If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you, Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

 

Oh sweet baby. Mothers Day is Sunday, and to say that I'm not taking it well is an understatement.

 

Part of me wants to scream.  I want to scream out to the world to get them to understand that this isn't right. How they can keep on moving when my world has been shattered so much? I want to scream until there isn't a single breath left in my lungs, until they sting with the energy I've expended and my words hang in the air for all to hear. I should be a Mom by now. It was my turn. It's been my turn so many times....and yet here I am, at this junction again- a childless Mother on Most Definitely Not a Mothers Day.

The part of me that doesn't want to scream wants to curl up into a ball and pretend this isn't happening. I was supposed to have not one, but two bouncing babies on my lap this year. This year was supposed to be different, it was supposed to be my first mothers day.

 

And to be honest, this holiday is not just full of sadness this year- but it's also full of fear.

The fear that I will never be a mother hangs over my head like a storm cloud following me around. It's the little voice whispering in my ear when I'm searching the greeting card aisle, taunting me, "will you ever get one of these cards?" It's the lump in my throat that chokes on the tears whenever I hear another pregnancy announcement or adoption match announcement, not because I'm not happy for them or excited, but because I wonder- again- if I will ever get to be in their shoes. Will I ever get to be a mother? Will I ever find you?

It's the disdain for every greeting card, every TV commercial, every restaurant promotion, every radio ad, every magazine cover... all of these reminders that I am not, in fact, not a mother. That I failed. That what has come so easy to so many others is still an every day battle for me. That I don't have my precious baby to spend this holiday with, that I am once again knocked down, because I let my hopes get so incredibly high.

 

It's the reminder that another year has passed without you here.

That hurts most of all.

 

I know that it will all be worth it. You mean more to me than any holiday, any time table and every heartache we've endured. I know that this is just part of the journey to get to that elusive finish line, that even if I cannot see it, I feel that it's there somewhere in the distance.

 

The other day I reread one of my most favorite poems, If by Rudyard Kipling. A lot of the words spoke to me now more than ever:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

 

Right now, there is nothing in me but the will to be your Mother. That is my will telling me to hold on, to not get caught up in the loss and get tired of waiting. I refuse to sink, because sinking means not getting to you- not being your mother. I refuse.

So I've been thinking of my own If's for this Mothers Day.

If I can wade through the greeting card aisle, and focus on the positives, like having my own mother and mother in law who support and love us every step of the way.  If I can hold my head up, and count my blessings. If I can believe, really believe that you'll be here soon. If I can pick myself up ten times after getting knocked down nine. If I can tie a knot and hold on with everything that is in me. If I can keep preparing, keeping moving in the direction of our dreams. If I can let myself feel that deep down, this waiting and heartache will end.  If I can let myself let go of the pain, let go of what was supposed to be and what isn't and prepare myself body and soul for the goodness that is coming down the road if I just keep on walking.

If I don't give up.

 

Then mine is the earth and everything that's in it,

And- which is true - that is you, my daughter or son! 

 

And if you're not here next year, I will just keep trying. I will never give up on you, on us being a family. I will push through all the hurt and pain and glaring reminders. I will silence that little voice of doubt in the back of my head, and replace the if's of doubt with the if's of reassurance.

 

I will be a mother. I will find you, sweet baby.

No if's, ands or buts.

 

Waiting for the earth and everything that's in it, 

With love and unwavering hope this Not Yet a Mothers Day,

Love,

Mom

 

 

You are not the momentary whim of a careless creator experimenting in the laboratory of life. . . You were made with a purpose.

 

 

Little One, we're only given this one life. Just one... and if there is one thing I want to teach you in this world, it's to find your purpose and appreciate everything in this beautiful journey we've been given. 

 

Appreciate the quiet calm of a sunset. Appreciate the purity of the air that fills your lungs and sends oxygen to your beautiful brain. Appreciate that brain of yours- marvel at the intricate, mysterious way it works without us even knowing how or why. Appreciate your sense of wonderment and your talents.

Appreciate waking up in the morning- even on the days when you've woken up on the wrong side of the bed, even on days you don't want to get out of bed...appreciate waking up. It's a luxury many see come to an end far too soon. 

