No me without her: A life before motherhood

May 11, 2017 by Beth Shepherd

I’d barely begun my story,“While we were in Tibet your dad and I saw…” when my daughter interrupted with,“Where was I?” My reply, “You weren’t born yet,” was the only clue she needed. Time to move on to a new subject. Another story about mom? Boring.

Trip to Tibet Himalayas 2008 Beth and Joel in Tibet

I understand children are the epitome of self-centeredness. A world they’re not in? No such thing. Private conversation with my husband? A question to another adult? She assumes I must be talking about her. From my daughter’s perspective, there’s no me without her.

Most of us know very little about who our moms and dads really are. Their lives before parenthood happened in another time, a different dimension. It’s almost impossible to imagine your mom was once a 6-year-old let alone a young woman with an independent life, goals, dreams, desires. How ironic considering many people become parents, in part, so they can “carry on” their lineage and be remembered. Yet the life our children remember is the life lived after they were born. We might look at high school photos of our parents with curiosity, but we are clueless about the entire story.

When my mother was almost 16, she was riding on the handle bars of a boy’s bike. She fell and broke her jaw. Doctors wired it together but my mother missed most of her friends’ ‘Sweet 16’ parties. This was a pivotal moment in my mom’s life. She’s told me this story numerous times. I know she felt deeply hurt and alone. I can tell this was one of the significant memories in her life. I’m pretty sure this is why she never learned to ride a bike. But that’s really all I know. Did her friends check in on her during her recovery? Did she like the boy whose bike she was riding on? How did he feel about what happened? Did he visit her? If they were dating, did they continue to date after the accident? These are details I would remember if it were my story. But it’s not. It’s my mom’s.

What my daughter doesn’t fully comprehend is I did have a life before motherhood. In fact because I became a mom later in life than most, I spent more Mother’s Days as just Beth, not Mama. During those years, the experiences I had formed who I became and influenced the choices I made, including becoming a mom.

Beth 2002 Beth, single, in 2002

Had I not spent a semester overseas during my junior year at college, I might not have fallen in love with international travel and international travel is one of the reasons I really wanted to adopt from another country. If I had married earlier in my life, I probably would have had a biological child. If our insurance hadn’t pulled out at the last minute, I might have given birth using a donor egg. Had our first trip to Armenia had turned out differently, I’d be the mother of a son not a daughter. If we’d decided to back out after another adoption fell through, I would not be a mom at all.

All these experiences, the minutiae, the twists and turns, the emotions and subtext. All these little details my daughter will never fully know or understand, make my story, pave the path that brought me to motherhood, the path that made me—for better and worse—the person I am today, the mother I am now.

The three of us 2016 A family of three in 2016

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms…no matter how you got there!

It’s all about the journey,

Beth

Mother’s Day: Mama’s IN the picture

May 7, 2016 by Beth Shepherd

I am always behind the camera, especially these days as I continue to work on my 366 Project, taking one photo every day for a year. Much as I love taking pictures, sometimes it’s nice to be on the other side of the camera. Last week I got my chance, in a pre-Mother’s Day event called Mama’s in the Picture, a benefit for Soulumination, a wonderful organization that celebrates the lives of children and parents facing life-threatening conditions by providing professional photographs of these special individuals.

The event was organized by two of the most amazing photographer moms I know, Wenmei Hill and Mary Balmaceda. They are the founders of Mamas with Cameras, a Seattle group with workshops and meetups for shutter happy mamas. Like me.

I’ve been an active member of the group for over five years–Wow! Has it been that long? I joined over a year before we adopted our daughter and used to joke that I was the only mother there who…wasn’t a mother. Now I am! I look forward to each monthly meetup because I always learn something new. Plus I get to hang out with some of the coolest photog mamas in Seattle.

Since I am so rarely in the picture, I frequently wonder what my daughter will think when she gets older about my role in the family. Where was Mama on that trip to Hawaii? How come so many of the family photos have me, Papa or the cats in them but not Mama? Why are there so few pictures of Mama with me.

