An Adoptive Birth Memory from Becca

A letter to my son's birth mom, on his first birthday:

I remembering my experience of being in the room when Asher was born. I was nervous and hopeful and excited and filled with wonder and joy and love and even a little fear. All in the space of just a few minutes. I remember holding my breath every time you would push. Thank goodness for both of us that you didn’t have to push very many times. I think I had the best type of out-of-body experience possible. As I watched you give birth, all that mattered was the miracle that your body had created and the amazing thing that was happening. Then that slippery little baby came out and his impossibly small body was all I could think about. I thought something was wrong with him; he was bluish-gray, and no one had warned me that babies don’t really come out pink like they do in movies. But everyone else in the room seemed perfectly calm, so I just waited (for what seemed like an awfully long time) for him to cry or take a breath or give some sign that I would recognize as a good one.

After the nurse took him to the little crib and was wiping him off, your Mom nudged me and told me to go over there. I was still in awe as I watched the nurse work so efficiently. She told me I could touch him, so I reached out and ran my fingers over his. He wrapped his fingers around one of mine, and they might as well have been wrapped around my heart. I immediately felt connected to this tiny boy, whom you would allow to become my son. I remember hoping that this brief moment would be symbolic of the bond that he and I would share throughout his life. That no matter where our lives might take us, we would always feel an important connection to one another.

A few months later I was living the reality of having a difficult baby. I would tell myself that it was his reflux that caused Asher to be so fussy. But sometimes he would cry and cry regardless of the position he was in, whether he was being held, or in his swing, or nestled against my chest in a baby carrier. It was at those times, when explanations and logic weren’t comforting, when I was exhausted and exasperated, that I would force my mind to relive the first few moments I shared with him. I would remember how small and fragile he seemed, and it would help me to treat him with tenderness. I would remember his fingers around mine, and it would help me to realize the crucial role I was to play in his life. I would remember the fear I felt when I thought there was something wrong with him, and I would have hope that this phase would also pass. I would remember how instantly and how powerfully my love for him came to me, and I would feel that love renewed.

It was at the same time that he learned to crawl and move on his own that it was like he became a different baby. He smiled more and even began to laugh at silly little things. I started using words to describe him that I hadn’t before, like “content,” “mellow,” “easy-going,” and even “happy.” After that I haven't needed to remember his birth so often. But as I recall it now, I realize that being there in the delivery room with you and your Mom will likely be the last time I would have such an experience until (hopefully) my grandchildren are born. The gift you have given me of a son is immeasurable. But beyond that, by sharing with me the experience of his birth, I have been able to be a better mother to him. For both of these things, I will always be grateful.

From Becca.
Image from jpgmag. Spotted on Design Crush.

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Note from Design Mom: for the duration of my pregnancy, I'll be posting advice, memories and stories about pregnancy, childbirth, adoption and growing a family on Wednesdays. You can find them all by clicking here. I'd love to hear your story or memory or advice, feel free to submit it to gabrielle@designmom.com.