Isabella is 6 months old today + a Mother's Day Post

There are so many things to catch up on (such as Mercer's baseball and Isabella eating solid foods).  Those are coming.  Promise!!  Promise!!

I had to post quickly, though, and talk about the day that Isabella turned 6 months old.  She and I went to the church to go to a Bible dedication and luncheon for moms and babies.  There's a group of older women that hold a monthly "women's circle."  Every year - the day after Mother's Day - they announce the babies to the circle.  We didn't get to do this with Mercer because we weren't at the church yet 'til he was older. 

I got to sit with / meet a couple of other moms and babies -- including a baby girl that was born in the same hospital as Isabella just 2 days after she was born.  (Isabella was 2 days old when we picked her up.  Perhaps we were all there at the same time?!)  One funny mental note:  do not hold a drooling, sleeping baby in your arms on the same side as a hand-written name tag.  When she woke up from her little nap, I noticed a blob of green ink where my name used to be + a blob of green ink on Isabella's cheek!  Luckily, it came off.  : - )

Isabella will not have her 6 month old appointment until early June, so I don't have any up-to-date stats, but Todd took her for immunizations a couple of weeks ago and she weighed in at 15 1/2 lbs. 

Mother's Day was yesterday.  We've been talking about going to Chattanooga, TN for a while.  We've taken Mercer to Chattanooga before, but not to the aquarium.  The aquarium there is stellar -- Todd and I like it much better than the one in our city!   Plus, they have interesting architecture along the river, really nice public spaces, and art scattered about the city. 

 

We went in both buildings - exploring both the Ocean and the River journeys.  Isabella dozed off and on, but when she was awake, she seemed interested in the reflections of light, color, and movement.  It was fun to watch her be amazed.  Mercer stuck with us through both journeys.  He was fascinated by the fish as well as running down the ramps of the aquarium.  We ended up getting a membership because we like it so much and will definitely go back this year!  Not only is the aquarium great -- so is the urban landscaping / hardscape around the building.  There is a representation of the river that winds through the plaza outside the building.  Mercer spent some time playing in that plaza, of course!



One thing that neither Todd nor I have done (or the kids, of course) is explore the "north shore" of the city.  There is a pedestrian bridge over the TN river that connects the two sides of the city.  We parked on the opposite side and explored that area a bit before and after going to the aquarium.  The weather was perfect.  We hung out in Coolidge Park under the bridge while Mercer played a musical turtle, we played a sort of Frisbee game, and Mercer played in more water.

It was such a nice day spent together.

There are a lot of photos that Todd & I took... those will stream (below) as I post a letter found on the Internet - written to adoptive mothers.  SO MUCH of this seemed to hit home.  I want to keep this / document in the blog so that Mercer and Isabella know what all we went through and how our love for them endured this intense process.

I need to also include this picture, though, of Mercer holding some mother's days thing that he made at his school.  I went - along with a bunch of other moms & grandmas to their annual mother's day party.  Oh... I will always remember the day that I went to the school and saw that one of his Merrell shoes was painted gold!  : - )

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,

I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son’s school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.

It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.

Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing.  Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn’t in God’s plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin’s neighbor’s friend. Maybe you ignored them.

Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life-savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.

Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?

I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes, but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.

I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes, so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.

I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.

I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.

Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby’s room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.

I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding, from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.

And I know about the followup visits, when you hadn’t slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.

And I’ve seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what’s being promised and what’s not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.

I’ve seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that’s emerging. I’ve seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn’t have to go through with this. I’ve seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments—while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.

I’ve seen you look down into a newborn infant’s eyes, wondering if he’s really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.

And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.

I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.

I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn’t even know you were holding for months. Months.

I’ve seen you meet your child’s birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I’ve seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile … people who love him because he’s one of them. I’ve seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he’s shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.

I’ve seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things — but you can’t protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.

I’ve seen you at the doctor’s office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little blanks don’t turn into big problems later on.

I’ve seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?

I’ve seen you wonder how you’ll react the first time you hear the dreaded, “You’re not my real mom.” And I’ve seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.

I’ve seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being it is the other way around.

But most of all, I want you to know that I’ve seen you look into your child’s eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that’s just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like losing yourself.

Posted on May 7, 2013 by Kathy Lynn Harris