It’s such a hard day for so many women, a hassle for others, and a disappointment for some. For me, this year, it was all about a petite, dark-haired woman who lives thousands of miles away. I will never meet her. I will never know why she did not raise the daughter that we share. I will never stop wondering about her thoughts, her motives, her dreams, her prayers. I can’t say something sentimental about how I know she’s wondering if that baby with the perfect lips and sweet, round face is happily growing up with another mother, because I can’t know that, and we’re trying to be honest about the few facts we have. We never want our daughter to feel like we lied to her. But, we do know that someone carried her for 9 or so months, felt her kicks, and gave birth to her. We do know our precious one wakes up crying for people we have never met. Does her first mother grieve at night, too? We do know that she is fearful of being left behind every time we so much as get out of the car. What were her first mother’s fears? We do know that she loves to look at books, is interested in animals, and thinks tangerines are the most delicious thing in the world. Maybe her first mother likes some of those things, as well? I don’t know. There’s so much I don’t know. It physically hurts to think about telling my spunky, tenacious little girl, bit by bit, how much we don’t know. Her heart will be broken, and this mother’s love will not be enough to make it okay.
One week ago, we honored the several other women who have loved and mothered our daughter. I don’t know if they are thinking of us, but I do know we will never stop thinking of them.