As a mother to three boys, my oldest having joined our little clan through adoption and the two younger being biological, it irritates the crap pains me when people suggest either subtly or, in some cases, not so subtly, that it “might be hard” to love them all the same.
After all, there’s just a “natural connection” to the sons who tumbled and kicked inside my belly for eight months, right?
It’s true that I didn’t get to experience the joys of morning sickness, swollen feet, crazy mood swings, stretch marks, that unique third trimester feeling when I was sure my crotch was just going to fall off at any minute or recovering from a painful c-section, but other than those treasures of bringing a baby into the world, my experience with Ky’s pregnancy and birth was very much the same as those of the other two Cooper troopers.
My family’s adoption story isn’t like most. We had a unique, beautiful, personal experience the whole way through the pregnancy. My husband and I never sat at an adoption agent’s desk filling out forms and waiting for an opportunity. Our opportunity was sent by heaven itself. A wonderful woman happened into my life the year before, and though we didn’t know it at the time we met, we wound up sharing the most amazing journey ever.
Kyan’s birth mother and I were friends, so she’d told me she was pregnant just a couple days after she found out. At the time, her financial circumstances weren’t ideal, and though it grieved her deeply, after a few weeks of careful soul-searching, she courageously and selflessly made the tough decision to give her son the life she wanted for him.
When she asked me to be his mother I was so honored. My heart soared the same way it did when I found out I was pregnant with my other children. A baby. The gift of life. The miracle of motherhood. That awesome moment when I knew I was to be a mother was exactly the same with all my boys.
Over the course of the next nine months, I went through all the ups and downs of pregnancy, just without the those terrible stretchy belly pants. I prayed every night for him to be safe and growing just as he should be. I stood by her side and watched him wiggle around at every ultrasound. My husband and I excitedly called our families to tell them we were expecting a boy and to get the Bears jerseys ready.
We cheerfully made all the necessary preparations in our home to accommodate our impending bundle. Gathering ridiculous amounts of baby clothes. Painting the nursery and carefully putting up a playful cartoon animal border. Oohing and ahhing over adorable baby shower gifts. Glowing.
The day before his birth mother’s planned c-section, I got things set up at work for my 6-week maternity leave. That night, I didn’t get a wink of sleep, so nervous and excited for his big debut, just like with my other boys, who were also born through planned deliveries.
On the morning he was born, I held his birth mother’s hand as she brought our little miracle into the world. We shared the moment of his big, healthy, first cry. I watched anxiously as the nurse cleaned him up and performed his APGAR tests.
Tears of joy streamed down my cheeks as she handed him to me and I saw his sweet, little face for the first time. And I’ve loved, cared for, nurtured, treasured and guided him for every moment of his life since…just as I have for the rest of my brood.
Today is his 6th birthday, and I can say without any hesitation whatsoever that there’s never been a split second in Kyan’s life where I’ve ever felt even the slightest bit differently about him than I have about his brothers. In fact, the notion is sheer lunacy.
My sons are all dreams that came true. They’re all miracles. They’re all the loves of my life.
And, they’re all equally, adorably, wonderfully, amazingly mine.
