Every birth mother has the birth moment...I have this.
Our first sight of them was through an orphanage window. The windows stretched from floor to ceiling, divided into squares of old glass, so when the subject you watched moved towards the edge of the square, it distorted. Rick and I sat nervously in a sitting room with strangers, who were watching us closely. Holding hands from tallest to smallest and walking against the bitter cold of a Polish winter, they formed a vision of what orphans look like in movies. Bundled in enormous snow jackets, faces hidden by hoods, we strained to glimpse their little faces. Rick and I glanced at one another, making excited and nervous faces at one another, but quickly looking back at our boys.
They walked past the deserted playground. Past a few swings and a faded plastic jungle gym that was obviously not strong enough for the seventy-eight orphans who clamored on it during their outdoor play. Virgin Mary stood tall and gray in the middle of the courtyard; her hands reached out to a surprisingly vibrant garden at her feet. The nun crossed herself as she passed and I said a silent prayer to the Mother of Grace. Never finding the patron saint of adoption, I adopted the Virgin, since she also became a mother unconventionally. Maya, a protective yellow lab, cheerfully followed the bundled boys and the briskly moving nun, then looked quite reproachful when the door shut her out in the cold.
Raucous boy-noise ensued as Sister Director hustled and expedited the shedding of their winter apparel. They issued excited yells and fast moving conversation that amplified against the dignified walls of the convent.
Rick squeezed my hand, “Are you ready?” In that moment, the answer was no. I wonder if this is how mothers in labor feel, ready to start pushing. Ready, but scared of the pain. Ready, but aware that something could still go wrong. Ready, but scared we aren’t.
I replied, “Ready.”
Owen and Austin gave us a big hug and grabbed our offerings of stuffed animals with delight. Squealing and immediately running to the nuns, proudly touting their new possessions. The youngest stood in front of us, with gigantic tears rolling down his face. He just stood there. Not sure of what to do, so he simply cried. Not making a sound when he cried; only slowly falling tears, big like Texas raindrops.
The nuns urged him vocally to give mama and “tata” a “bushee.” He couldn’t step forward; his tears were all his body could give at that moment. I held out his teddy bear for him; he grabbed it and buried his face in the bear’s belly. It was the first time I felt inadequate as a mother. If I had known how often I would feel this way, I may not have worried so much, but that feeling stayed at the bottom of my stomach all day.
Recent Comments