Three years ago feels like a very long time indeed. I guess before always recedes that much further when you are in the midst of after, and for us, autumn three years ago was all about anticipating a baby. Unlike the ones before this baby, I had nothing ping-ponging in my belly to remind me of the fact. I had instead a kind of amorphous longing, and a lot of gnawing anxiety (that was nothing, but nothing compared to the anxiety that lay just ahead of this vague waiting period).
I also had a boy turning five. And as he sprouts to eight, tall and bright-eyed and in oh-so-many-ways so astonishingly independent, I have to work to remember that three years ago—before—he was extremely clingy and unhappy and engulfing and consuming. It’s amazing to think the kid who fought each morning to stay home from preschool and only weaned himself fully a month shy of five (stranding his mama in a kind of prolonged physical attachment to her child she’d never dreamed of, but went with) could be the two weeks’ of overnight camp, sleepover, ride his bike around the neighborhood solo guy.
But at the time he wouldn’t play with any friends and he hung on me and he whined a ton and he seemed to be set off by almost everything (noise, being alone, tags on the waistband, textures). I broke down and got a book about The Highly Sensitive Child, and read until my mother instructed me to stop reading and before I stopped, took the quiz at the front informing me that of the 23 items or something on the list my kid required I check off about 18 of them. He was just sensitive as all get-out.
I was so confused by this turn of events. This third boy always seemed the nectar; after a most miserable pregnancy (everything just fine medically: the mama, though, barfing constantly, suffering low back pain, tired, heavy, depressed) it always felt as if every bit of misery produced that much more sweetness in him. Once here, until that tunnel of time when he became so needy—basically four-and-a-half until about five-and-a-half—he’d seemed like the proverbial icing on the cake. Friends conjectured that the best friend going to kindergarten (while my guy’s September birthday meant another year of preschool was necessary) was a big blow, part abandonment and part ego crush and that he was very nervous about the impending baby and big brotherhood and mostly no longer being the baby.
After is so interesting. He remained my baby—and he became a big brother, I swear to you. Five years in, certain patterns remain in place, new baby or no. Meantime, he was the most natural big brother ever. I can’t imagine a five-year-old more comfortable with an infant than Remy was with Saskia. He seemed to calm down, be grounded by her. He held her for so much longer than five year-olds tend to hold babies. No surprise, she loved him from the start, wholly besotted.
**
While we were still in before, he worried that he wouldn’t like being a big brother (and when Saskia messes up his games, he doesn’t, c’mon, who would?) and he wondered whether adoption would feel hard. His biggest brother was completely torn up by the potential sadness of a mama ceding the responsibility of the child—how could someone part with her baby and why not just have mother and baby move in? I didn’t have a good answer and in a way, even this far into after (well, just in, really) I still don’t. I think adoption is many things and perfect isn’t one of them. There are so many raw nerve endings involved. So much loss is implicit (and, to be fair, there’s also so much love, so much gained and learned and cherished).
The other day, I was taking pictures of Saskia and Remy being silly together and delighting in their love for one another. The next day, we had a lovely, brief visit with Saskia’s mom (whom Saskia calls Auntie Cece) and Remy was so sweet during the visit, and I realize that while we have no more concrete answers, we are all really fortunate that everyone is so lovely to everyone else, if that sentence makes any sense. We are for sure practicing that more love is more love mantra. And it’s a true thing, more love is more love.
No question our family changed from before to now (to in) and its complexity isn’t something I’d ever trade, even though I know by saying that I’m saying I wouldn’t trade in the inherent sadness, either. I understand in a way I didn’t before that the sadness is part of our constellation, and that it’s not necessarily only bad. Still, when I read about other adoptions and attendant sadness, I wish the sadness away every single time. I know that’s wholly contradictory.
So, I sit with all of those mixed responses to inherent sadness and loss and I wonder whether I’ll ever come up with anything resembling answers.
**
Meantime, my little nectar boy is turning eight. I know one person who will sing him a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday to You. Her name is Saskia.