I believe this is something moms wonder about a lot. Our jobs are largely behind the camera. We schedule and organize, plan for parties and play dates, shop for clothes and food, make meals and shuttle kids to sports events–we use our mama superpowers to stealthily make it all happen–behind the scenes. And that is why I was so excited for the opportunity to be IN the picture. Years from now, when my daughter looks back on these shots, I hope she’ll know that even though mama might not have been in many of our family pictures, she was always there.

A HUGE shout out to Wenmei Hill and Mary Balmaceda for giving us a mamas a chance to do something we rarely get to do; to Soulumination for the stunning venue; and, to Mamas with Cameras. You mamas are my inspiration in every way!

Happy Mother’s Day!

It’s all about the journey,

Beth

Dear Birth Mother: A letter on Mother’s Day

May 8, 2015 by Beth Shepherd

Dear Birth Mother,

I think about you on many days, and especially on Little Bird’s birthday and Mother’s Day. Had it not been for the difficult decision you made, I would not be celebrating this day.

With respect and gratitude for for the path you chose for your daughter,

Little Bird’s Mama

Full disclosure: I know who Little Bird’s birth mother is. I know her name. I have seen her face. And I know her story, the story that led her to place her daughter in an orphanage.

In many countries where children are placed for international adoption, though not all, there is very little, if any, information provided to adoptive families about a child’s birth family. For decades the U.S. sealed records for domestic adoption. Adoptees were unable to obtain information about their birth family, their own story.

Some families might find this comforting, distance between them and what–in most cases–is a painful story. I do not judge them. But for me, for us, we wanted to know. We wanted our daughter to know, because we have seen the ache this loss can cause for adoptees. From the very beginning of our journey, I knew I would search for my daughter’s birth family, and that I would search soon, before the trail ran dry.

As much as possible–and we fully acknowledge our own limitations–we want our daughter to grow up with a full picture of her life: not just her time spent with us. We want her to understand her Armenian heritage and be proud of it. We hoped that her birth family, if they chose to do so, might help us complete a few pieces of the puzzle. And I confess, maybe unrealistically, we even hoped we might be able to establish a line of communication between us, our daughter, and her birth family. I know families who have been fortunate enough to be able to have this link, and while the road may not be smooth, in the long run I believe it’s the healthiest outcome for all: birth family, adoptive family, and adoptee.

This was not how our search ended. Our daughter’s birth mother, though grateful to know her daughter is healthy and loved, did not want to establish contact. She offered up a few details, as did another member of Little Bird’s birth family, and we received some photographs, priceless gifts. Maybe one day we will try again, or Little Bird will be interested conducting a search of her own. Until then, on Mother’s Day, I will always think about the woman who gave birth to our daughter, with gratitude.

Happy Mother’s Day

And if you want to read more about all things Pampers, follow me on Facebook, Twitter or RSS/email.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

The apple of my eye through the lens of my camera

May 9, 2014 by Beth Shepherd

Through the Eyes of a Mother:

A photography exhibit by Mamas With Cameras

Last weekend I participated in a photography exhibit at Cave B Estate Winery’s Woodinville tasting room: Through the Eyes of a Mother. This was my first photography show–and–I got to be ‘on the wall’ with spectacular photographers, mamas all. I felt immensely proud that I was able to be in the company of these women, so incredibly talented and creative.

I’ve been a member of Mamas with Cameras for nearly four years now. I joined the group well before I became a mom. I’m fairly certain I was the only mom who wasn’t a mom for the first two years I attended monthly meetups, and it’s possible I am the only adoptive mama in the group.

I am–without a doubt–a better photographer for having faithfully attended monthly meetups, each with a fun speaker and photography exercise. Every single month, when I come home from the meetup, I say to my husband, “Wow. That was great. I learned something new.” I have also taken several workshops the group offers: Introduction to Digital Photography; Working with Natural Light in Manual Mode; and, Introduction to Post-processing Lightroom.

But what I enjoy the most is…the Mamas. They teach me, support me, challenge me, and inspire me.

“As mamas, we are privileged to witness the beauty that is revealed in simple, everyday moments with our children. ‘This exhibit celebrates the enduring love of mothers everywhere.”

~Cave B, Through the Eyes of a Mother

May your Mother’s Day be picture perfect!

