It’s getting close to Christmas, New Years, and Max’s adoption finalization.
A new family is celebrating their first Christmas with their first child. There will be photos filled with his big brown eyes and chubby cheeked smiles. He’ll have toys coming out of his ears.
I’m wondering what it would have been like to have him propped in my lap as his sister and brother bounced around the living room opening gifts and “helping” him open his. I’m smiling and nodding through my daughter’s upbeat speculation on what baby boy will be getting from Santa.
Constant bittersweetness is….nauseating. It’s a constant balancing act of wonderful pluses and sorrowful minuses. I happen to have a personality that resents repetition, so this repeated adjusting on perspective of this entire situation is wearing on my being.
The regret and grieving comes and goes. The joy and relief does, too.
Again, I find myself letting my inner circle of friends know that one thing that isn’t advertised about adoption that very much should be is the constant hurt and healing. As much as I harp on those negative feelings, they are getting more manageable. It’s just tough having them repeatedly. It’s a fight I wasn’t fully aware I was going to be warring this way.
And as the season of togetherness and family settles in, it’s a different kind of poison on my heart. To see how tall and beautiful my daughter has gotten this year. Seeing my oldest son has grown unimaginably handsome. The progress I’ve seen my eldest children take has made it hard to realize that I will only see such change in Max through distant snapshots of his life as it’s already passed.
I try really hard not to overanalyze and not to be exceedingly critical. My eyes zoom in on cute shots and see ill fitting car seat restraints and car keys lying too close to his eager little hands. Things that are probably circumstantial, but as any mom knows can become problematic in an instant…and who am I, now, to say anything? It’s so hard not knowing what is while IT IS. It’s always going to be in past tense for me.
I love him more each month that passes. I wish the best for him more and more each day. And each day he’s closer to [legally] being the child of another mother and father. This six month period after relinquishment is one where you feel the tugs of “your baby” being lessened as “their baby” begins tolling like church bells in your head.