I just came across the most amazing gift.
What a husband, who came up with this idea. I read some of the letters. I wrote a letter. You should, too.
Write to your mother, to a birth mother, to a future mother, to all mothers, to yourself if you want to!
Waiting mothers, mothers of 8 kids, we all have plenty to say.
The Mother Letter Blog.
Also, anyone who writes a letter will recieve copies of all the letters.
It's a gift for all of us.
I hesitated to post my letter here. I have actually been staring at this page for 20 minutes. I don't mean to bog down my blog with laments and heartache. I know I had a bad night recently, but I try to be honest here, and if I have two sad blogs in a month, then so be it. You can always choose not to read it if you have had enough of weepy 'lil me.
I am the mother of our son. The beautiful boy that you and your husband somehow found the strength to let go of. To send him far, far away, and face the reality that you may never see his sweet face again. What kind of courage does that take? How big of a heart?
What does it feel like, to not be able to put food in your child’s mouth when he is hungry? I can’t imagine. I can’t imagine having the strength of lions. The guts to walk through fire like you have done.
He looks like you. He is so tall and has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen. He is dynamic, hilarious, and so full of love. He has started to understand a bit more of his story. This week, for the first time, he asked me why Mommy and Daddy had to come to ‘Opia to get him and bring him home. My mouth opened, but nothing came. How do you explain such tragedy to a wide eyed 2.6 year old, when he himself is the center of the tragedy? Such a blessing for us, having been brought to life by our son, but at a cost that haunts me daily.
I wonder how many times a day you think about him. I wonder if you still cry every day. I wonder if his older siblings miss playing with him. I wonder if they hope he will come back, magically return and make it all okay. I look at my wedding photo and realize that you were four months pregnant on that day. I had no idea.
I remember you crumbling to the floor like a hurt child when I gingerly and shamefully handed you the silver 5x7 framed photo of our baby boy. It seemed insulting, in a way. I wanted to run away from it all at that moment. I wasn’t brave enough for this, I thought.
The idiocy of that thought sent flames to my cheeks. Brave? Brave? You have the audacity to feel sorry for yourself? I had to find my balance, because I remembered that you expected more from me. I needed to show you that I was going to be a good mother, no, an incredible mother, because what choice did I have? What choice do any of us have?
I always remember that I could have easily been born you. You could have been born me. When we were born, we landed where we landed, and I don’t think I will ever understand it. There is no justice in what has happened. I try to believe that if our roles were reversed, that I would have been strong enough, too. To do what you have done. You brought him to me, to my family. He is adored. He laughs (but you can’t hear it). He sings songs (but not in his native tongue.) He gives hugs and kisses constantly (how I wish you could feel them).
We teach him about you. I tell him what I remember and what I wrote down. I know the day is coming when the questions will be more detailed, more intense. There will be pain, confusion, and tears. I am doing my best to keep my promise to you. We have so much joy in our lives because of him. Because of you.
I believe that one day, we will meet again. In this life, in another, somehow, somewhere. The connection that we have as mothers is unbreakable. We share the love of one child, one beating heart that means more to the two of us than to anyone else in this world. I am honored and humbled to share that love with you.
You wondered why we had not had any children before. Your hope was that he would grow up with lots of siblings. I assured you that he would have that, and you would be happy to know that our boy is now a big brother. A brother more in love with a baby sister than I ever thought possible. He makes her laugh. He soothes her. He helps feed her. You would be so proud.
One day, I will tell you all this. I will hold your hands and tell you the stories of this life you gave me, and him. We will laugh, and we will cry, and I will never, ever stop until that happens. I am keeping the promise, dear mother. You are my family, and I love you, from far, far, away.
Mother of 2