Guest Post by Tracy: Two Moms Plus Four Kids Equals Love

Guest Post by Tracy: Two Moms Plus Four Kids Equals Love

Guest Post By Tracy:

I’m sitting here waiting for my pain-in-the-butt 3-year-old to finally fall asleep.  He’s thankfully still a prisoner in his crib, but boy, can this kid yell loud enough to wake the long gone if you leave the room before he’s completely down!

He’s smart.  He knows his loudness is our Achilles’ heel.  His twin 18-month-old sisters are asleep across the hall.  If he wakes them up, we’re doomed for the evening.  So I sit…rocking and rocking.

The Tyrant, as we “lovingly” call him, isn’t going down without a fight.  He’s grinning at me and asking me to go pee AGAIN.  I just caught a glimpse of that misplaced dimple he’s got under his eye and start thinking about his birthmother.  He looks just like her.

Why hasn’t she asked for any of the letters I faithfully send?  Why doesn’t she want a picture of this beautiful boy?  I’m going to have to tell him his story one day and I hate knowing that his heart will hurt.

I remember hearing my own adoption story as a little girl and feeling confused by it then.  Having been relinquished in the early ‘70s and placed by a local attorney into a home unfit for animals, I remind myself that his reality won’t be at all similar and not to over worry myself.

“Love him through it,” I tell my worried mother’s heart.  This child, this baby, is the reason my heart beats.  I am hopelessly in love with him.  After a pretty harrowing experience with a scammer during our two-and-a-half year wait for him, I taught myself not to hope for the child we were working so hard for.

I taught myself not to picture him or her or imagine a newborn in my arms.  Friends told us everything happens for a reason.  They told us it would all make sense once we’d found our baby.  Some even told us that we should have expected such heartbreak as no birthmother would ever chose a two-mom family for their child.

I don’t know what kept me going during this dark time.  I don’t know how I still have friends left after being such a basket case repeatedly either.  But at the end of it, when I finally held this perfect, sick child, I thought, “I know you.  You’re exactly who I’ve been waiting for.”

*             *             *             *

Our first baby, now 7, is downstairs when I finally get to reappear for our daily allotted hour-and-a half of special time now that his three younger siblings are asleep.  I find my handsome guy playing the Wii.  His other mother is home from work today and is getting her behind kicked at the slash’em, crash’em destroy-the-aliens commotion going on by our boy and loving every minute of it.  Our #1.

#1 came to us through an international adoption.   It was an adoption occurring at the right time under the right circumstances and by the most blissfully ignorant people alive.  We’d had enough of the fertility dance after 23 cycles.  After half a cycle one spring, I found myself unable to let my partner poke me even once more.

When I cried about my seemingly childless future to a friend, she mentioned a friend who had just returned from Guatemala with a baby girl.  She promised to get me some information and indeed brought me the agency documents the next day.

And off to Russia we went a mere 9 months later to pick up a 6 month old baby boy that my partner fell instantly in love with.  Me, not so much…  While my partner went to work daily and came home to a baby ready to play and giggle for an hour or so before obediently falling asleep for the entire night, I wasn’t so lucky.

I was faced with spending the day with a tiny, wailing baby who refused to be held or consoled by me all day.  As I enviously watched all of my childless friends go off to work each day and spend time with other ADULT people, I sank into despair.

Surely this was not the motherhood everyone raved about.  Surely your baby should “like” to be held.  Surely your baby shouldn’t have this “dead” look in its eyes.  The pediatrician told me I was over-reacting.  It was all in my head.  Friends told me that my baby was perfect.  He cooed and giggled for them and put on quite the show.

Something had to be wrong with me then.  The baby’s light went out as soon as it was just us.  I was a terrible mother.

Thank you, Lord, that I am a belligerent, aggressive b^%&$.  I knew my baby was struggling and while I couldn’t admit to quite liking him yet, I loved that child enough to walk back to Russia in stilettos.  And so, #1 and his Mama went on a mission to heal our hearts.

Watching my baby slay Ben 10s nemesis, I watch him now knowing that my child’s soul is relentless.  He’s going to fight until he wins.  He’ll never give up.  He’s a warrior who has overcome more in his seven years than most people will in their lives.  I fought to love this baby and he loves me back.

*             *             *             *

And now there are those twin baby girls…  Well, I actually had them.  I just could NOT bring myself to adopt internationally or domestically again, so off we reluctantly went to the fertility center again.  You see, I knew that the shots and disappointments and surgeries and miscarriages hurt less to me than what I had encountered during our two adoptions.

And wouldn’t it be nice to have, as an adopted person, just one person in my life that looks like me.  Just one.  Famous last words though.  There are twin replicas of me asleep upstairs.  After the pregnancy from hell, I was weirdly disconnected from them at birth.  And boy was I tired.  Having babies come out of your body and having to recover while you take care of them was the hugest shock to this adoptive Mama’s system.

I had dealt with my fair share of heartache.  I could buck up to that.  But having these babies wore my body out and then I got to take care of them while I recovered.  Supreme.  But looking in eyes that mirror mine is admittedly a balm to my soul.  I never wanted to search for my birth family.

My grandmother raised me and was my best friend.  Her love for me did and continues to fill every hole my heart might have.   Her voice sings the song of my life and I hear her reminding me that I am good enough, that I am pretty, that I can do anything.

I watch my boys do things exactly like I do them and know that I do them exactly like she did.  And so, while I am awed by my baby girls and their matching red hair and marvel at the way we are similar because of shared DNA, I hope it is she that they grow to be just like.  She was perfectly, enormously, and completely everything I needed.

I hope that my babies, both adopted and not, hear their own adopted mother’s song and the song of my partner, the mother who lives daily with the fact that this world won’t give her equal and legal rights to them and bears that weight with a determination and dignity others could never muster, and know that they have everything they need.


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