Sunday, April 17, 2011
I've been thinking a lot about my kids' first moms. The ones who carried them around for nine or ten months. The ones who labored through the delivery and who heard their first cries. The ones who held their own breath while waiting to make sure their children took theirs. I was with Casey's birth mother when he was born. I know her graciousness. Her kind heart. Her true selflessness in making a decision I know was so very difficult for her because she believed, as his mother, it was the best thing for him. And, as I'm sure Casey will do as he gets older, I mourn her. I know that if she survived and were as lucky as I am to know him now, she would be as enchanted by him as we are. I mourn the loss of Marcie and Tate's birthmothers, too. I think about them from time to time. Of course I don't know their stories. I didn't play cards with them in the hospital while they were experiencing contractions. I didn't get to hold their hands while they were laboring. And I didn't experience their pain and loss as they said good-bye to their children. But I imagine that they felt it. And I wish they could know that whatever led them to make the choices they made, their children-- our children-- are doing just fine. This evening Jason and I were watching the kids play together. Casey had left the room to shower and put on his pajamas, and when he returned Tate squealed and kicked his feet, a testament to pure joy he must feel when he sees Casey after an absence. When I see these exchanges, it is so clear to me that Tate could not love Casey more. He was meant to be part of our family. We worried for a brief period of time before bringing him home that Tate wouldn't get as much attention because he's a third child. But we were wrong. Love truly multiplies.
Posted by Karen at 6:28 AM