whatever it takes

Before there was a picture, my heart held an image of you. I penned my name on the adoption application, and your life was written into my heart. “Whatever it takes”, took on new meaning. The forms, the hoop jumping, the check writing, the calls, the fingerprints, the background check, the study of our home, and the steady push toward a hundred unknowns. A list was given of what it would take to be your family, and we checked it off.

Soon, a picture of little you appeared, and oh how I knew. I’d do whatever it took to get to you.

Whatever the obstacles. Whatever the red tape. Whatever the wait. Whatever.

In China, “whatever it takes” was all new once again. My arms felt the weight of you with your sad eyes, raging fever, infection, no appetite, terrified sobbing, list of medical needs, bag of medical supplies, and wall around your heart. No idea what being your mommy would take, or IF I could do what it would take, I could only do whatever the moment, whatever the trip agenda, required.

Now home, we’ll trek forward with “whatever it takes”, minus the handy checklist.

I’ll simply take care of you. I’ll adjust my days, learn nursing techniques and juggle your appointments with your siblings’ schedules. I’ll creatively battle your veggie aversion and sneak probiotics into your sippy cup. Trusting new instinct, I’ll call the nurse when a low fever feels like something more.

I’ll research and fill my notebook with questions for the doctor, seek specialists, and humbly ask friends to babysit. I’ll check my watch in waiting rooms as I fill out more new patient paperwork, marking “unknown” under family history. I’ll drive to another state for an expert. I’ll add edema (swelling) and febrile (fever) to my widening dictionary of medical jargon. I’ll do pre-op, post-op and listen to discharge instructions. I’ll fill and refill those prescriptions.

I’ll wake another day and let you follow me from room to room because you feel safer with me in sight.

I’ll hold you a bit longer than my arm wants to.

At the sound of your cry, I’ll stumble into your bedroom at 1AM. I’ll hold you during another church service because you panic at the sight of a childcare worker.

I’ll do a daily “lovie” wash so comfort awaits. I’ll smile at you and pull you into my lap when I’d rather have a moment to myself.

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours.