They Pick You

A good friend of mine and her husband are deep within the adoption process.  They've gone through the home study, made their book of "here's how wonderful we are and how much we love you and your baby".  She's awesome.  She'll be a great mom.  They get updates from their agency on prospective mothers and their interest.  Right now, their book is in a pile of ten in the hands of a birth mom.  That girl will pick three families she wants to meet.
Hopefully one of them will be the recipients of this amazing gift.

As my friend is updating me, she knows there's a chance that the birth mom doesn't even want to talk with them, let alone give her child to them to raise forever.
It's a painful risk that they may have to make more than once.

I am the {perfect parent.}
I offered the (unknowing and polite) comfort:  If it's your baby, you'll know.
And as I said it, I know it's very true.
Not just for them, but for every mother.

I thought of Avery and I shared my tale of woe that I experienced in my early (and not-so-early) days of pregnancy with her.
I'm {lucky} to have her.
I {love} her more than she'll ever know.
I am embarrassed reluctant willing to admit that I wasn't exactly thrilled when I learned that Avery was coming.
I was very selfish and upset and it had nothing to do with HER.  I didn't even know her.
I was worried I wouldn't do a good job.
I had a toddler I feared I was already messing up and here was another kid for me to send in to therapy 12 years from now.
It was a rough time and I had doubts within myself.
Every mom does.
You know you do.

I told my friend this and how, in that moment, after everything that I'd felt and feared, all the pain of the pregnancy and PAIN of my delivery, here was this tiny, blinking little person searching for my face and I just knew she was mine.  Or more, that I was hers.


When you're a mom, you just know.
I believe that Avery was picked just for me.
She probably even chose me.  I'll never know why.

My friend's baby, they're coming.
They've picked her already.

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