For a grieving parent, this is as painful as it is joyous. But for me, it is a struggle on yet another level. And one that I know I'm not alone in. I've debated talking about this for a long time, but I think I'm finally ready.
I'm not a mom. Not a "real" mom, anyway.
I've never carried a life inside of me and felt it move and grow. I've never watched my belly swell and spent hours searching for the perfect name for my little miracle. I've never looked into a tiny, innocent little face and saw my own eyes staring back at me. I've never fed an infant from my breast and felt the wonder and joy that come from that magical bonding moment.
When groups of women get together, inevitably, at some point, the conversation will turn to pregnancy, labor, and delivery stories. I will forever sit quietly, unable to participate.
I'll never be a "real" mom. That is just not something that was ever in the cards for me I guess. It was not a hand that I was, or ever will be dealt.
But I have felt the overwhelming, unconditional, and all consuming love for a small person that takes over your universe. I have been awakened at night by a frightened little boy climbing into my bed, or cries from across the hall when fever and sickness strike. I have spent days cleaning up vomit and snotty tissues, and made late night runs for medicine and popsicles.
I have felt the frustration of repeating myself hundreds and thousands of times to no avail. I have woke up early to pack lunches and sit at cold, wet bus stops, and been called at work to bring money to the school when that packed lunch was forgotten on the bus.
I have held the small hand of a scared and nervous little boy as he walked in for his very first day of kindergarten, and watched that same boy run into his first day of middle school with barely a glance back in my direction as I dropped him off.
I have read the same book over and over so many times that I had it memorized, and then heard it again for the first time when it was read to ME in a small, tentative voice. I have watched with pride as a little boy finally learned to tie his shoes, ride his bike, and write his name. And I've been overwhelmed with emotion as that same boy walked across a graduation stage, with honors, to collect his diploma.
I've felt the guilt and doubt that follows discipline, even when you know it was for their own good.
I've felt the struggle of staying home, and questioned my sanity after hours of talking only about Pokémon characters and mind numbing cartoons. Of wishing someone, ANYONE would stop by, just to have some other adult contact.
And I've felt the worry the first time I allowed him to come home to an empty house, and stared at my work phone, just waiting for it to ring to know he made it safely.
I've sat on the sidelines at soccer and basketball games and wondered why we paid money for this kid to pass the ball to the other team, and then cheered at tennis matches when we realized he'd finally found his niche.
I have felt my heart swell and skip a beat when an adorable little boy handed me a corsage and escorted me to our first mother son dance. And I've laughed as a much older version of that little boy demonstrated his dance skills at family weddings.
I've watched a child grow into an intelligent, loving, kind, funny, compassionate, genuine man, and felt the immense pride at knowing I had a part in that.
And I've felt the indescribable, immeasurable, unfathomable pain of your heart being ripped from your chest as I walked into a hospital room to a sight NO ONE should ever have to see.
Everyone has their own ideas of what makes a parent, and there will always be people out there who question and deny anyone who doesn't share a blood bond with their child. And while it hurts me deeper than they will ever know when they take that from me, I also hold my head high, knowing that the only person who REALLY mattered knew the truth.
So no, I'm not a "real" mom, but I am a mom. And now I'm the mom of an angel.
No comments:
Post a Comment