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Heart of an almost adoptive parent.

 
 
It is a strange thing to be an almost parent to a child.  When you are in the adoption process, you fall in love with a child you have never met.  Even those who have not identified a child, fall in love with the child who is out there, and then a strange thing happens.  You become a parent…but not. 
 
I wrote this yesterday:
 
 
As I am sitting I am feeling and thinking deep thoughts.  Somewhere out there, my little girl is being put to bed.  She is being guided to the tiny little cot lined side by side to those of other children.  Her head is swollen and distinctly different from the children around her.  The pressure of the fluid and swelling from her hematoma are constantly jumbling her thoughts and cognition, slowly stealing tiny pieces of her brain, precious cells that contribute to her personality.  It must be so confusing to be put to bed in confusion.  She doesn’t talk, she can’t yet walk, but she is alive and full of light.  Does anyone see her light?
 
Who is putting her to bed?
 
Are they snuggling her as they change her diaper, does she get smothered in kisses and prayed over?
 
Is she hungry?
 
Does she hurt?
 
My heart is aching, a piece of it is across the world.  Perhaps another woman’s heart is also aching.  Does she wonder the same things as I do?  Are we two women belonging to the same little heart?
 
I feel as though time cannot pass quickly enough for me to finally get to hold my girl.  I am in agony willing the seconds to pass by quickly, but also fighting for them to stay still just a moment longer.
 
I am fighting the clock to savor as much time as I can.  My babies HERE are growing before my eyes…to fast.  How can I ache to see her, to hold her, but also feel the pains of the clock racing at lightening speed, when I stare into the eyes of my three year old.
 
Wasn’t she just a baby cradled in a milk slumber within my arms?  My mind can’t call an image of that to my thoughts as quickly anymore.  Life has taken over and the moments have been whisked away from my easily retrieved memories.  Life has taken up each minute of the day with the never ending task of mothering.
 
I don’t want it to end.
 
Will it be like this when Glory is here?  Will I remember to stop and soak in the joy of the chaos and stress that comes with mothering?
 
Mothering is a verb.  It is the constant act of loving a child, physically, mentally, and emotionally. 
 
She has two mothers, but neither is tucking her into her little bed tonight.  I cannot wait to hold her tiny hand in mine, and watch her drift off to sleep.  Finally being mothered to the fullest action of the verb.  I cannot wait for her to feel loved. 
 
Adoption is tough.  My heart is most definitely in two different places.  While I cannot hold her yet, I can hold these little ones a little longer, and pray that they all feel mothered.

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