when she cries

London is a gift to our family.  To every single one of us.  Her presence from the day I found out I was pregnant until now has been an instrument used to bond our family of seven.  A baby for all of us.  Something that we could all be a part of from the very beginning.  When the nausea and fatigue became so intense, I watched all four of my children learn to care for one another.  And then as my belly began to grow, questions began to form in their own hearts about their own beginnings.  I began to answer questions from my daughters that I had not expected to journey through until the teen years.  The joy of new life growing in our home lived right beside some intense grief.  Adoption is a hard thing to process as an adult and my soul just hurt as I watched my four and six year old try to deal with emotions way above their age level.  And I had to do some grieving and processing of my own to have some answers for those questions that came without warning.

For much of my pregnancy I wanted this baby to be a boy... I thought we needed it to be a boy.  The further on we went I had a growing feeling in my gut that this baby was actually going to be a girl.  In my limited wisdom, I feared the impact this would have on our two older daughters.  And now I can see why she needed to be a girl ... for all of us.

The last post that I wrote was about London's birth story.  You can see in some of the pictures that I was wearing a paper bead necklace.  A necklace made by women in Ethiopia who have learned this craft trade to provide for their families.  The income allows families to stay together and for women to earn money without putting their health at risk.  I joked that the necklace was my women power beads.  The truth is wearing that necklace reminded me of my daughters and their own courage and how much stronger I am from the journey of the past few years.  Somehow in adoption their story becomes your story and your story becomes theirs.  We are daily becoming more intertwined, both our presents and our pasts.  And somehow, in ways I am still discovering, London is one more thread connecting us together.

When my boys were babies there was an emotional response triggered in me when they cried. I remember being told that a mother always hears her baby's cry louder than the reality.  I would have stress about trying to figure out why they were crying and at times feeling overwhelmed or helpless at how to help. Those were many miles ago in parenthood.  I don't stress as much about the crying these days and have many more resources in my tool belt to help.  But I honestly was not prepared for what happened this time around.

I heard London crying.  I was downstairs and could hear the wail beginning through the speaker of the baby monitor.  She has a fast wind up.  If you don't get her quickly the cry intensifies fast.  By the time I got upstairs, she was in a full out scream.  I picked her up and placed her face next to mine.  Immediately the crying stopped.

And then mine began.

I held her tightly to me.  All I could see in my mind was her two precious sisters.

There are some things in life that no matter how much you read about them or how much head knowledge you have, you just don't fully experience it until it becomes a hands on lesson.  This was one of those moments.  I had a greater understanding in that moment that there once was a day in each of my daughter's lives when they were all alone and they cried.... and no one came.  The one human being whose smell alone could calm their anxious heart did not come.  And she would never come again.  All I could think of was London's piercing cry.  I heard her sisters crying out, their infant cries screaming out into the universe for the embrace that would never come again.

When I met each of my daughters, they cried.  London immediately recognized me as mama and the crying ceased.  But for Eliana and Faith, the story is different.  I was not a smell they recognized and my embrace was not a familiar comfort.  The showering of my love did not bring immediate security and but instead more fearful tears.  I was stepping into a role that was not wired into their natural instincts.  When a newborn is placed in his birth mother's arms the baby automatically knows her.  When a child is adopted this connection takes more time.  For some days.  For others years.

It is painful to be given a glimpse into my daughters' grief.  It is also a gift because the more I become connected to their past, the bond we have in the present grows.  I can never be the mother of their birth.  I will never have the memory of calming their infant tears.  Our bond is not natural or automatic. It is a bond that takes time and courage.  And now, thanks to London, I have new insight and renewed passion to pursue their hearts with all of mine.