As I write this, a snotty little guy lies in the pack n play next to our bed heavily breathing, deep inside an unawakenable slumber. (When this guy is ready to sleep - he is out for the count). I keep looking over every couple minutes in disbelief.
That is my kid.
I have a son.
The depth and reality of this sometimes is overlooked between the feedings, the poopy diapers (or more often- the fret over lack of said poopy diapers), the laundry, family, friends, Christmas.
I cannot compare this to anything else. I do not know what it is like to come home from the hospital with a fresh wrinkly newborn or hear that first cry as a baby is placed upon the exhausted laboring mother's chest and still I watch as his chest moves rhythmically up and down in a deep peaceful sleep filled with surprising assurance and confidence that we belong together.
And I feel like I have labored, like I pushed for hours. Then with an exhausted cry, sweaty brow and a nauseated husband; walked out of the airport and collapsed into my families arms as they greeted our child into a new world.
I once heard a sermon by David Platt where he expressed that he kept thinking adoption as a second best option. Even during his families journey to bring home their son. While excited, it was at most -second best. Until they were home.
Then it became BEST.
Either way. You end up arriving at the best.
I no longer go to gender reveal parties or see baby bumps and ache that my journey did not take me through that path. Instead, I see them and rejoice for those moments for sweet friends and pridefully ponder the uniqueness and beauty of my own Little Man's story. Pretending all the grief and insecurity of infertility magically slipped away as the plane taxied into our home gate would be a lie. But just as they have experienced a precious joy that I might never personally encounter, I have been blessed to go on a journey that they might never walk through either.
He is our OWN son. Because that is what adoption is. Where he did not own before, he owns now. He did not have a single thing to bring with him or any visitor to say goodbye to when we walked out of that orphanage. For 7 months nothing belonged to him. He might not carry our genetic makeup (but can we just say that his biological parents sure did pass on some major cuteness) yet he carries every inch of our heart and soul.
The intimate exchange of souls where the definition of BELONGING takes root.
We belong to him. He belongs to us. We are each other's owns.
AND DID I MENTION? IT'S THE BEST.