When I was two days old, I was adopted. My mother (the woman who adopted me) had suffered an ectopic pregnancy which had rendered her infertile.
My parents raised me to the best of their abilities and though I didn’t have what anyone would call an “easy” childhood, I know that I am fortunate to have been “chosen” by my parents.
Even though I know that they did the best that they could, I always felt that something was missing; I had a “hole” that no one could fill.
As I was growing up, I assumed that meeting my birthmother would fill that whole. But, it wasn’t until I had Cara that I found what had been missing. A sense of kinship, a sense of belonging.
Now, as I watch Cara turn from a lump of baby into a mobile toddler, I’m struck by how much she is starting to resemble me. I have to admit that I get a tiny thrill when people comment that she has my nose.
It may sound stupid, but having been adopted has made me a better mom.
You hear it everyday. “Children are a blessing. Children are a miracle”. I lived that. Mom couldn’t create that miracle herself; she got me. My mom never failed to remind me how much she appreciated my birthmother making her a mother.
Being adopted has made me thankful that I was finally able to have a child of my own. I figure that it is thankfulness akin to what my mom feels. I’m thankful everyday that I was given this gift.
That thankfulness is what gets me through the really rough days, and we all have them.
Here recently, my “rough days” have been peppered with Cara emptying the bookshelves one minute and then the next minute beating a hasty retreat to the bathroom to play in the toilet. The first couple of times it was novel and I was impressed at her mobility. But, after the tenth time, I tend to get understandably flustered.
While I am carrying the writhing mass back to the living room, I usually find myself, on one hand, being thankful to have the trouble making child and on the other hand, I’m silently cursing her.
But, I figure 50% thankfulness isn’t too bad.