 

Appreciate the bad time, for they are the shading on the bright focus of a picture. Without the bad, we wouldn't see the beauty in the good. I want you to believe that there is good in everyone, as hard as it is some days. I want you to see beauty in the darkest of places, because that is often where the beauty of life is hiding.

 

I want you to live. Really live. I want you to take the long way home, driving with the windows down as you feel the wind tickle your hair around your scalp, sending shivers down your spine.  I want you to see and do everything on your bucket list. I want you to try new things, even if they are scary or foreign. I want you to never stop learning, to want to know more always, to seek out the truth and meaning behind everything.

 

I want so very much for you, Lo.

 

I want you to have the best life possible. 

I want you to find your purpose, because once you do- you are really living.

 

My purpose is to be your Mom. 

My distinct feeling throughout this whole process has been just that... I was put on this earth to find you, to be your Momma. My purpose is to give you these things, to show you the beauty of this world and teach you everything I possible can....

And above all, my purpose is to love you. Sweet baby, I am going to love you in a way only a parent can- that fierce kind of love, the kind of love that would stop a freight train. That is my purpose in life. My purpose is to be a mother. 

 

But I know I am more than that. My purpose to be a mother was not accidental. My purpose to be a mother was set apart from the rest, because I  will be a mother through this miracle that is adoption. It's a purpose I don't take lightly, baby. It's a purpose I appreciate and try to learn from every day.

 

I will not know motherhood the way most women do. I will not know what it's like to feel the cold jelly of a sonogram machine on my stomach to find out your gender. I will not know what it's like to feel your kicks from the inside, or to hear your heartbeat for the first time. 

I will know motherhood in a completely different way. In what is possibly the coolest way. My motherhood will be so instant, and at the same time so gestational. I get to experience what most other Moms don't. I will get a call to know your gender. I will be able to hold you, this tiny person already formed,  whose soul I've been connected to for so very long, and get to know you in a way most mothers can't understand.

 

My purpose is to advocate for that amazing miracle. Once you're in our arms, adoption will still be ever present. It will be in our lives every day, in one way or another. It won't always be front and center but it will be part of the background scenery forever. My purpose is to be there for new adoptive mothers, to be a sounding board and help them through this scary process. I am so thankful for the brave women put in my journey so far to help guide me, that I want to give that back as much as possible. 

Once you've found your purpose in life, there is a fire lit from under you that cannot be extinguished until it's fulfilled. It's a drive that takes over you, body and soul, and consumes you. It's a beautiful energy that comes from nowhere. It's the will that tells you not to give up when you're exhausted from trying. It's the whisper in your ear telling you to keep on hoping after another failure. 

 

I appreciate the purpose. 

 

I don't know what your purpose will be, sweet baby. That is for you to find out... but just know your Dad and I will support you in the journey to find out, and we'll always be here patiently waiting to see what you find. We'll do everything we can to support you following your dreams. Maybe in thirty years when you look back and read this you'll think, "Really Mom? I was your purpose in life? Dream a little bigger next time.... I mean, I am going to be President*, and all you wanted to be was a Mom and adoption advocate?" (* or doctor, or lawyer, or sanitation specialist---again, that part is up to you!)

 

But then I'll look into the eyes of the beautiful child that I worked for five (or more) long years to bring into our lives, the one who appreciates life and learning and the pursuit of their own happiness... and I will smile and tell you how very worth it it was. 

 

I will always appreciate you. You are my purpose in life, and I will appreciate every breath that fills your lungs, and every thought in your amazing brain. 

 

Being your Mom is going to be the most amazing journey I've ever embarked on. 

 

I can't wait to fulfill my purpose.

 

With love and wind in my hair,

Love always and forever, sweet baby, 

 

Mom 

Confusion never stops, closing walls and ticking clocks. Gonna come back and take you home, I could not stop that you now know. Come out upon my seas, cursed missed opportunities....Am I a part of the cure? Or am I part of the disease?

Little one, it's been too long. I'm sorry about being MIA. I have not been MIA from this journey, just from writing to you. In fact, this journey taking so many twists and turns is the reason I haven't been writing to you.

Let me try to explain. 

