I can’t tell you if it was raining or sunny. I don’t know if it was morning or night. I have no idea when or where labor began. I can’t discuss how nervous I was or where I was when my water broke. There are no silly stories about finding out I was expecting or crazy pregnancy cravings to share. I don’t have a birth story.
He doesn’t have my eyes, my nose or my smile. I don’t even know when the first time he smiled was. I wasn’t there the first time he rolled, giggled or walked. I didn’t feed him his first piece of cake or see his reaction the first time he tried a lemon. I don’t have a birth story.
I don’t have the first two and a half years of his life and at times I feel robbed. It’s not fair that I love this boy with all my heart and would give him the world, but I will never be able to tell him the story of his birth. When I am feeling upset that I never felt his kicks from the inside, I remind myself that I may not have a birth story, but I do have our story.
It was a Friday. There was snow on the ground and a chill in the air, but little Alexander warmed my heart as he looked out the car window and waved at me with a huge smile on his face. It was the first time we met and he acted as if he had known me forever. I got in the car with the little guy and his dad and we headed to Walmart.
It was really happening. Finally, this little cutie was coming home to live with us. We had been waiting for months for this to happen and it was finally real. Just a week prior, I had given up. I was ready to take the bed down and pack up all the stuff we had bought. The fight we had been battling was unfair, strange, and rare. His dad, while serving in the military overseas, had filed for custody twice before and had been denied. He had made CPS reports that had been tossed to the side and considered “false because they were made by an ex.” Finally, someone else brought attention to the situation. A family doctor and police reports regarding his biological mom flipped the switch and CPS began an investigation. Five months after the investigation started and after jumping many hurdles, Alexander was coming home with us.
We walked around the store picking out snacks and Alexander asked for chips. I lifted him out of the cart so he could pick and he started taking every bag of chips off the shelf and putting them into the cart. That would be the first of many times he made me laugh.
That weekend it snowed and we decided to play in the snow and go sledding. My daughter was 8 at the time and all of our winter gear was pink. He may have been wearing a pink scarf, but Alexander had so much fun that day with his new big sister, Vivian.
I remember shocking people with the announcement of the new little man in my life. I remember calling my mom for advice. I remember tucking him in at night and just staring at his sweet little face. I remember the moment I figured out that his stomach issues were due to citric acid and not milk. I remember the extra laundry, the potty training, reading stories, and kissing his boo-boos. I remember holding him tight and singing. I remember our first trips to the beach, the fair, and camping. I remember him calling me mommy even after much encouragement to call me Sarah. I think he knew it before I did. I am his mommy.
I may not have a birth story, but I have our story and it has just begun.
