Birthday Eve

Love at First Sight

My mom recently sent me an e-mail regarding a project she was working on. She started a tradition with my nephew--her first born grandson--to compile for her grandchildren a First-Year-In-The-Life book with highlights of growth from infancy to toddling. She e-mailed me with simple questions about Solomon: where he was born, how much he weighed, what his length was, etc. Fun facts about the first moments of life. Her questions jarred me more than I expected.

Over the last 8 months, Solomon has transformed our lives and become completely our son. And yet there are things about his life that I don't know, moments that I was not privy to share in given the circumstance of our meeting. I don't know if Solomon's mom had him at home or in a hospital, I have no idea what he weighed. Such questions are easily asked, but the fact that I wasn't there suddenly felt raw.

Generations of my family celebrate birthdays with gusto, and part of the tradition is sharing the birth story. My brother and I know what time we were born, funny episodes about the labor (I shot out after my dad "bent my mom in half" during a over-vigorous back rub and was "purple as a grape"; Chris peed on the doctor while my Dad beamed with pride at finally getting a son). As Solomon's birthday approaches and I reflect on the rituals that were so fun for me in my childhood---looking at baby books, hearing my birth story and the joy my parents recount it in--I feel sad, sad I can't share that story with Solomon. As our adoptive child becomes so fully our own, I find myself grieving that I WASN'T there, that I didn't get to carry him in my womb, experience the pains of labor and the rewards of his first cry, mourning the days and months I missed in the life of this child who has wrapped his pudgy fingers so tightly around my heart. And so suddenly I find myself having to reconcile that I haven't been there for every moment of Solomon's life.

Love At First Touch

The social worker who did our home-study brought up the concept that adoption is a positive relationship born out of loss. A child has lost his biological family and possibly the experience of growing up in the culture of his birth. Adoptive parents sometimes adopt out of a loss to conceive or if not, eventually have to struggle with the loss of precious months or years of their child's life they weren't able to be a part of. I had never looked at adoption in that way before and thought it insightful. This weekend I'm beginning to fully understand the complexity of emotions her theory strikes upon.

She suggested that with every birthday, we set up some sort of ritual to do remembering and mourning. Maybe on birthday's eve. She advised we honor a ritual that gives space to grief, that opens doors to conversation. I love traditions and rituals that link season to season, year to year and so I'm anxious to employ this new one in the spirit of healing.

Tonight we'll light a candle together on his birthday eve (and hopefully on birthday eve's every year) for what we have lost. As Solomon grows older, we can allow him to remember the story of his birth to a poor family in Haiti, remembering a mother who loved him but gave him up, and a family he didn't get to grow up in. Patrick and I can light a candle for missing out on the chance to be pregnant with Solomon, his birth and the first 3 months of his life. Tonight we look at what we have lost or missed out on directly in the face, embracing the emotions the reflections stir. And with the rising of the sun, we'll be free to celebrate all we have in each other, celebrate that despite loss, we are all the more rich in love. We'll share the "when I first saw you" story and the love that sparked at first sight in an orphanage in Port-au-Prince. We'll recount the joy of our first day home together as a family, the relief at finally being able to love on each other around the clock, stepping forward into life together.

Solomon 11 3/4 months