The Gift of a Child

“Tell me about when I was born.”

I always start with once upon a time, the phone rang super loud in the middle of the night and woke us from a deep sleep, and we got the news that you were born. We were so excited.

Then, I tell him what it was like meeting him for the first time and describe his strawberry blonde thatch of hair. I tell him it was love at first sight — even though it took a full 24 hours to fall in love — and how I couldn’t have babies, and so we adopted him. And I always tell him how much we love him and how happy his sister is to have a baby brother.

“Why couldn’t you have babies?” I wasn’t prepared for this question from my three-year-old.

“My tummy was broken,” was all I could think of.

“Oh,” he says after a few seconds, “I must have been a gift.”

“Yes, you were a gift.”

I kiss him good night and turn off his light. I close the door softly behind me. Flopping down on the couch, exhausted from the day’s activities, I pour myself a glass of wine to smooth the edges of my day. I am forty, exhausted with two small children 18 months apart in age.

I am thinking about the adoption, as I pour myself yet another glass of wine, and wonder what I will tell him when he is older and a broken tummy no longer cuts it.

My son’s birth mother lived in a homeless shelter on the outskirts of the city in this far away country. I arrived with the lawyer, who was facilitating the process, to her squalid room.

Laundry hanging over the sink, a kerosene heater in the corner struggling to take the cold and dampness out of the air. A tiny bed in the corner, low to the floor — just a box really. She handed me her infant, who she could not take care of on her limited resources.

He was so perfect in comparison to the depressing surroundings. We began the legal process that took four months to wind its way through the court system. My husband held down the fort back home with our one-year-old.

. . .

Fast forward more than two decades, and my son’s words still resonate. Motherhood has taught me many lessons, but nothing prepared me for the heartbreak it would teach me. It is heartbreaking to see my son struggle through his special needs life with autism and be saddled with depression first as a child, then as a teenager, and now as an adult — a crushing and unrelenting illness.

Parents with children who struggle with challenges know the concern, worry, and stress, not to mention the guilt and self-blame we feel. Was there something we should have done differently? I was heartbroken because no love or healthy meal could fix or help or solve his situation, despite all the resources available.

My son taught me to see differently, listen differently, hear more, and be more empathetic about the struggle of others. I learned how fierce a mother’s love was, and that mothers walk over hot coals sometimes daily.

I learned I couldn’t control everything in my life and sometimes you just have to let go. Motherhood taught me how resourceful I could be advocating for and supporting my son.

Along the way, I learned more about myself than I ever dreamed possible. And on this journey, I met many kind people who were a soothing balm on my heartache. And these are the gifts of this child.

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This post was previously published on Change Becomes You.

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