When we brought Eddie home, I wasn’t sure what it would be like. I loved him, that was sure, but I questioned if our bond would be like the one I had with Lute. I thought about him as our “adopted son” every single day. Many times. Add into that the fact that I was half way through my pregnancy with George, and I was not only thinking about my connection with him, but with the other baby soon joining us.

In the four and a half months between Eddie and George’s birth, I poured myself into him. And then when George came, Nick took over almost entirely. He was Nick’s boy and their bond grew quickly and deeply as I adjusted to becoming a mother of three, trying to find a balance between all my boys, while mostly being pulled to the newborn that depended on me for his every need. I loved Eddie, snuggled him and fed him, but I still thought of him as the adopted boy. I thought of his birthmother all the time and wondered what how often she thought of us. Of her son.

When Eddie and George became mobile, that’s when things got hard. Here I was with two toddler boys and a preschooler and I was always tired, exasperated, unsure of how to handle them, keep them safe… I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t imagine my life without any of my boys, but I also wondered if we were a little crazy with our spacing. I was wondering less frequently about his birthmother, started to fall into a more natural routine, and my bond with Eddie came together in invisible ways that cemented us together.

Eddie was always Dada’s boy. He followed Nick everywhere, did everything with him, and I knew it was because of their early bond. But then something shifted. It only happened a few months ago, but Eddie suddenly was a mama’s boy through and through. Where I was, he wanted to be. When he woke up in the morning, he wasn’t satisfied to have his milk with his daddy and go back to bed… he had to have a snuggle with Mama first. He wants to know where I am at all times, is content to play near me while I make dinner, and doesn’t want me to leave him anywhere. It is mostly heart burstingly lovely and just occasionally a little inconvenient.

When I hold him, read to him, put him to bed, get him ready for the day, help him with his food, push him on his bike, brush his teeth, tie his shoes, correct him, protect him, console him, laugh with him, dance with him, hold his hand… he is mine. Completely and totally and in a way that makes my heart explode with love and gratitude for the crazy gift he is to me. To us. To our family. I don’t think “adopted” anymore. I mean, he is, obviously, but his heart is fused with mine now and forever. I hope it is always the same for him.

Is my bond with him the same as mine with Lute? No. And my bond with George isn’t either. My boys are vastly different. Each holds my heart in a different way, but completely and fully. I don’t think it has anything to do with being biological or adopted, but it’s just the way it is when you have more than one kid. You love them all differently but equally.

Words can’t express it. But I know that God designed our family the way that it is… and as I allow Him, he keeps giving my heart a greater capacity for love… for tenderness and joy and…cuteness. I am so grateful that this is my life.

You are the big person. He is the little person.

He takes cues from you because you are the big person.

Although biology would say he is 5 1/2, he is more like 3 1/2. If you remember that every minute, you will all be happier.

It

On vacation my girls, my mom and I wandered through the outlet mall for awhile.  On various clearance racks I found t-shirts for the boys and for the little girls.  So near the end of our wandering when we walked into Old Navy, I figured that might be a good place to find t-shirts for our teen daughters as well.

I should have known better;  like most teenage girls, they are persnickety about their clothes and habitually get overwhelmed by choices in stores.  But since I’d already found things for the other kids, I wanted to get them something. A quick cruise around the store didn’t spark their interest. To simplify things, I headed them toward a display containing basic T’s in 6 different colors.  I’m always glad to have more simple t-shirts myself, and I figured they’d be useful neutral additions to their wardrobe.

“Pick something,” I said with a smile. “What color do you want?”

They looked uncertain.  They hemmed and hawed.  They picked up things and set them down looking disinterested.  Five minutes went by.  Meanwhile the other members of our party were done shopping and the grandbaby was showing signs of needing to nurse.

“Pick something,” I said.  My smile was starting to feel tense, but I tried to make my voice coaxing.  “I want to buy you something.”

But they couldn’t–  wouldn’t — make a choice.  I toyed with the idea of just grabbing two shirts and saying, “Here ya go.”  But then they’d be sure to hate the choice I’d made, which would translate to clothes sitting in the closet, unworn. My mom suggested quietly that I just give them money, which I knew they’d happily take.  But dangitall, I wanted to give them a gift, something to bring back as a memory from this trip, not hand them cash like this was some business transaction.

