I haven’t felt like being all that funny this week. A sweet couple we know lost a baby. She was about halfway through the pregnancy. My heart is broken for them. It’s an incredibly sad situation.
Their pain and loss have nothing to do with me. But like so many of us in our little community of friends, I couldn’t help but personalize it a bit.
This morning I went and crawled in bed with Monkey Boy before he woke up. I snuggled up to him, burying my face in his hair to smell that little boy funk that no bath can ever fully remove. I was awash in gratitude… so thankful this little boy lives in my house.
Sometimes people try to say really nice things about adoption and what great people we are for having given our son “a better life” or “such a good home” or other such things. I know they mean well, but I don’t think they get it.
I felt again this morning the same way I’ve always felt: selfish. I wanted this little boy to be my son. I wanted to be his mom. There’s nothing altruistic about it. I was overtaken with a primal need to be a parent, not a desire to save the world.
It could be argued, as has been on more than one occasion, I probably should have taken a pass on the mom gig. I lack the patience and fortitude the job demands.
But this morning, in the dark, while I listened to him breathe, I was overcome with the feeling that I’ve always gotten more than I deserve. He is living proof.