Take the road less traveled, Beth

You can find out more about Mamas with Cameras on their website: http://mamaswithcameras.com/

The Commune of Motherhood

May 8, 2014 by Beth Shepherd

During the years when I longed to be a mama, but wasn’t, I felt like an outsider to a secret society: The Commune of Motherhood. I sat–metaphorically–on the sidelines at my neighborhood ‘Moms Night Out’ and ‘Mamas with Cameras‘, a monthly meet-up. I consciously chose to participate in both of these groups, despite my mama-wanna-be status, in an effort to make some mama friends, which I did, before I became an adoptive mom.

Of course, I didn’t think I’d be “expecting” for four years, but that’s how it my journey to motherhood played out. It wasn’t easy to be a fly on the wall as moms debated sleep schedules, shared parenting woes and tips or passed around photos of their adorable children. I was envious.

Being a paper pregnant adoptive mom isn’t the same as being belly pregnant, in a number of ways. For one, nobody “knows,” unless you tell them. Strangers might approach a pregnant woman,even if sometimes she wishes they wouldn’t, and ask “So…when’s the baby due?” I wasn’t sporting a visible bump, so no one had a clue I was hoping to be “in a family way.”

Slowly, while I navigated the interminable wait, I made my way to a small nucleus of moms who had adopted children from Armenia or, like me, were in the process. Some of us found each other through our adoption agency’s closed Yahoo chat group, and one or two contacted me via my blog.

Before I knew any of them, I was an adoptive family lurker. I’d spot an obvious, or so I thought, adoptive family ‘in the wild’ (read: park, grocery store). Occasionally I’d muster up enough courage to say something like, Where’s your child from? Sometimes this tact led to a supportive conversation though not infrequently I ended up with my foot in my mouth: I’m the nanny or My wife is Chinese, said to me, with obvious annoyance, by an older Caucasian dad at a park when I tried to show I was a kindred spirit, “What part of China is your daughter from? My sister adopted a girl from Guangzhou.“

Four years passed before I was able to meet any of these amazing women in person, save one, who coincidentally grew up in Seattle, and even more coincidentally happened to be in Armenia on one of our trips. In the meantime, we emailed each other, sometimes frequently. Threads with a hundred or so emails over the course of a week were not uncommon. Through our email conversations, we became friends, and some of us became very close friends.

These women saw me at my worst, through loss and dark times as I waited and waited and waited. Until one day I was–at long last–a member of the club, wiping my daughter’s snotty nose, shoving morsels of food in her mouth, hoping she wouldn’t fall to her death at the playground. I was a mom just like the rest of them.

So on this, my third Mother’s Day, I want to express gratitude to the Commune of Motherhood, mama friends –adoptive or not–who stood by me before I became a mom, and who keep me afloat now.

And to Sherri, Maribeth, Shelley, Denise, Bev, Theresa, Molly, Vivian, Elizabeth, Jackie, Carrie and Katie: You are my tribe.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Take the road less traveled, Beth

On being a real mom

May 9, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.

”Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.’Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘

When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.

”Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?

”It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

~Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

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On March 22, 2012, I stood before a judge, with Big Papa by my side, in Gyumri, Armenia as we agreed to care for an 11-month-old baby for the rest of our lives. Once the papers were signed, I announced to the world: I’m a Mom!

Legally, I was. But many months passed before I felt I could say: I’m a real mom.

References to real moms can be the source of great angst for many adoptive parents, when faced with (generally well-meaning) family or friends who ask: Do you know anything about her real mom?

We are fortunate that we have some information about Baby Bird’s birth family and know the reason why she was placed for adoption. This is not true for many adoptees, particularly those who were adopted from countries outside the U.S. Our daughter will grow up knowing names of her birth parents and where they were from, and we will do our best to explain to her the circumstances which resulted in her birth family being unable raise her.

I will never forget how I felt when Big Papa and I tucked ourselves into the taxi with Baby Bird and headed south, from Gyumri to Yerevan: Oh-my-God-we-are-parents …and we are clueless. And I remember our deer-in-the-headlights fear when Baby Bird screamed at the top of her lungs while we changed our first diaper, and when we gave her a bath for the first time.

I’m sure many first-time parents experience these feelings and wonder: How are we going to do this? Am I going to be able to keep this baby alive?