Finally we left, having purchased nothing.  Yeah, I could (should?) have been happy they’d saved me a few bucks by refusing to let me get them something.  But I was livid, and I knew exactly why.  This was not just about a couple of t-shirts  This was about all the times I’ve tried to show the girls I love them and they’ve turned me down flat.

Of the times I brought thrift store finds home, excited, hoping they’d like them, only to be met with wan smiles, and have the clothes languish in their closets until I insisted they wear them.  Of the hugs I’ve given that were returned with noodle-arms.  The times I’ve invited them to play games or go to the store with me and they’ve opted out.

Yes, I can force it.  And sometimes I do.  But it can be discouraging to feel such resistance to my overtures even now after they’ve been home nearly five years.

Sometimes things are good between us— like today when I broke the oven door and my 14 year old and I spent 30 greasy minutes trying to wrestle the thing into submission before calling the repair man in defeat.  We shared some absolutely lovely laughing moments.  But all too often I’m met with resistance.

I know that some of the ups and downs are normal teen stuff. Girls often have a hard time getting along with their moms– I know I did when I was 14.  For awhile I fantasized about being adopted by a rich family where I could be the only child and wouldn’t have to do chores.  I’ve told my daughters that, and I understand it’s a tough age.

But still–when a child home almost five years says you’ll never really be her mom, that signing papers doesn’t make it true, it is a knife to the heart.  A failed shopping trip, though a small failure in the grand scheme of things, feels like twisting that knife.  If we can’t even have a successful shopping trip together, what are our chances of a real relationship some day?

I comfort myself remembering how well they do when interacting with people other than me. Folks rave about how great the girls are, how sweet and fun– and I wholeheartedly agree. I’ve seen that sweetness from across the room. I just wish they’d show that loveliness to me more often.  When I do sneak a real smile out of someone, almost always the shades go quickly down over that light, veiling their hearts, snuffing the connection that flared for just a second.

I’m the second momma, you see, the substitute for the one they really want.  Maybe it’s anger.  Maybe it’s fear.  Maybe they love me way down deep, more than they dare show. (Oh, I hope so.)  But it feels to me that their automatic default is to push me away than to connect.

The years have scarred me, and make it hard some days to keep my perspective.  The truth is, eight of the kids think I’m just fine.  But I want these others to love me too, so much that some days my self-worth as a momma feels hinged on their acceptance.  I know how foolish that is;  they’re hurt kids, wounded souls. It’s only a little about me. But I care passionately for them and want them to feel truly enveloped in the love of our family.  No matter how wide the rift, they are part of my very soul, and I will continue to fight on behalf of our relationship.

I talked to the girls after the shopping incident, explained that gift-giving is one of the ways I show folks love– that I’d been trying that day in Old Navy to say ‘I love you’, and that I’d heard rejection in their refusal to accept my gifts.  I think they understood then, at least a little, why I’d come unglued over t-shirts.

While unpacking from the trip, I came across a handful of gummy bears in a baggie.  I stashed them back in a corner, thinking of a bedtime snack.  A few minutes later my 14 year old came into the kitchen, spotted them, and asked for them.  I said no, saying there weren’t enough to share with everyone.  It was true, but really it was more that I wanted them myself.

Later that evening I nibbled a few, but my conscience wouldn’t let me forget she’d asked for them.  I knotted the bag up and set them aside. The next day I came up behind her and tucked the baggie quietly into her sweatshirt pocket with a wink, then walked away quick before I could even see her reaction.  Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I need to do more of:  quick stealth ‘I love you’ actions, without looking for or expecting any immediate reaction.

Sometimes I get so set on loving kids how I want to love them that I forget about loving them the way they want to be loved.  I’m not sure if that handful of gummy bears was received as the gift of love that I intended it to be.  But I’ll keep my eyes open for other chances like that.  Maybe one of these days I’ll actually get somewhere. Until then, I’ll just keep on loving my kids to the best of my ability, and hold onto the faith that God is watching over us all, and that He has a perfect plan for all our lives.