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Tuesday, January 12, 2010

guest blogger: heather ~ a letter to my daughter ~


To my Beautiful Baby Girl-
              I meant to write you sooner, I’m sorry.  The last few days have just been too hard.  Every time I sat down to begin, the paper became so water logged with tears, it couldn’t be written on. So it has been three days since I last held you in my arms.  Just over 36 hours since I kissed your perfect face and whispered into your ear how no matter what, no one could ever love you as much as I did right then and would forever.  More than 4320 minutes since I placed you in the arms of the wonderful couple you will grow up knowing as mom and dad.  It was more than 259,200 seconds ago that they took you, and my heart, home with them.
              That first day was rough.  Coming home from the placement is a blur.  I think I remember your brothers saying they were hungry and their dad stopping for Happy Meals.  I believe he asked me if I wanted something, but I don’t think I could’ve eaten if I wanted to.  We got back to our apartment and I managed to make it up the three flights of stairs and through the front door.  I still hadn’t stopped crying.  Your brother asked his dad why mommy was crying.  This brings on a new wave of fresh tears as I think that someone else will be the one that holds that title for you, someone who isn’t me will get to hear your sweet voice call her that millions of times throughout your life and not me.  At that, I stumble to my bedroom without a word and fall onto my bed in a heap of sobs heaves and tears.
              The next few hours are a mixture of emotions.  I’m sure my sobbing could be heard by all the neighbors, but I don’t care.  I get angry at one point and throw my wedding ring at my closed door.  “This is all your fault,” I scream at my husband in my head, “You made me do this.  You wanted me to hurt because I hurt you.  This is your payback, this is your revenge.  I would have never done this if it weren’t for you.  I HATE YOU!”  I know none of those things are really true. Although he was a factor in my choice, he was by no means the reason I chose to place you for adoption.  But in the moment, I needed someone to blame.
              At one point, I almost called my caseworker and told her I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t go through with the adoption.  I clutched my pillow and pretended I was holding you.  As I pictured your perfect face, I began to stroke the pillow.  In my mind, I was stroking your beautiful hair the way I had when I held you in my arms at the hospital.  As I rubbed the pillow, I was rubbing your cheeks, caressing your face, kissing your forehead.  I cradled that pillow in my arms the way I cradled you in the hospital, right next to my body, my arms forming the perfect little nook for you to sleep in.  Even though you were miles away with your mom and dad, you and I fell asleep              
              I awoke sometime later.  I couldn’t tell you how long I slept because time had lost all meaning.  Every minute that passed was just a minute I couldn’t hold you. Every hour was just an hour someone else got to spend telling you how much they loved you.  At some point, I came out of my room and sat down in the living room.  Your brothers were watching cartoons and their dad lay on the couch.  “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?” he asked me.  I didn’t bother to respond.  No didn’t seem like an adequate answer and anything else I had to say to him didn’t seem appropriate in front of your brothers.
              “Bubba,” I said, calling your brother by his nickname, “Come sit with me”.  I just needed to hold him I thought.  “No,” he said, “I want to sit with daddy.”  As he climbed onto his dads lap, my eyes welled with tears.  “Buggy, do you want to sit with me,” I asked your older brother. “No thank you’” was all he said as he turned back to Nickelodeon.  That was too much for me to handle.  The tears spilled like waterfalls down my face as I made my way from the living room down the hallway.  I felt like such a failure as a parent.  Here I was, feeling like I had just given away my baby like an unwanted piece of furniture and the two boys I had raised nurtured and loved for four and five years didn’t even want me.  What a miserable excuse of a mother I turned out to be.
              I had intended on retreating to the solitary solace that was my bed, the place where I could lay and cling to my pillow version of you.  Somehow instead, I found myself rocking like a child on your brother’s bed.   I sat there for I don’t know how long-time was still irrelevant. I sobbed uncontrollably. Loud cries, hiccups and bellows. It was a sight that that would have looked over-exaggerated even by a Soap Opera’s standards-truly the type of work Daytime Emmy’s are made from.
              There came a time when the tears subsided to the point my vision was no longer blurred.  I looked around the room and I caught sight of the art easel by the wall.  In the unsteady, unpracticed hand of a five year old was written “Welcome Home, Mom”.  I stared at that message thinking how hard your brother concentrated, how patiently someone had dictated the message to him, letter by letter.  I realized that even as I had felt like my world was ending, there were two little boys waiting for me to rejoin theirs.
              I walked back into the living room and without a word, sat down in the chair. Your brother climbed into my lap and laid his head on to my shoulder.  He put his arms around me and squeezed the best he could and lovingly said “My Mommy”. Silently I started to cry again, but this time it felt different.  My heart ached for you, but I didn’t feel as if my chest was caving in.  I hugged my son and I thanked God that I was able to find someone who would love you (almost) as much as I do.  My husband looks at me, “Are you ok?”  “No,” I say, “But it’s alright.  I’m probably going to do this a lot, so be prepared,” I said referring to the sudden, seemingly unprovoked flow of tears.  I leaned down and kissed your brothers forehead twice.  The first one is for him, but in my mind the second one lands right in the middle of your beautiful face.
              There is a lot more to tell you, but the page is getting hard to see through my tears.  I hope your mom doesn’t mind, but I’m going to steal something from her now.  It’s how she told me that she would explain who I was to you, and now it only seems fitting that I sign this letter to you..

With Love,
Your Belly Momma

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