Author’s Note:
This summer I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a mother. I have an incredible mother. One that stayed at home instead of pursuing a career, one who makes homemade dinners and bakes cookies, one who never missed a carpool commitment. I never saw myself as a mother -- but a summer 2013 trip to Kenya changed that. Spending time in orphanages, schools and on the streets of rural villages and in Nairobi opened my eyes to what it means to be an orphan in the developing world. We are still in the process of pursuing international adoption and have partnered with Ethiopia and a local adoption agency. In March of this year we received a referral for a 3(ish) year old boy. Now motherhood is starting to feel real, although we are still a long way from clearing all of the red tape, receiving a court date, and traveling to Addis Ababa to meet our son, and ultimately bring him to his new forever home.
In the meantime, amidst all of the waiting, I’m left dreaming about my son and the mother I hope to become.
Motherhood: A Lyric Essay?
It was March 24th, the Tuesday of Spring Break when I got the call. I didn’t recognize the number and I’d long given up racing to answer each call after months of expectation. It was never THE call. The call we had been waiting for almost a year. The call for you. Until that Tuesday afternoon when finally it was. I expected to feel joy and euphoria and I did...briefly. As I combed through the documents, a small digital file that housed your brief life story, I also felt sadness. They say all adoption stories begin with loss -- what have you lost, little boy? What haven’t you lost? We will never truly know.
This summer I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a mother. I have an incredible mother. One that stayed at home instead of pursuing a career, one who makes homemade dinners and bakes cookies, one who never missed a carpool commitment. I never saw myself as a mother -- but a summer 2013 trip to Kenya changed that. Spending time in orphanages, schools and on the streets of rural villages and in Nairobi opened my eyes to what it means to be an orphan in the developing world. We are still in the process of pursuing international adoption and have partnered with Ethiopia and a local adoption agency. In March of this year we received a referral for a 3(ish) year old boy. Now motherhood is starting to feel real, although we are still a long way from clearing all of the red tape, receiving a court date, and traveling to Addis Ababa to meet our son, and ultimately bring him to his new forever home.
In the meantime, amidst all of the waiting, I’m left dreaming about my son and the mother I hope to become.
Motherhood: A Lyric Essay?
It was March 24th, the Tuesday of Spring Break when I got the call. I didn’t recognize the number and I’d long given up racing to answer each call after months of expectation. It was never THE call. The call we had been waiting for almost a year. The call for you. Until that Tuesday afternoon when finally it was. I expected to feel joy and euphoria and I did...briefly. As I combed through the documents, a small digital file that housed your brief life story, I also felt sadness. They say all adoption stories begin with loss -- what have you lost, little boy? What haven’t you lost? We will never truly know.
The Unknown Boy
When were you born?
Unknown
How old are you?
Unknown
What was your mother’s name?
Unknown
Father’s name?
Unknown
Did they cry when they said goodbye?
Unknown
We thought we were prepared for:
Orphan
Missing data
Malnourishment
“Global Developmental Delays”
&
a host of “Unknowns”
But we could not prepare for
“Abandoned”
For an inspector’s name
instead of a family member’s
on your “birth certificate”
For one date - February 2, 2013
The only clue
to your past.
I wept for the unknowns,
Sought solace in the small bits of information
scattered across the file
What DO we know?
We know:
You are our son
You are the one
Your birth mother must be beautiful --
just look at your eyes!
Your soul is pure goodness.
We can see this in your smile.
You are resilient
You are capable
You are a survivor
Abandoned no more,
Orphan no more.
Unknown no more.
Your “unknowns” shallow holes
We will fill with love,
Memories,
Hugs,
Books,
Happiness,
Comfort,
and many other knowns.
You are known to us.
You are:
Henok Kaleb
The known boy.
Never again unknown.
When were you born?
Unknown
How old are you?
Unknown
What was your mother’s name?
Unknown
Father’s name?
Unknown
Did they cry when they said goodbye?
Unknown
We thought we were prepared for:
Orphan
Missing data
Malnourishment
“Global Developmental Delays”
&
a host of “Unknowns”
But we could not prepare for
“Abandoned”
For an inspector’s name
instead of a family member’s
on your “birth certificate”
For one date - February 2, 2013
The only clue
to your past.