We had many more unanswered questions: Will our child bond with us? Will we bond with her? What challenges might we encounter that resulted from our child being institutionalized? Did our child spend the first months of her life faced with neglect, abuse, poor nutrition? Did her birth-mother smoke, drink, do drugs? How will we form our new family and honor our child’s culture while creating new traditions to share?

Now, a year later, we have a few answers to some of our questions and—no surprise here—we now have many new unanswered questions. Ah, parenthood.

I’ll be honest, our first year together has not been easy (not that anyone’s first year of parenthood ever is), but as Big Papa said to me: We are doing it. However imperfectly we muddle along, we are doing it.

So when someone asks me: Do you know anything about her real mom, I will say: Yes, I do. I see her every morning when I look in the mirror.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there

—no matter how you got there.

Take the road less traveled,

Beth

A Mother’s Day like no other

May 13, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

The first time I saw her and she saw me

This Mother’s Day, I am a mother. As I write this sentence I have to pause, because it is a lot to take in.

For me, the journey to motherhood has been long and arduous. Many Mother’s Days passed where I felt sad, adrift. And, at times, I didn’t believe it would ever happen for me. Yet here I am, in the sisterhood of Mamas.

I’ve spent many hours thinking about I would feel, what I would say, when—at long last—I finally became a mom. And now that am, what I find myself thinking about are other mothers: my own mom; my sister and Big Papa’s mama—both adoptive moms; moms I’m close to, especially adoptive mamas who have walked my path; and, women I know who are still on the journey, particularly those who’ve experienced loss, like I have, to get to this place.

Today, I am also thinking about my daughter’s birth mother. Without her loss, I would not be celebrating this day. Even though we’ve never met, we will always be connected to each other through this little girl.

Baby Bird’s nannies are in my thoughts too. They were her Mamas for nearly one year. I will never forget their kindness, and how well they cared for her.

And there is another Mama I am thinking about today. She lives in Armenia and soon will become a mother herself, for the second time. This Mother’s Day, I am wearing earrings she gave me, earrings I admired, earrings she took out of her own ears and handed to me.

I am humbled by these gifts, my earrings, and my child. I look at them, at her and remember the land where my daughter was born, the mountains, the way the air smells, the people, the food, her rich heritage, the first time our eyes met, our story of coming together as a family, and how our joy in becoming a family means there will always be another family who lives with loss.

My daughter, too, will always carry this loss, even as she thrives with our love, and with us. As an adoptive mother, these two emotions—love and loss—will be forever entwined in my heart.

On my first Mother’s Day, I proudly wear these earrings, gifted to me by an Armenian mother, and made by an Armenia woman from the city near where my daughter was born.

I hope to wear these earrings each Mother’s Day from this day forward. And one day, if I am blessed to be alive when my daughter becomes a mother herself, I will pass them on to her. I will pass them on and retell the story of who wore them first, of where they came from…of where she came from, who she was born to and who raised her. I will make sure she knows that becoming a mother—no matter how you get there—is the mother of all journeys.

Why I want to be a mom

May 6, 2011 by Beth Shepherd

Mother’s Day, these past few years, has been bittersweet for me. I’ll celebrate the day by honoring my mother, Big Papa’s mother, my sister and close friends who are moms, yet mourn that I am not amongst them. This year the sting is especially keen because I was absolutely certain I would finally be a mother myself.

I’ve thought about motherhood for a long time: whether I wanted it or didn’t, and why. For many years, I just didn’t feel the proverbial ache. Maybe it was decades spent single, where I either couldn’t envision or couldn’t afford to be a single parent. Or, possibly, it was the tense and somewhat distant relationship I had with my own parents. Whatever the reason, my urge to be a mother didn’t kick in solidly until my early 30s.

Unfortunately by that point, and then for the next fifteen years, during a time when I probably should have been working on making a baby, I struggled with boyfriends who didn’t want a baby, already had children and weren’t up for more, or weren’t able to sustain a commitment to me, much less to me and a child. Motherhood was in my sights, yet remained out of reach.

Then I met Big Papa. While he wasn’t driven to be a dad, I saw the way he interacted with my niece and children of our friends. He was stable, reliable, and he loved me. He had good sensibilities and, maybe more importantly, a good sense of humor. We are a great team. I could envision a chick in our nest. And, thankfully, so could he.

