*I started writing this a long time ago but found it recently and finished it off. It’s amazing to think how far we’ve come in just a couple of years.
I remember the moment that the idea of adoption turned into a real thing with a little human attached to it. It was when I first saw a picture of my son. I was in my bosses office and had just told her that we were in the process of adopting. She pulled up a picture of a little boy on her phone that she had been doing respite with and said “you should adopt him!”
It became real.
This boy needed a home, we needed a little boy. This boy had high needs, we were capable. He needed love, we had love to give.
From that day forward, a little piece of my heart started to love him. Although it would 7ish more months until we knew we were the right parents for him and it would be 9ish more months until he knew of us, the foundation was being built, very slowly, very carefully in my head and in my heart.
When it became official that we had been matched with Jonathan and we went through our panel meeting, I could feel the love grow just a tiny bit more. The night that we met him, it shifted again.
Loving him wasn’t instant, but grew over time. There wasn’t any one moment of fireworks and marching bands, but it was steady. And when I stopped and checked in with myself every so often, I could feel it changing and morphing and growing.
But man alive, was it tough.
How do you love a stranger when they scream at you, hit and kick you, bite and spit at you? How do you love a stranger when they have turned everything you know inside out and upside down, regardless of how bad you wanted it?
How do you love a little boy who fights you, comes between your marriage, turns you into a stranger to yourself and throws your whole world into a giant puddle of crazy?
I stuffed all the ‘what have we done?’ and ‘get me outta here’ feelings as deep inside as I could and I took all the ‘I give ups’ and the ‘I can’t do it any mores’ and hid them away.
I smiled at him, hugged him and told him I loved him, even when all I was feeling was anger and exhaustion and sorry for myself.
I did it because I knew that’s what he needed. I did it because I knew my feelings were secondary to how he felt. And I knew I had to see beyond the behaviour to the boy who under it all needed and wanted to be accepted and loved.
And so, I played with him, fed and clothed him, consequenced and praised him and told him that he was safe and wanted and important. All day, everyday. That out of all the little boys in the whole world, we wanted him to be our boy.
When he continued to hit again and again, we talked about how it doesn’t matter if he hits he will still be loved, still stay in this house, still be part of our family. I may not have always felt it, but I said it. And when he ran away over and over after hurting himself I followed him every time and patiently waited while he screamed for me to go away. I did it so that in between the screams I could tell him tell him that I loved him and it was my job to make sure he was safe.
And when he went to bed at night, I cried from exhaustion and frustration and loss of sanity and identity and everything that I knew for sure. And I cried from anger towards all the people who let him down in his short life. I cried from happiness because I had my boy.
Then I got up again the next day and repeated it all.
And one day I checked in with myself and I realize that the love had grown more. My heart was bigger, stronger, more full than the last time I checked. I realized that he wasn’t a stranger any more and that it had been a few days since he screamed or hit or spit, and that he hadn’t run away when he fell down yesterday.
And so on I went, looking beyond the behaviour and growing love.