First Impressions
As I wiped my tears and gazed at little faces through the damp mountain air, a feeling of such delight filled my heart. The kids kept jumping and singing and shouting at us. Who am I to receive such a welcome? I figured they were just excited for my fellow travelers, three of whom they had already met. I was humbled. And then that's when I saw Jeff on the balcony, smiling down at us. I pointed him out to Scott.
Scott had in the weeks leading up to our trip become more concerned with our ability to adopt two or if two, not two at a time. I could understood where he was coming from as he is the provider of our family. Our ability to parent five children seemed a bit risky. How would it effect our marriage, our finances, our future? How would we ever pay for college? The questions kept rising from the depths of our parental fears; cracking their whips at us, driving us to retreat in a box of caution and comfort. Scott had told me the day before we left not to lobby him for David. And I promised as much. He had settled on Jeff. After all, it was Jeff we first saw in the speaking-picture. But when pictures become real human flesh with big brown eyes, you better believe that safe box you been resting in will be shaken.
Shaking. Shaking. Little hands reaching out and shaking my pant leg. In Creole they were saying, "hello, lift me up, please." There were so many of them I was befuddled. I wanted to scoop them all up and give them big hugs. I felt a little shy, like a first kiss, yet consumed by their sincerity. Then a sweet damp hand slipped into mine. I looked down and recognized it was David. Immediately I picked him up and thought, he found me. With his tiny fingers resting lazily on the corner of his mouth and with a soft faint voice he said, "Bonswa". "Bonswa," I replied. He relaxed in my arms as if he had always been there. A mother knows her child by the way they perch on her hip, like a piece to a puzzle, the child fits just so. I felt him slip into that nook, that same one that held Jadon, Caroline and McKenna many times before. I glanced over and saw Scott playing with Jeff and was delighted to see they had found each other, too.
This was the beginning of a tug of war. In grade school, at the end of the year we would have "Field Day" and tug of war would be the last event of the day. Classes would take on other classes and each class would strategically place their biggest kid at the end of the rope to be an anchor for the team. It would be one of the few honors that kid would experience. In the rules, the flag would need to pass the cone in order for the class to claim victory, coming close would not qualify. I remember the thick rope sliding through my hands and leaving burns and scrapes. Inevitably, a small kid would always fall and trip those around her. I recall the give and take, the sweat accumulated from the thick Virginia humidity sliding through our fingers loosening our grip. In tug of war it is important to find the rhythm of the pull, just like in rowing, so that each person is in sync with next. To win is complete unadulterated joy; to lose is to find your breath very close to the dirt, penetrating the soil with shame and defeat. So here I was over a thousand miles away from Belle Heth Elementary School and once again bracing myself at the pop of the starter's gun, and gripping onto something much larger than myself.
Scott had in the weeks leading up to our trip become more concerned with our ability to adopt two or if two, not two at a time. I could understood where he was coming from as he is the provider of our family. Our ability to parent five children seemed a bit risky. How would it effect our marriage, our finances, our future? How would we ever pay for college? The questions kept rising from the depths of our parental fears; cracking their whips at us, driving us to retreat in a box of caution and comfort. Scott had told me the day before we left not to lobby him for David. And I promised as much. He had settled on Jeff. After all, it was Jeff we first saw in the speaking-picture. But when pictures become real human flesh with big brown eyes, you better believe that safe box you been resting in will be shaken.
Shaking. Shaking. Little hands reaching out and shaking my pant leg. In Creole they were saying, "hello, lift me up, please." There were so many of them I was befuddled. I wanted to scoop them all up and give them big hugs. I felt a little shy, like a first kiss, yet consumed by their sincerity. Then a sweet damp hand slipped into mine. I looked down and recognized it was David. Immediately I picked him up and thought, he found me. With his tiny fingers resting lazily on the corner of his mouth and with a soft faint voice he said, "Bonswa". "Bonswa," I replied. He relaxed in my arms as if he had always been there. A mother knows her child by the way they perch on her hip, like a piece to a puzzle, the child fits just so. I felt him slip into that nook, that same one that held Jadon, Caroline and McKenna many times before. I glanced over and saw Scott playing with Jeff and was delighted to see they had found each other, too.
This was the beginning of a tug of war. In grade school, at the end of the year we would have "Field Day" and tug of war would be the last event of the day. Classes would take on other classes and each class would strategically place their biggest kid at the end of the rope to be an anchor for the team. It would be one of the few honors that kid would experience. In the rules, the flag would need to pass the cone in order for the class to claim victory, coming close would not qualify. I remember the thick rope sliding through my hands and leaving burns and scrapes. Inevitably, a small kid would always fall and trip those around her. I recall the give and take, the sweat accumulated from the thick Virginia humidity sliding through our fingers loosening our grip. In tug of war it is important to find the rhythm of the pull, just like in rowing, so that each person is in sync with next. To win is complete unadulterated joy; to lose is to find your breath very close to the dirt, penetrating the soil with shame and defeat. So here I was over a thousand miles away from Belle Heth Elementary School and once again bracing myself at the pop of the starter's gun, and gripping onto something much larger than myself.
Comments