Every now and then I hear parents refer negatively about their child's birth mother and it really grinds me. It ticks me off to hear people who have been blessed beyond measure by a little bundle of joy dismissively, condescendingly, or even cuttingly talk about his or her birth mother, this woman who brought that little sweet one into the world. Do they not think about what suffering she likely went through? The unbelievable loss and grief? The tremendous blessing and gift she gave them?
This time of year always makes me a little more emotional. Grateful. Reflective.
Ten years ago today, Pookie's birth mother went into labor more than three weeks early. She called and we hopped on a plane as fast as we could, hoping to be in the delivery room as planned.
Those hours of flying and then driving in the middle of the night to the hospital were filled with... excitement, anticipation, worry about Pookie and his birth mother, grief for her, joy for me. That bittersweetness was overwhelming.
Is overwhelming.
Pookie's birth mother.
She knew about him first. Loved him first. Chose LIFE for him. Chose us as his Forever Family. Chose me to be his mama. She felt him move inside her belly. Watched him on the ultrasound. Knew he was a "he" first. And, she welcomed him into the world.
I didn't. Our plane got delayed and I missed the birth of my sweet boy.
Looking back, I'm so glad for her that that moment was hers and hers alone.
She got to hold Pookie first. Kiss his sweet face, his tummy, his little toes. She had those moments with our boy to herself.
To say, "I love you. I always will."
To say, "Goodbye, my love."
When we arrived at the hospital and tip-toed in to their room, she greeted us with kisses and tears and said, "Come, meet your son."
I am so grateful.