Today marks one year since we've been on this journey. One year since that car ride with my mother, where I learned about the situation in New Jersey. One year since I frantically busted through the door when I got home, eager to tell your Dad about our new life plans. That night your Dad and I made the decision to adopt while our friends were waiting outside our house in their car for us to go bowling on a freezing January Friday night. One year since we couldn't stop smiling while continually bowling gutter balls because our mind was on you- and our friends asked us what was up with our game. 

One year since our lives changed forever.

But I'm not the same person, at all.

I'm not the same person I was one year and one day ago, either. That version of me was sad. Sullen. Heartbroken. Lost. Hurt. Confused. That person was overtaken by the grief of infertility with seemingly no way out. That person was bitter. She loathed going to happy bubbly baby showers. She would dig her heels in when going to family gatherings with children. Her heart sunk when she walked past a baby aisle in a store. 

I'm definitely not her anymore. 

But I'm also not who I was this time last year. I cannot be, because I've been through too much. I've seen too much, felt too much, talked to too many people and learned too much. I am not that hopeful person that looks at each new day as an exciting opportunity. I'm not that nervous girl frantically cleaning every crevice of her kitchen counter before her first homestudy visit. I'm not that woman who wished on stars and imagined that they could actually come true. 

 

I'm now the woman who has had five fall throughs in one year. I'm the person with all the failed matches. I'm the one who has spent countless nights this past year lying awake, wondering what went wrong. I'm no longer bitter about baby showers- I'm bitter about other peoples fast matches. I'm hurt, and a little broken. I've seen the dark, painful underbelly of adoption. 

 

One year to date and still, I'm the childless mother. I'm the one who has had so many women tell me I'm the one- only for them to drop off the face of the planet, or send an email mere hours later telling me they've gone a different way. I'm the one on the other end of the phone while a mother in crisis screams at me because I legally cannot pay her living expenses, and then threatens me with physical harm. I'm the one answering heavy breathing phone calls from sex offenders calling our adoption phone line in the middle of the night. I'm the one losing faith in humanity, in how much strength I once had, in myself. 

 

And yet sweet baby, I'm still your Mom.

 

I'm still the woman who has hope. 

A glimmer of unwavering faith.

Endless love and determination for you. 

 

I'm not going to say this past year has been easy. It just plain hasn't. There have been endless sobbing tears into a soaked pillow at three in the morning. Sleepless nights, lying awake wondering and hoping and wishing and praying for an answer, if you added them up I'm sure it would be a full two months of those nights.

And it's difficult, because with each fall through and scam we've experienced, a part of it feels like a miscarriage. Only it's not at all. Those babies are in homes, they are loved. But they have no idea about me- about the other way their life could have gone. They have no idea that before they were born, at one point in their lives they had a stranger who loved them. A mother who knew nothing of the features of their face, but held them in her heart and loved and cared about them mercilessly. 

And it's difficult to mourn these children who will still go on to have what I'm sure will be beautiful lives. In doing so, my grief is selfish- I'm only sad for myself. That isn't fair to them.

Adoption is not for the faint of heart, and I knew that going into this- but I also had no idea the year that would lie ahead. Despite this, it has been one of the best years of my life- because it's leading me to you. 

I think it's been so hard to write to you because unbeknownst to you, the idea of you just keeps changing. Throughout this year we've had so many names for you, so many names for your first mother. It feels endless. I feel like I'm failing you by not getting to the finish line. 

 

It takes a lot of strength for me to come back to the place where I need to be. I know that those babies weren't you. Those babies aren't our babies. Those little faces I've loved so much that I'll never see- they aren't the faces we were meant to love forever. 

And I can tell you this, sweet baby- it will be worth every. single. second. Every molecule of every single tear that has streaked my face for the past three hundred and sixty five days are worth all that you are and all that you'll be. You are so worth every heartache, every wrong turn, every misstep. You are worth a million days of walking through the desert without a drop of water. And sometimes, that is what this journey feels like. 

I have to keep reminding myself that one day- it won't feel like that anymore. 

One sweet, beautiful, incredible day- you will be placed in my arms. I will physically hold you. I will see your tiny nose and your soul through your eyes. I will rock you,sweep the whisps of hair from your forehead and cry a thousand tears of a joy so deep and meaningful- and you will forever be a part of who I am in a way that I can't even picture yet because it seems so far away. But I know one day, it won't be far away. One day, it will be THE day. 

And I'm not letting my heartache be the roadblock to that amazing day. 

