Quietness and darkness have enveloped our home. Only because it’s 4:35 a.m. Our house is rarely quiet, rarely dark and rarely active at this time of the morning. It has been one week since my car accident that has driven me to sleep on the couch (I couldn’t even THINK of climbing stairs for the first four days home). And as much as I love sleeping with my husband, I love sleeping …. without fearing that he will kick my battered legs, bump my aching arms, yank the sheets against my seatbelt bruises on my neck or snore and make me crabby. I’m starting to understand why my grandparents had separate rooms. (Don’t worry, Honey, I’ll come back upstairs eventually.) Aching arms woke me up in these wee hours… and it’s not time for the wonder drugs yet. The fact that I can wait it out gives me hope that I’m not completely addicted to pain killers. Even in weariness, I have some level of self control.
My six year old habitual pastime of reading adoption blogs is still a passion of my soul. It always will be. Reading about a young couple tonight faced with infertility who have chosen a child in Ethiopia makes my adoptive mama heart beat with glee. Another baby will have a mama. Another daddy will cry tears of joy. Another child will be placed by God and the nightmares might just fade a wee bit, making life a better place. A safer place.
As an adoptive mama, I have had the normal adoptive mama fears that I am the worst adoptive mama on the planet. I have cut off the Colombian princess from sugar at times, even sending her to bed with no cake! Imagine!!! I have sent her to her room when I couldn’t think of answering one more question about heaven. I have not taken her to Disneyland. I won’t buy her cute clothes just because they are cute, when her stuffed closet has more than enough. I am sure I have been caught on surveillance tapes more than a dozen times in the Walmart parking lot saying, “We are not here to buy anything for you today.” And I’ve wondered if she was in a different home, would she be granted more stuff and have more privileges. I have expressed this self-doubt to other mamas and one in particular has told me again and again, “You are the perfect mama God chose for your girl. She is in the right home. You are the right mama. You are loving her just the way she needs to be loved.” And it does my heart good for about three minutes and then the doubts return.
The before mentioned car accident was actually a glimpse into my “good adoptive mama” side that I needed to see. The crash happened in the blink of an eye. The air bags exploded. Stinky smoke filled the van. And all I could think to do was jump out of my door which only opened half way to get to my nine-year-old baby in the seat behind me. We hugged each other and balled our eyes out together. She was not hurt. I quickly realized that my legs were not fine and I was needing to sit back down. Yes, the metal hitting metal sounds were ghastly and hurt our ears, but I believe what scared her the most was hearing me cry for the first time. The ugly cry with snorts and uncontrollable guttural sounds. She kept reaching up and touching my shoulders in the front seat. Through the tears and pain, we bonded at a deeper level.
On my girl scout sash of life, I feel like I earned my “Unconditional Adoptive Mama Love” badge. And my bruised body is a mere side effect of the stamp of approval on my heart.
My Sister's Jar 