You're no longer Lo. You have a name outside of Little One. You have a birth date, and a birth story...because you're here. You exist beyond the pages of my letters to you.
You're flesh and bone, you're crying, laughing, jumping, full of life and personality and spirit and more love than I have ever experienced in my entire life.
You, my dear, are just simply amazing.
The past nearly six months have been a whirlwind, and I finally feel like I have my bearings to put into words the miracle and amazing experience we've just been through. I must admit however that I've been writing and rewriting this post in my head for months. I want it to be perfect. I want you to know just how much you mean to us, to know your full story and every detail as best as I can remember it all. This post will encompass some of it- but some details are for just us to talk about later. There might be some holes that I've left intentionally-because as with every good story, there are things that are just meant for us and our discussions later in life.
But we'll start with our side of the journey.
Where do I even begin? The last time I wrote to you was May 9th. I had no idea at that time, writing about the pitfalls of spending another Mothers day childless, that you would be in our arms within the month. Sometimes life is just funny like that...just when you think something may never happen, miracles happen.
And never mistake this my sweet one...you are nothing short of a miracle.
It was May 24th, 2013. Your Dad took off of work that day, because we were going camping for Memorial Day. We went to the Amish market in town, and I was really excited about two things that morning- they had cinnamon butter, and the traveling fair was in town which was such a beautiful signal of summer that was right around the corner. Little did I know those things would be absolutely dwarfed in comparison to where that day would actually take us.
Coming back from the market to our home, we got an email from the agency. It just said that an expectant Mom who had our profile wanted to talk with us- no other information. We were excited, but we tried to hold it back. After being hurt so much the past year in this journey we didn't want to get our hopes up. We knew no other information... our profile had been shown so many times, we weren't sure which expectant Mom this was. We called the social worker and she set up a call for that afternoon.
We packed up the car and hitched up the camper, and that afternoon on a state road in Pennsylvania, we made the call in to the social worker. Your Dad was so nervous his hands were shaking. For some reason, from the very start, I just had a sense of peace that is completely lacking in explanation. We talked with this wonderful woman and the social worker and answered a few questions, then the social worker said she'd call us back in a little bit. As we hung up, your Dad was in a full on panic. "What if I said something wrong? What if this is another one that doesn't work-", and I cut him off. "If it's meant to be, it's going to be. If not, it won't. It's as simple as that. We don't have any other information, so let's just enjoy this weekend."
You know me, sweet one. You know that this is not my usual self-- anyone who has read anything written from me to you knows that this is not my usual response. But for some reason, on this day, I was at peace. I was calm.
After that call we had more information- including your gender. We knew then that you were a girl.
About five minutes from the campground, we pull into a gas station to fill up the tank. My parents were driving in front of us, and they stop and get out as well. I tell my mom that we had a call with an expectant Mom, and she's excited- but she knows the drill. Hold onto hope, but not too tightly on this rollercoaster of adoption. We pile back into the car, and the second I get in and shut the door the phone vibrates- the social workers number flashing on my screen. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest.
We answer...
And we're told that we've been chosen.
And, by the way, she's due in four days.
You're due in four days.
My heart drops....what do we do? Is this really happening?? Is it real this time?
Your Dad and I looked at each other- and we both just break into tears. This is different. This one feels different. This is happening, this is now.
What do we do? Turn around and go home? We're five minutes away from the campground...since there are a million details that need to be worked out, we do the only thing we know to do- we drive on. Once we pull into the campground and lumber out of the car, we can barely stand up. I take the dogs over to the enclosed dog park where my Mom is standing with her dogs- I yell to her to go get Dad. They both come over, and I look them in the face with tears streaming down my face, and I ask them if they're ready to be Grandparents again. They are both beyond elated, and soon had tears of joy running down their faces.
The rest of that day feels like a haze- I felt like I was walking around in a giant fog. Everything was a mess for camping- our electricity in the camper didn't work, our pop up tent blew away, it was windy and freezing and the coldest Memorial day on record in recent history. But none of it mattered. All I had my mind on was you, all I could think of was you. I could barely sleep that night.
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The next morning your Aunt Sarah, Uncle David and cousins came to the campground. I'm on the phone all day working things out with the agency, the social worker, lawyers. The day flies by. We get news that they think your first Mom is going into labor, but it's not certain yet- so stay put. We follow directions.
I remember your cousins playing in Grandma and Grandpas camper. I remember noticing how happy and carefree they were, when on the inside I was terrified. I wondered if the next camping trip would be with you- but before I could even think about it, I shooed the thought away and focused back on the practical things. I made lists for what we'd need to pick up from home, what we'd have to buy and pack. In my mind, I just kept thinking that we had more time- you weren't due until the following week.
Then we got the call that changed our lives- it was time. We had to get to Florida as soon as possible. We checked flights the day before but because of it being a holiday weekend, most were booked or were too late. We knew we'd have to drive. I started hyperventilating-- how were we going to pull this off? How would we get there in time? And then it hit me- there is no way we're getting there in time for the birth. We were going to miss it. And then a whole new thought hit me- your first Mom wanted me in the room with her for the birth. I didn't want her to feel alone because we weren't there. I started bawling, shaking with worry and excitement and a feeling I wish words could explain, but in this instance they fail. I've never felt like that before in my life, and I doubt I ever will. It's a once in a lifetime kind of emotion, the first of many that weekend.
The entire family jumped into action while I stood there frozen in that feeling. Aunt Sarah packed up bags of food for the road, Grandma and Grandpa and your Dad and Uncle Mike and Aunt Kelly and your cousins all packed up our camper, cleaned out our car and popped down our pop up faster than I've ever seen. And when Grandma and Aunt Sarah and Aunt Kelly were done what they could do, they carried me. They gave me strength. They talked me down off the ledge. They held my hand and hugged me tight and told me it would all be alright, no matter what happens on this journey, it was all going to be okay. Nothing can compare to the support they gave me in those moments. They collectively picked my soul up from the fear, and lifted me up. They scooped up my anxiety and turned it into determination, and for that I am eternally grateful.
They say that all it takes is thirty seconds of insane courage in order to change your life. Getting in that car with our camper strapped on the back, our family waving goodbye and screaming out supportive words in the rear view, your Dad and I looked deep into each others eyes, grabbed each others hands and said, "Ready to do this?"
All it took was thirty seconds of insane courage, and it changed our lives forever.
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