How My Adopted Son Is Discovering What 'Mother' Means
He’s 4 years old, and he just had his first Mother’s Day.
Ich denke, ich bin wie die meisten Mütter. I’ve often worried that I’m not enough, that I don’t measure up, that I fall short often. Many a day, I’ve carried guilt packed with inadequacy, torn between work and home, career and family. I’ve bought the lie that I have fallen short in the motherhood arena.
Admittedly my cooking would never grace the pages of a cookbook. In fact, my children will write that their favorite meal cooked by their mother is called “Ramen Surprise.” This culinary delight would be most appreciated by those under the age of 18 and possibly any adults who have lost their sense of taste. Es ist bekannt, dass ich Seiten in einem Gute-Nacht-Märchenbuch überspringe, vor allem, weil ich mich etwas manisch fühle, wenn ich Red Fish Blue Fish mehr als zweimal pro Woche vollständig lesen muss. I actually start to hear the words marching through my head and whispering to me during the day. It only becomes a problem when, in my job as a nurse, I say them out loud to my patients in a singsong voice:
Dieser hier gefällt mir nicht so gut. Er schreit nur, schreit, schreit. Ich will diesen nicht bei mir haben. Wenn er reinkommt, lasse ich ihn raus. Dieser ist still wie eine Maus. Ich habe ihn gern im Haus.
There are many days that I realize I haven’t unpacked my children’s backpack for a couple of days, and this means I’m winging it. When I say “winging it,” it means I am counting on my children to remind me of field trips and crazy hair day. Mostly this does not work out so well, unless it’s crazy hair day and they go to school without their hair combed. I’ve also shamelessly thanked God they had school when it rained for the third day in a row. Yes, I’ve carried these inadequacies, and I’ve worried I fall so short. If I scroll through Facebook and Pinterest, I can’t help but compare, and with six children, I cannot keep up.
This year was Israel’s first Mother’s Day, and the magnitude of this was not lost on me. Und in letzter Zeit habe ich mich nicht mehr so unzulänglich gefühlt. Israel bringt mir bei, wie eine Mutter aussieht. My son was labeled malformed at birth with legs that don’t work, but God created him with a heart that does—and it beats for me. I’m his center, and at the moment I wake him or walk in the door, his eyes light up and his arms reach for me. Und ich beginne zu verstehen, wie eine Mutter definiert wird.
Through Israel, I have realized that being a mom is not a job of perfection or a destination to reach. He is slowly teaching me what a mother looks like. It’s truly a beautiful thing, because Israel has no basis for defining a mother. Wie sieht eine Mutter für ein Waisenkind aus? Wie riecht oder fühlt sie sich an? Wie berührt eine Mutter?
Israel sat for four years, and no one covered him when he was cold in his crib, kissed a boo-boo, or wiped a tear. And so he learned to be cold, tearless, and quiet. He learned to have no expectations of love or care. Israel did not smell home-baked cookies, mommy’s perfume, or outside air. The smell of the orphanage was antiseptic and old urine. His body was fear-laced sweat and hypervigilance. Er durfte nicht raus. His breath smelled of decaying teeth that were covered with a brown film. Food was liquid brought onto the unit in a tin cup delivered with efficiency and cleanliness. There were no special treats, birthday cakes, or popsicles on a summer day.
There was no silly, laughing mommy to chase him around the rooms, tickle his belly, or peek-a-boo. He learned that this world was a hard and cold place. Love was not free; Gunst wurde verdient. Do you see how he has taught me that being a mother is simple? To Israel, I kiss his boo-boos, wipe his tears, and keep him warm. I’m the touch of a mother, and it’s gentle and loving.
I’m the eyes of a mother who watches for danger and protects him from hurts. I have a mother’s lips that smile and speak encouraging words when the climb seems too hard. I’m the mommy smell that is laundry soap and outside air. I own the mother’s heart that beats with love for a little boy. All of these are bestowed without earning favor, because a mother loves for who the child is, not who they will be. It’s not so hard, this mother’s love.
Da Sie noch nie eine Mutter hatten, heißt das nicht, dass Sie nicht definieren können, was eine Mutter ist. Jede Nacht lege ich Israel in sein Bett und es ist zur gleichen Routine geworden. Er klopft auf sein Kissen und sagt: „Mami, Nacht, Nacht?“ Und ich liege neben ihm, sein Gesicht nah an meinem. And then he always asks, “Israel’s mommy?” und seine winzigen Finger streicheln meine Wangen. Und seine fragenden Augen bohrten sich in meine Seele. Eine Frage der Sicherheit, ein Junge, der definiert, was eine Mutter ist. Er schlingt seine Arme um meinen Hals, und ich halte diesen kleinen 4-jährigen Jungen fest und ich rieche die Babybadeseife und den süßen Duft seines Atems.
Ich höre ihn noch einmal fragen: „Israels Mama?“ Ja, mein wunderschöner Junge, ich bin Israels Mama und ich bin genug.
Dieser Artikel wurde ursprünglich am 23. Mai 2016 veröffentlicht