I forget

Sometimes I forget that my Happy One was born addicted to somewhere between four and seven different drugs coursing through his five-pound body. He suffered through withdrawals for a solid four months. He didn't learn to roll over until his first birthday. He didn't hold a bottle or feed himself until he was eighteen months old. He didn't know how to process pain until he was twenty-nine months old, just two months ago. He went through six months of feeding therapy and still struggles with gagging. He is two and a half and at times the specialist refers to his maturity as that of a nine month old. He takes everything in. He struggles to get thoughts out. He has impulse control issues. He has had all the therapies: occupational, speech, physical, and we're in the beginnings of behavioral. He has his very own case manager to help me navigate the world of special needs.

 Sometimes I forget that he’s adopted and that his genetics are not mine.

Sometimes I forget that even though I brought him home from the hospital, that I wore him nonstop and loved him in all the same ways I did with my biological babies, I was still required to leave him for visits that were inconsistent for over a year. I forget sometimes the bruises his little fingers used to leave on my arm as he was pulled off of me. I forget the times I sat in the parking lot and cried. I forget that he didn’t understand that I was required to do that, and that he never knew how close I was to him in case he needed me.

I forget all of this because I’ve adjusted to our normal. When he starts vomiting at the dinner table, leaving our friends wide-eyed, we just assure them he’s not sick and explain this is our normal. While his verbal words are few I know all of his sign language and queues. I have learned that little bits of change can send his whole day sideways. For us, it’s just us.

But then sometimes he gets sick and suddenly we’re catapulted back to a time where his feeding issues become a major thing again, where his words completely disappear, where it seems everything we’ve worked towards has vanished.

It’s in these times when he throws a toy at me for the millionth time and splits my lip that I just ugly cry. I cry from exhaustion, and the hope that seems to be a lie. I cry from the wickedness of my heart and the bitterness I feel towards the one who hurt him, altering his life before he even took a breath. I cry because I have given more then I realized I even had to offer, but still I am not enough. I cry because who is God to allow this to happen to him or me?

There it is. In the middle of all those tears: My joy is being stolen by my very own proud heart, my heart that thinks it knows better.

It’s in the moments that I let go of it all that I finally begin to see clearly. When I stop trying to be enough, that is when I see the truth.

I am not enough for my special needs boy or even my big ones. That’s intentionally done by design. It’s arrogant for me to think I should be all my kids need or to think I don’t need outside help. It’s arrogant for me to try and carry this mothering burden alone. I need other moms and they need me. I need to share my struggles so they will share theirs. Speaking our hardships frees us to encourage each other on. It’s in our weaknesses that God is the most clear.

My job as a parent is to teach my children that I am not enough, but Jesus is. It is good for me to remember that I am not enough. It is good for them to see the ugly tears, the exhaustion, and to hear the prayers. It is good for them to hear my apologies as I am a flawed human. It is good for them to see me wrestling out the kind of mother I want to be, because even Jesus wrestled in the hard moments. He literally sweat blood and asked for the imminent suffering to pass by him.

The son of God didn’t want to endure what was being asked of him. Jesus himself understands not wanting to suffer.

His heart wasn’t full of pride like mine. He was humble enough to say yes to whatever the will of the Father was and confident enough to say he didn’t want to move forward.

 I realize all of this while my two year old’s eyes get big at the tears and blood falling from my face; just as the tears stream off my cheeks, so my pride and stubbornness begin to wash away from my soul. My perspective shifts. My lost joy: it’s good to find my joy again because sometimes I forget that as a family three years ago we sat down and decided we wanted to add an orphan to our hearts, because the Bible is very clear that if one loves Jesus then they are called to care for orphans. I forget that an eight year old boy initiated the idea. The humility reaches deep into my soul as I remember that it was a child who helped me see God’s purpose for our family.

As humility and joy seep into my soul I remember that our Happy One is a fighter, he hits all of his milestones, but does it in his own time. That he will not always be two. I remember that my bigs are growing quickly and have just a few years left with me. I remember that my toddler’s smile takes up his entire face and that he checks in with me by using his beautiful voice to call out "Momma", then once he has eye contact he signs "I love you." (Just typing it brings tears of joy to my eyes.) He is amazing. He is adored. He is all mine, and we never have to go back to what was. We get to move forward together. I remember I am in a season of mothering that is passing by too quickly to get caught up in pride, bitterness, and hopelessness. His whole story is a miracle that points to Jesus.

 As for God, He is a God worthy of my worship, worthy of my pain. He wants me flawed, just as I am.