There are big things happening in our lives these days, as you may have guessed if you've read some of my more cryptic posts over the past few weeks. Specifically, we're in the process of adopting a baby girl, Little A, due to be born at the end of March.
Dear Little A,
You, little girl, are already so, so loved. It's crazy to think about it, really, and you may not believe me when I say this because I've never held you, never seen you, never even felt you kick. We have no genetic connection, you and I, no blood-ties to bind us together, nothing really except a verbal promise from your birth mom that this is what she plans to do. Yet somehow, I love you in a way I can't really explain or understand, in a way that defies logic and fear and worry. I love you, and I can't wait to meet you.
I hope you know, of course, that I'm not the only one. I can't count the number of people who are excited for your arrival, who have offered to babysit, or to bring meals, or to throw a shower in your honor. They are all eagerly waiting for you, wanting to get to know you, loving you before they've even met you. And these are just my friends, my family - your birth family loves you too, you know, and I hope you never, ever doubt that. It is love that has caused them to make this hard, hard, hard choice, love that motivates them to put you in a place where you will have a mommy and a daddy. You will know them growing up, of course, visit with them and get to know them and love them, and I hope you will see that only the deepest love could cause them to choose adoption, could cause them to trust us with your care. Your life can only be enriched by the greatness of your family, by the number of people who love you.
We've started to make plans, to put together your room, to keep watch for little girl things that you might need. I'll be honest: this is uncharted territory for me. I don't know what it will be like to be your mommy, and I don't know what it will be like to stay home from work, and I don't know what it will be like to figure out the details of an open adoption over the years, but I do know that whatever it is like, it will be worth it.
I keep imagining you here with me, dreaming of things we will do together, activities we'll share. I'm excited to see how your personality will unfold and develop, to learn what will interest you, to figure out the very best way to be your mommy. It snowed today, a pretty white blanket covering the trees, and I thought of you - of what fun it will be to watch you experience such things for the first time, to see your wonder as you discover the world around you.
I know there will be hard times, too - I'm certainly not naïve in that. We'll have our fair share of arguments and disagreements over the years, especially in those tricky teenage years, and there will be times when I pull my hair out over decisions you make. I'll admit, the thought of having a high-school-aged daughter gives me the shivers. I'll probably have days where I wonder why I thought parenting was such a good idea, times when the last thing I want to do is stumble out of bed to prepare a bottle for you, moments when I have no idea what to do with a rebellious child. But underneath it all, I will love you. Love you so, so much - and I hope you will always know that love.
I know that you aren't really mine yet, and that there's a possibility you won't ever be mine, that I'll never be called your mommy. (And that really, even if everything goes just as I hope and you become my daughter, you'll never really be "mine" - you'll only ever be God's, and I will be entrusted with the awesome responsibility of teaching you to love Him). Though your birth mom has thought this through, though she is firm in her resolve, though she is doing this because she believes it is what is the best for you and for her, there's a part of me that is afraid. To carry you close to her heart for nine months, to go through the agony of birth and labor, to hold you in her arms with all the strength of new-mother-love coursing through her veins and then to place you in the arms of another? This will be so, so hard - so hard that I cannot imagine how hard it will really be. And so I am afraid that she will hold you and look into your sweet face and be unable to do it, unable to follow through, and how could I blame her for such a decision? It will break my heart if this happens, of course, and I will be so very, very sad ... but still, I think I will understand.
And yet, I hope and trust that this will not happen, that you will come and be my daughter, and this fills me with such joy that I can't help but smile when I think of it. I will make mistakes, no doubt, mess things up and do things wrong - but I will pray for God's wisdom and guidance and I will love you with all of my heart and I will do my very best to be the best mommy I can be and hopefully these things will be enough.
There's so much more I could say to you, so many hopes and dreams I have to share, so many promises I could make, and I will share these things gradually over the years. For now, though, I will leave you with this:
I love you, Little A. I so hope I get to be your mommy.