I wept for the unknowns,
Sought solace in the small bits of information
scattered across the file
What DO we know?
We know:
You are our son
You are the one
Your birth mother must be beautiful --
just look at your eyes!
Your soul is pure goodness.
We can see this in your smile.
You are resilient
You are capable
You are a survivor
Abandoned no more,
Orphan no more.
Unknown no more.
Your “unknowns” shallow holes
We will fill with love,
Memories,
Hugs,
Books,
Happiness,
Comfort,
and many other knowns.
You are known to us.
You are:
Henok Kaleb
The known boy.
Never again unknown.
On a rubric and by most anyone’s standards, my own mother would consistently rate between proficient and exemplary. My childhood was filled with warm memories, ballet recitals and unconditional love and support. It’s hard not to think about the mother I want to be -- the practically perfect mother I know I will never be. No one is. Not even my mother who sets a high standard. Where would my child’s birth mother rank among mothers by society’s standards? Was her choice exemplary or unsatisfactory?
In America we sometimes measure motherhood through material items: a child’s zip code, access to the best preschool, the safest stroller, or the number of books available in the home. I’m not precisely sure what struggles my son’s birth mother endured, but I know her worries were about the necessities -- access to food, shelter and medical care -- and that she would find herself overwhelmed by the options of cribs and carriers here. Her worries drove her to abandon her child in an airport -- a bustling space where she knew he would be quickly discovered.
And here -- after months of scrutiny, financial records, fingerprinting, background checks, an extensive home study conducted by a social worker, dozens of state certified and notarized documents, letters of support, and classes for “Becoming a Transracial Family,” I have passed our government’s test(s) for becoming an adoptive mother to an international orphan. Through signatures and seals I am deemed medically sound, emotionally fit, and financially stable (enough). And yet...none of this makes me a mother.
Our case worker will never know how many times a day I stare at my son’s picture. Or how I wait with childlike impatience on Fridays for our weekly update email. No one knows the dreams (and nightmares) I’ve had thinking about my son so far away in a place with limited resources and no home to call his own. No one knows how many tears I’ve cried worrying about a boy who is not yet legally my son but who became my child the moment I opened the file and thought Yes, that is exactly who I thought you would be.
Sometimes I stare with envy and awe at my friends and family members who so cavalierly treat parenting like it’s a right not a privilege. Motherhood is a gift. One for me earned through bureaucracy and background checks instead of trimesters and labor pains. My son’s birth mother’s loss -- her painful decision on that day in February in a crowded Ethiopian airport -- the catalyst for my own motherhood journey. We are both mothers, like all mothers, in our hearts. She did the best she could. I will do the best I can.
In America we sometimes measure motherhood through material items: a child’s zip code, access to the best preschool, the safest stroller, or the number of books available in the home. I’m not precisely sure what struggles my son’s birth mother endured, but I know her worries were about the necessities -- access to food, shelter and medical care -- and that she would find herself overwhelmed by the options of cribs and carriers here. Her worries drove her to abandon her child in an airport -- a bustling space where she knew he would be quickly discovered.
And here -- after months of scrutiny, financial records, fingerprinting, background checks, an extensive home study conducted by a social worker, dozens of state certified and notarized documents, letters of support, and classes for “Becoming a Transracial Family,” I have passed our government’s test(s) for becoming an adoptive mother to an international orphan. Through signatures and seals I am deemed medically sound, emotionally fit, and financially stable (enough). And yet...none of this makes me a mother.
Our case worker will never know how many times a day I stare at my son’s picture. Or how I wait with childlike impatience on Fridays for our weekly update email. No one knows the dreams (and nightmares) I’ve had thinking about my son so far away in a place with limited resources and no home to call his own. No one knows how many tears I’ve cried worrying about a boy who is not yet legally my son but who became my child the moment I opened the file and thought Yes, that is exactly who I thought you would be.
Sometimes I stare with envy and awe at my friends and family members who so cavalierly treat parenting like it’s a right not a privilege. Motherhood is a gift. One for me earned through bureaucracy and background checks instead of trimesters and labor pains. My son’s birth mother’s loss -- her painful decision on that day in February in a crowded Ethiopian airport -- the catalyst for my own motherhood journey. We are both mothers, like all mothers, in our hearts. She did the best she could. I will do the best I can.