He was born on the Fourth of July.
After twelve hours of labor and another two hours of pushing–he was here. Pink and screaming.
My doctor placed him on my chest and I remember breathing him in. I remember kissing him—at least a hundred times. I remember crying just a little. And I remember thinking of her.
. . .
I haven’t written much about our adoption or the birth of our second child. I know–I haven’t written much, period. But this month when everyone is sharing the thirty—or thirty thousand–things they’re thankful for—I’d be remiss not to share my gratitude for her.
I am—and always will be—thankful for our birthmother.
She made me a mother. She made us a family. She showed me what it really means to be selfless—a better person. And a better mother to my boys.
I’m one of the lucky ones. Lucky to say I’ve experienced the best of both motherhood worlds—through adoption and biologically. Both experiences made me even more grateful for the other. And the birth of our youngest son—experiencing all the pain and then all the love–made me so thankful for her.
She had all the pain—probably more. She breathed him in. She kissed him. She cried.
And then she shared him with me. So we could both feel all the love.
She trusted me with him from the very beginning. And I love her for that–Thanksgiving Day and every day.
. . .
I’m still giving thanks for all of you. I’m also thankful for my two sweet babies, Johnny and Dean. They make the holidays—and everything—so much better.
Happy Turkey Day, Chambana. And long live pumpkin pie.