Old Mom

It started as silly joking and bedtime stories.

It usually happens this way.

Out of the blue and without warning.

The sky was lighting up every few seconds with flashes of light from a storm 15 miles north.  We could hear occasional distant claps of thunder.

He's five and he's "not scared of anything."  But he asked if he could sleep in our bed.

I know these days are numbered.  I know that at 15 years old and 12 years old a distant thunderstorm doesn't drive them into my room.  Maybe they've realized I have no special power against storms.  Maybe they just aren't scared anymore.  But whatever the reason, the big kids just head to their own rooms.  But not my little Knight.  His place in a storm is right in between us.

His words are exploding from his little mind.  I wonder sometimes if we forget how much he knows and absorbs as he struggles to articulate fully all of his thoughts.  In spite of Apraxia of speech, he is working so hard to show us how much is going on in his little head.

It breaks me.  Every time I feel physical pain as he works out great big thoughts...knowing every beautiful word is a precious gift and a result of so much work.

I think it was the storm and the soft bed and the cool room.  He wasn't quite ready to sleep.  He was glancing out the window and alternating between stealing pillows and somersaulting around the bed.

The questions began.

"What is Heaven like?'

"I don't want to die and the day to be over."

"Why did God make us to die?"

"How do people die?"

We answered the questions as simply as we could.  In all honesty and without drama or fanfare.  But gentle and loving.

As he asked each question, he fought his emotions.  His voice wavered his eyes filled just slightly.  But he needed to know the answers.  So he worked to ask each question...sometimes having to repeat certain words until we understood.

In an attempt to move towards another conversation we slowly steered the talk towards travel and vacation.  But if I've learned anything about a curious kiddo...it's that they can seldom be led far from their current thoughts.

He brought us back around to his thoughts with more questions.

"What was I like as a baby?"

"What did you say when you saw me?"

"What did dad say when he saw me?"

"What about my old mom?"

And there it was.  Without warning.

"What about my old mom?"

"What did my old mom look like?"

"What did she say when she saw me?"

Adoption.

It's such a miracle.

But my perspective of adoption is just one of three.

I consider my perspective the least difficult.  And I certainly feel strongly that my perspective needs to be communicated.  But I won't force my ideas.  The truth of the matter is my perspective is probably the easy one.  I only gained.

I am committed to giving space to each of my 3 miracle kiddos as they explore their own perspective of adoption.  I will not communicate any level of shame over talking about a "real mom" or an "old mom" or  "tummy mom" or any other term they use as they work it out.  I will not pretend to understand their feelings.  I will not over sensationalize my perspective as the only perspective.

It's not easy.

I would love to scoop them up and prevent any emotions of grief or loss or confusion.  But I'm 3 for 3 with conversations very similar to the one we had last night.  I do not know if this process is typical in all adoptive families or if this is the culture of our specific family.

But I do know last night, snuggled in our bed, my little Knight asked question after question about his birth story.  I teased him about how I held him all night (true) and didn't want to share him with daddy (true).  I told him I snuggled him tight and chased everyone away if they tried to hold him (not true).  He giggled.  But the questions continued.  It wasn't until we told him the true story of how we all sat together, side-by-side, and passed him from mommy to daddy to "tummy mom" and back to mommy and round and round the circle that he finally seemed to find some sort of comfort and rest.  Our last words as he snuggled down between us were centered around the idea that every person in the room lovingly held and snuggled the little baby Knight and then shared him with the other people in the room that loved him just as much.

I know we are just beginning these conversations.

And I'm never really ready.  But I love to participate in the journey.