I wish I could adequately put into words how much I love you, how much you mean to me. I wish I could explain the feeling in my heart when I think about being your mother- and the soul crushing fear that overcomes me when I fear that it will never happen. But I don't think there are enough words in the English dictionary to cover those emotions. They are far too deep. Just know this sweet little one- I am never, ever giving up. 

I am blessed by this journey. Though the road has been broken, it is the right road for us. It is the road we will keep traveling down until we reach you. No matter the pitfalls, the detours or the wrecks along the way- we won't stop until we reach you. But for that, I am thankful. I am grateful that I will never for one millisecond take for granted the gift it is to be your mother. I will study your amazing personality, I will stand in awe of your existence. Because I have seen what it takes to get a miracle, and the hard work that goes in behind the scenes. I will be a better mother because of everything we've been through. 

And it hasn't been all bad, either. This year has brought me some amazing gifts in the form of women I've talked to who are going to make (or already are) great mothers who've decided to parent. I've bet first mothers who have placed, who I've connected with in the kind of grief only those in the adoption triad understand. I'm leaving this year with great friends by my side walking the same path as me- some who already have adopted their little ones, others who are in the trenches like us. 

I'm definitely coming out of this year with lessons learned, friends made and support. 

 

And sweet baby- let me just say this- your Dad is so very amazing. We have been in this together, every single step of the way. He is taking each and every painful experience to heart just as much as I am- only he's also being the one to hold me and tell me it's going to be okay. He's the rock that keeps me grounded when I feel like it's never going to happen. He is the cheerleader by my side, whispering to never give up. He's downright amazing, and he's going to be an amazing Dad to you. 

 

No matter how hard this road gets, we're not giving up. We've made it through the first year alive, and nothing can stop us now. 

 

I keep listening to this song by Jason Mraz every time I feel down: 

And just like them old stars
I see that you've come so far
To be right where you are
How old is your soul?
I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up

We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in
I had to learn what I've got, and what I'm not, and who I am

I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up, still looking up.

I won't give up on us (no I'm not giving up)
God knows I'm tough enough (I am tough, I am loved)
We've got a lot to learn (we're alive, we are loved)
God knows we're worth it (and we're worth it)

I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up

 

I can't wait to sing you to sleep with that song. 

 

After a year on this road, I'm not giving up. God knows I'm tough enough.  

 

And God certainly knows your worth it. 

 

Not giving up, even for a second

With unwavering love forever and ever, and still looking up- 

Love,

Mom 

I have learned, that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

Little One, today is full of life. I'm trying to make a conscious effort to make everyday full of life, as it should be. This life we're given is a short one, and we need to live it, soaking up every single second possible.

This morning felt light and dreamy. The rain came in yesterday, but today is so full of spring and sunshine that it makes my soul ache for the beauty of the plush green trees and striking blue sky (which unfortunately my tiny cubicle does not afford).

Despite the rain, yesterday was very productive. Our health department home inspection was tedious, but we passed. Our physicals went great, they were passed. We're just a few steps away, over three quarters of the way done at the least. We're getting so close to the finish line. It's such an exciting time in our lives. This morning I booked a hotel and pre-registered for a private adoption workshop in a month. RB is excited about it too. We're taking in as much information as we can: eating, sleeping, breathing adoption.

I have to make a note about this adorable thing your Dad does. It's such a trivial thing, most people would not even notice it. But knowing your Dad, I know this little thing is a testiment to his love for you. Every time we hear the phrase, "Little One" - even if its not referencing a baby (ie, a car commercial where someone says, "I'll take the little one") your Dad gets this huge grin on his face and whispers to himself, "Aw, Little One." It's downright adorable, and it makes my heart sing every time I see it happen.

I have confidence that you're out there, and that somewhere someone might be reading this and sharing out story, gettin the word out to the ears that are meant to hear it.

 I have confidence that soon, our day is coming.

I have confidence that in ten years, we won't remember the paperwork, the waiting, the hard days. We'll just be living our lives as a happy family, making memories each day.

We're living every second of these precious moments before you come in to our lives, because we know once that happens we'll be too busy pinching ourselves and being wrapped up in our love for you that we won't notice that life is still going on around us.

 

Waiting for the common hour,

Love,

Mom