beautiful and amazing her adoption story is.

That was just the beginning, because tonight, again as I was walking past her room way after her bedtime, P.J asked to see pictures of Jacquelyn. (We have several that we keep in the back of P.J's baby book, and she's seen them several times before.) I was tired and I wanted P.J to go to sleep, but I decided that I never want to decline when she asks about Jacquelyn or her adoption. I want her to know it's an open subject at all times and that she never has to worry about asking me anything. So I came in, turned her bedroom light on and grabbed her baby book from the closet. We spread Jacquelyn's pictures out on the bed and P.J fired question after question. I shared more about Jacquelyn with P.J tonight than I ever have. We talked about what Jacquelyn looked like, where she worked, what her hobbies were, and for the first time ever, P.J asked about the man that Jacquelyn made a baby with. It was hard for me to tell my daughter that we don't know anything about him, what he looks like, or his name. We talked about how God tells us that only a man and woman who are married should make a baby together, and why Jacquelyn wasn't married, and why Zach and I have never made a baby together even though we're married. We talked about how we found out about P.J and Jacquelyn and who took care of her until we got to the hospital. Every time I thought we were done, P.J would ask, "Mommy, can I ask you another question about Jacquelyn?"

Whew. It was a lot, but I'm confident in the answers I gave her because I felt the Lord providing me with words quickly and concisely, and I watched P.J's face light up and receive every word with assurance. Especially when I told her about the "happy tears" we cried when we met her for the first time because we'd been so sad and so brokenhearted for a long time, praying for God to bring us a baby. She asked me if we stopped praying once we got her, and she got the biggest grin on her face when I said, "No, we kept praying, but we prayed thanks to God for putting you in our family." But the best part (and also the most emotional part), was when I pulled P.J onto my lap and said, "Can I tell you one more thing about Jacquelyn? She was SO brave, and she loved you SO much. Do you know how I know that? Because she saw how beautiful you were and she made a hard choice. She chose to give you to a family who could take care of you. She knew it was better for you to have a Mommy and Daddy who would love you and take care of you forever. We thank God for Jacquelyn every day, because she gave us you."I've never seen my kid look more confident and loved than she did after hearing that.

So many emotions swirling in my heart tonight, but the main one is thankfulness…overwhelming thankfulness to the woman who handed over her role as "Mommy" to me and trusted me and Zach with the most beautiful little girl, the most courageous and selfless thing she will ever do. 

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child

I found this via a Facebook post last May and have been meaning to share it on our blog. I could have written it myself it's so perfectly worded. To those who've ever wondered how it's different for me to be an adoptive mom, please read. 

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 them.

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 follow-up 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 yours.

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 spaces 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 the shower.

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 that it is the other way around.

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 whose loss would be like the loss of yourself.