Some housekeeping: I am away for a wedding next Monday - in New York! - so your next missive from me will come Thursday, where no doubt I will tell you all about it. Have a great weekend!
I suppose most people meet their child in a birthing suite. I met my child in a park.
I drove at about ten miles an hour to get there, hands at ten and two, eyes dead ahead, no music on the radio.
I’m going to meet my son. I’m going to meet my son. I’m going to meet my son.
Parking up, it seemed insane to me that families were on their scooters and bikes, grabbing coffee and snacks and feeding the ducks.
I AM GOING TO MEET MY SON! I wanted to cry. CAN YOU ALL PLEASE TAKE NOTE!
How was it possible that the world was turning, minutes were passing, the sun was shining? Wasn’t time was due to stop?
I’m going to meet my son.
But that’s the things about life’s epochal events – for everyone else, it’s just another day.
My pivotal moment beat strong in my chest. Surely everybody could tell that I was on the precipice of a fundamentally transformative ten minutes. Ten years? I took a turn around the park, watched the kids play, watched their parents. I’m going to be one of you, I thought. Followed by: holy fuck!
I’ve spent most of my life being told I would “grow out” of wanting to adopt. But I always knew. I always knew my path would be parenthood through adoption. When you realise you have the capacity to take somebody who needs it out of the care system, you sort of… can’t un-know that about yourself?
I built my whole life around becoming a single a parent through adoption, but we can talk about that another time, the certainty of it. My point is, I had absolutely no doubts. None. Zero.
One minute, I was watching a little girl and her sister in the sandpit, and I was not yet a parent.
And then I saw my guy’s foster carer across the way, and my eyes shifted to the little body beside her, and that was it. I was a mother.
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