My desire has always been to adopt a child. As long as I can remember I have envisioned building a family through adoption. It simply feels natural to find a child who needed parents and to be a parent who wanted a child—and to bring together those two needs/desires for both parties. Not as a charity. Not as a service project. Not as a cultural experience. But as a way of experiencing family through the eyes of Christ. Jesus has modeled for us the ultimate family portrait—a collection of people from all walks, bound together through charged commitment rather than through genetics.
My desire has always been to be pregnant. As long as I can remember I have envisioned building a family through birthing a child. Growing baby bellies have long fascinated me; and the idea of having a wee little human taking form inside of me felt magical. I’ve wondered what it would feel like to sense that movement inside of me and experience such fierce, rewarding pain. I’ve listened to the stories of seasoned birth mothers for years with bated breath, anxious to know my own pregnancy story. I’ve felt blessed to be in the delivery room with friends, witnessing that mystical moment of their babies being born. Pregnancy felt like the thing that would eventually happen that would launch me into womanhood and better connect me to my gender.
I have had two strong—incredibly strong—desires as long as I can remember. They are not one in the same; they are two completely different entities. They stem from different places in my brain and heart. Adoption was not a “Plan B” when I could not have a biological child because it was always my other “Plan A.” But even now I am still coming to grips with the fact that one of my desires will never happen. And it is crushing. Still. So many well-intentioned people have made comments about how you, Noemi, must erase all of the heartache—that it must not matter that I didn’t have a pregnancy now that I have you. That completely misses the point for me. I understand that that is some people’s story—but it has never been mine.
Sometimes I wish that I had birthed you. I wish that for me—so that I could have had that experience of feeling you give me heartburn and kick me in the ribs until it hurt. So that I could have felt you on my chest moments after your first breath. I wish that for you--so that you knew my voice and smell and touch from day one; and that you did not have to be explicitly and painstakingly taught to trust any of it. It would have erased the devastating loss that you have already been through in your short little life to have been with and stayed with one mother.
But if I had birthed you, I never would have found delight in having a family that makes the world smaller. I never would have learned about your people so intimately and tasted their sunny resilience. I would not have the hopeful story that brought us together; and I would certainly not be nearly as dang strong as I am now. I am a better mother for having gone through what it took to bring you home. You are sweeter for it.
Sosina, August, 2009, EthiopiaTonight, I wrestle with the wondering. In some ways the wondering feels like a betrayal of the story that is uniquely ours as a mother-daughter duo. I wish that I could take away the suffering that resulted in you becoming mine. Oh, how I wish that I had not been the recipient of such love having been born of great tragedy. Oh, how I wish that I had not missed out on so much of you.
So forgive me when I tear up at unexpected moments: When you are relaxed enough to allow me to softly trace the contour of your face. When I am surrounded by women, recounting their labor and delivery stories. When you turn your face toward my neck to fall asleep for the first time. When another dear friend's belly beautifully grows before my eyes. When I remember clutching you as I walked the dusty streets of Dire Dawa, Ethiopia.