I knew the road to adoption would be filled with twists and turns, but never- in-a-million-years did I imagine what lay ahead for the two of us as we embarked on this journey. Who does, I suppose, when it comes to parenthood?

My friends sometimes try to soothe my angst and the heartache I’ve encountered by reminding me that being a mom is no picnic. On occasion, they’ll even offer to loan me their children. I’m regaled with stories of meltdowns in the supermarket, attempting to function after weeks with only four hours a night of sleep, or trying to take a private moment to poop and being followed into the bathroom by a wee observer. I get it, and I’m sure there will be days when I wonder “What the heck was I thinking?” Call me crazy, but I still want to experience motherhood.

Like any relationship, motherhood won’t be perfect. And truthfully, I wouldn’t want it to be. Some of the most rewarding moments in my life and my relationships, have been those that were hard to come by, where I waited and struggled and cried and questioned and learned.

That doesn’t mean the recent events with our adoption haven’t given me pause to think. It has been a lot to bear, that’s for sure. People frequently ask how we are navigating through all of this and whether we intend to continue.

“Are you sure you still want to keep going down this path?”

“Do you think you’re up for this emotionally?”

“Maybe you were meant to do something else?”

With all we’ve been through, why do we persevere? What is it about being a mother that I want so badly?

As an adoptive-mom-to be, I’ve had to answer the “Why I want to be a mother” question more than once between our home study and all the adoption paperwork we’ve completed. I’ve written and talked about how I plan to raise a child, what I’ll do about discipline, my views on religion, the role of extended family in parenting and how I’ll honor my child’s birth culture. But I don’t think my answers to those academic questions reveals the depth of my emotions and my desire to be a mom: the passion and longing that lie deep in my heart.

For me, the truer reason why I want to be a mom is the yearning I feel when I talk to that little girl at the gym.

“Is that your baby?” I ask her, referring to the dolly she just tucked into a storage cubicle.

She ducks behind her mama, shy.

“Aren’t you going to take her with you to daycare?”

“She’s napping now” is what she tells me as a small smile creeps onto her face.

Soon she’s prattling on with me and then she’s gone. My stomach gets a knot and feels like it does when I need a snack: hungry. I want more.

I want to be a mom when I’m outside doing something I love, like gardening. I wonder what it might be like to show our child the first signs of spring, to discover the world together. I long to share those parts of myself that make me—me—with a child, and to see the world anew through the eyes of my child.

Who is this child? How will the mystery unfold as she grows? This is another fascination I have with motherhood. Nature, nurture and life circumstance: how these forces come together and turn my baby into a child and then into a woman. I look forward to watching her bloom.

I imagine the difficult days too. Long nerve-wracking nights when my baby can’t sleep yet I am able to soothe her and meet her needs, or being there to help my child find her way through some of the sticky moments in life: indecision, love lost, and struggles with identity. Even though there will be times when being a mom is going to challenge me in ways I can’t even begin to imagine, knowing that I might be able to make a difference, give love and security to a child who needs love and security is another reason why I want to be a mom.

And perhaps the most potent answer to why I want to be a mom is this: for a short time, I was lucky enough to spend time with a child who might be ours. During those days, when I held her close, mothering just felt so right.

Mom-in-waiting

May 11, 2010 by Beth Shepherd

“Happy Mother’s Day” the friendly attendant says as we roll down our car window to enter the gates at Bloedel Reserve, a lovely public garden on Bainbridge Island. “Happy Mother’s Day to you too,” our friend K. replies cheerily from the front seat. “Oh, I’m not a mom yet,” offers up Ms. Attendant.

We drive off and K. muses, “How did she know that we are mothers?” “We?” I thought to myself. How indeed?

My friend is mom to two. Maybe she gives off that I’m-a-mom vibe or possibly Ms. Attendant simply assumed that two women of a “certain age” had to be mothers. Or her greeting might have been the salutation du jour.

For me, Mother’s Day is a mixed bag of emotions. I imagine my feelings are shared by many adoptive-moms-to-be. Truthfully the past few years I’ve wanted the day to pass by as quickly as possible. This is exactly how I used to feel on Valentine’s Day during my single years. Please just get it over with.

