I knew when I adopted a little kid I'd face different challenges than with a baby. I welcomed some differences (no 2 a.m. feedings! no diaper changes!) and mourned, then accepted, others (I never heard his first words or saw his first steps). There were also other differences I never expected but should have.
For example, immediate love -- on Mark's part, that is. Like any biological parent, I loved Mark before I even met him. The first time I read his file and saw his picture, I fell. This is my child, I thought, and I immediately loved him as such. I felt a maternal pride and warmth for him, and couldn't wait to wrap him in my arms.
However...I also felt a sense of caution, because I knew I couldn't really do that. Unlike a biological mom who's just given birth, I couldn't hold my son the first time I met him. Mark was a kid with a history already, not a helpless newborn baby. He didn't know me from Adam -- I was just another new adult in his life.
Not to mention he already had a mom. OK, so maybe he didn't live with her, and maybe she wasn't the best mom, but she was his biological mom. And nobody had told Mark he was going to be adopted -- nobody had told him he was getting a new mom. I faced an uphill battle right from the start.
So I proceeded cautiously. When I met Mark, I introduced myself as Heather, even though inside I was screaming, "I'm your mom!" I played with him for a couple hours, and when I left, it took all my restraint not to hug him and kiss him goodbye. Instead, I settled for a high five, which he was more than happy to give.
We continued like that for five or six weeks; both of us on a first name basis, both of us taking our leave with a high five. I was affectionate with Mark, but not overly so. If I was a little kid and some adult I'd just met was always hugging me, I'd freak out. So I tried my best not to freak Mark out.
When Mark moved in, I felt like probation had ended, and I loosened the affection ban. "Goodnight," I'd tell Mark every evening. "I love you."
He'd scrunch up his face and tell me defiantly, "Well, I don't love you!"
"That's okay," I'd respond. "You don't have to."
I never took it personally, because I knew this was a little kid going through a tough time. I knew this was a little kid with no control in his life; somewhere, some random judge was telling him who could be in his life and who couldn't; who he had to see, and when; where he had to live, and where he had to go to school. Mark had no say, and he was an angry little guy because of it. I couldn't blame him, though; I'd have been angry, too, if it was me.
But Mark really is a loving little guy, and slowly, over a few weeks, he warmed up.
"Goodnight," I'd say, same as every night. "I love you."
"Well, I don't love you!" he'd still say sometimes, but eventually, that gave way to, "I love you, too --but just a LITTLE bit!" Then he'd hold up his thumb and forefinger to show me the littlest possible gap he could, indicating the littlest bit of love he felt.
I'd smile, and he'd retract his statement immediately. "Did you hear me?" he'd say. "I only love you a little bit!"
And I'd answer, "Well, that's OK -- it's more than you loved me yesterday!"
He always measured his love with his hands. Pretty soon, the little gap became a bigger gap. He'd stretch his hands out, a foot apart, and say, "I love you thiiiiiiiis much." Then I'd stretch mine a little further and say, "Well, I love you thiiiiiis much!" Each night the hands would stretch a little farther out. Soon, we were adding far away distances, and it began to sound like a popular children's book -- "I love you to the moon and back." "Well, I love you to the moon and back, infinity!"
It went on like that for a few more weeks. Then, one night, he was really sleepy, and when I told him I loved him, he answered, "I love you too," then rolled over and went to sleep. There was no disclaimer; there was no measurement of how much or how little love he felt. I waited, but it never came. I grinned the biggest grin ever, and I cried.
Three and a half years later, there are no more caveats. There are no measurements. Mark simply says, "I love you, Mom," and he means it. And each time he says it -- even now, three and a half years later -- it still makes me melt. It was a big win, his love -- it was a test I took every night, and didn't pass for months. When it finally came, it was awesome, because I knew I'd earned it, and I knew it was genuine.
So yes, I missed out on some things in his early childhood. I didn't hold him at birth, and receive his immediate undying love simply because I'd given him life. But three and a half years later, I've given him a different life. So now when he says "I love you," I believe it. I've earned it, I'm worthy of it, I paid the price for it in patience and hard work.
And so today, February 14th, the day we celebrate love, has become very special to me. It's really a triumphant day, a day I cherish a hard-fought love, and the little boy it comes from. And I think to myself, really, what other Valentine could ever beat that?
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