An adoption bud is in China right now, three days from meeting her daughter, and she wrote a line about “that sweet little face that needs her mama to come pick her up” and my heart just broke.
Rory has a sweet little face, and she could use a mama to come pick her up, too, and in all honesty I’m still not feeling it.
I like her fine. She’s swell. She’s even very special, and she’s been through so much, and this is undoubtably tougher on her at some deep level than it is on me. She deserves way better than me. Would her foster mother’s heart open wide, if Rory were to run towards her right now, the way I would if Wyatt were returned to me after we’d been apart for two months? Or does no one’s heart pine for Rory? Oh, that’s even worse.
I also just read a line in Martha Beck’s memoir, Expecting Adam, that resonated for me. Adam, she says, is surrounded by little miracles. I have felt that with Rory, too–that forces move mountains on her behalf–but I seem to be the immovable object.
I’ve said a couple of times today, to people I know and know a little, that we’re fine, that we’re good, that the worst is over, as I said in an earlier post, and it is. It’s quite over, it’s completely over, the tantrums have eased and my rages died down and we are all settling in together quite nicely, like room mates in for the long haul.
But Rory needs passionate, abiding maternal love, and all I’ve got is vague affection. My blogging friend, and so many others, fell in love with their adopted children. I haven’t. That’s the hard question, the one that should get left but brought back out once in a while, I guess. Do I love her yet? Do I love her yet?
Isn’t it ok that I don’t? Shouldn’t I get a few months, a by until Christmas, maybe? I’m taking care of her. I’m snuggling her when she falls down, I’m kissing her good night, I’m reading her and telling her all day long what the word is for this and that. I’m wiping her. I am going through all the motions.
Ok, force that has powered Rory through her life, tossing her up and then gently landing her on her feet again and again. Move me. Fix this.
Seriously, let’s get on with it.
And can I say, that I don’t think she’s there yet either? She talks about us a lot. Proudly. That my mommy! That my daddy! But is she really convinced? I like her best when she’s running around, running like any kid (and, probably not incidentally, not sitting on me or yelling). Maybe she likes it best then, too, when she doesn’t have to think or try anything new or adjust to us. Maybe she needs some down space too, somehow. She’s not much for tv. She’ll play on her own, but I can’t give her that, exactly–she kind of has to go find it.
Maybe this is the point where we just need to settle in and let it kind of, take. The cuts have been made, the graft taped, let the healing begin.