Meandering through Bloedel we saw rhododendrons awash with blooms and families celebrating motherhood. Sons escorted elderly moms across fields of green. Toddlers ran up the trails giggling under the watchful gaze of their mothers. Even the ducks in the pond showed off their little broods as they paddled and skittered at the water’s edge.

The sun was shining and we were in a beautiful place amongst friends. Being surrounded by plants, camera in hand and Big Papa at my side is generally a recipe for complete happiness. So why did I feel that something was amiss? I think it was my expectation that I would be amongst the revelers, because this year, I’d be in the mommy club, kid in tow.

Later, back at the Urban Cabin, I took another look at the thoughtful card Big Papa gave me earlier in the day. In it he reminded me that even though I might be celebrating the day as a mother-in-waiting, it’s still something to celebrate. That in adopting we are taking a stand and doing the right thing for a child…we just haven’t met him yet.

It is true that on the day that I do become a mom, I won’t suddenly become more caretaking, creative thinking, or adventure loving. I exhibit those qualities in the relationships I nurture right now. Once we adopt, I’ll just have one more person in my life to shower those traits on.

I decided to take what Big Papa wrote to heart. Do you only become a “real” cyclist after you compete in a race? Are you truly a writer only if your words achieve publication? Is it the public recognition that makes it so? Or instead, is it the mile after mile you log every day you climb on the bike and the thousands of words written in your journal that may never see the light of day?

So before I lay my head on the pillow last night, I closed my eyes and took a moment to honor all that I am that is already a testament to my abilities to “mother,” whether it’s the delicious meals I prepare for us each weekend, to the trips to the vet to attend to our sick cat, to the moments when I sit down and listen to Big Papa talk about his day and the hours I spend orchestrating our trips and adventures. Mothering is in all those little details and I do it every day.

Thank God we’re not Mothers Day

May 8, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Back in my 20s, every second Sunday in May, my female friends and I would congratulate each other on “Thank God we’re not Mother’s Day.” For us that meant we’d managed to survive another year without an unplanned pregnancy. We were invincible. Youth and fertility forever! We never gave a moment’s thought to menopause. Ah, the days of blissful ignorance.

In my late 30s and early 40s, I still believed pregnancy was possible. All the tabloid stories were proof. Gina Davis got pregnant at 47 with twins, as did Holly Hunter. Around my 45th birthday, I nonchalantly mentioned this at a visit with my gynecologist and she matter-of-factly informed me that they most certainly used donor eggs. I was dumbfounded. You certainly don’t read about that in People Magazine. I’m not sure I heard much of what she said past that point. I wallowed in pre-menopausal grief, as it dawned on me that chances were the only eggs in left in my basket were the chocolate eggs from the Easter bunny.

Now, six weeks away from turning 50, I fantasize about actually experiencing Mother’s Day, as a mother. It is almost inconceivable (pun intended). I conjure images of dry toast and runny eggs appearing bedside with cheery daffodils from our yard, as I wipe the equally runny nose of my child. I imagine cute syrupy cards from my husband telling me how proud he is of me, mother to our child.

Each Mother’s Day that passes feels painfully empty to me, just as Valentine’s Day did during my long stint of singlehood. I just want to get it over with. Quickly.

Friends share the news of their ‘blessed events’ and bouncing bundles of baby love seem to pop up out of nowhere. I see little ones every place I look – at the gym, the grocery store or giggling as they run by on the sidewalk in front of our house. Facebook announcements reveal that my high school peers are welcoming grandchildren. And the truth is that I find it harder and harder to genuinely share their joy.

Finding love that would last the rest of my life took 46 years. Big Papa was worth the wait. I’m certain choices for a husband that I might have made, even ten years earlier, would not have been happy or lasting unions. I know he’ll knock it out of the park as a Dad. Every day, I count my lucky stars that I landed a keeper.

As an adoptive mom-to-be, I’ve heard over and over again, that the angst and grief will disappear the moment my child is placed snuggly in my arms. Adoptive mothers say that I will forget the agony of month after month spent waiting, just as women who give birth soon forget each painful contraction of labor. That’s what they tell me. All I can say is bring it on. I’m ready to celebrate Mother’s day, with a child to call my own.