The hospital room was so quiet it almost hurt. He was so tiny, tucked between her arms and mine. We held him together for a moment that felt like forever. I told her I’d send pictures once we got home. I told her we’d see her again at Christmas. Then the nurse closed the door, and that click changed everything.
Our caseworker had tried to prepare us, but you can’t really be ready for that kind of moment. I made it halfway down the hall before I broke down. I stood there crying in front of the nurse’s station, feeling both grateful and heartbroken. Grateful that she trusted us with him. Heartbroken that so much loss had to happen in such a short time.
All I could think was, please let me be the kind of mom she hopes I’ll be. At the same time, I knew I had no idea how to be that mom yet.
It’s strange how life works. A hundred little choices led to that day, moving from North Carolina to Colorado, deciding to stay home, choosing to homeschool our daughter. All of those things somehow brought us there, standing in that hospital room, holding the most perfect little boy.
The next few years were full of change. We were waiting for the adoption to go through while rescuing a puppy, buying a house, starting new jobs. In the middle of it all, I started writing homeschool lessons for our daughter. She’s always been curious about the world and how other people live. That’s how Little World Wanderers started, just the two of us, learning together at the kitchen table.
I used to write while our son slept against me in his sling. I’d type with one hand and pat his back with the other, listening to those tiny baby snores. Those were the sweetest sounds in the world.
As white adoptive parents, we knew it was our job to make sure his birth culture stayed alive in our home. It mattered to him, and it mattered to us. That’s why I started writing more, creating little learning units so other families could explore different cultures too. I believe that when children understand the world around them, they grow up kinder.
We promised his birth mom that we’d always stay in touch, and we have. Our adoption is open, and it’s one of the best choices we made. I still remember driving home from the hospital that first day, constantly checking his breathing, his hat, his pacifier. Then it hit me, she was probably worrying too. She had just handed her baby to strangers. Our joy was her grief. That truth never leaves me.
Later, I wanted to do something for women going through what she did. My daughter and I started planting flowers through the Growing Kindness Project. We grow them for expectant mothers considering adoption, just to remind them they’re loved, no matter what they choose. We’ve dropped off bouquets to our old agency, hoping each one makes someone’s day a little softer.
Last week, the day before his second birthday, our little guy picked flowers from our garden and gave them to his birth mom. He hugged her tight, and I just stood there watching, trying not to cry.
Adoption changed us completely. It taught me that love isn’t always neat. It’s messy and beautiful and hard all at once. But it’s real. And standing there watching my son and his birth mom smile at each other, I knew, it’s worth every tear, every doubt, every single moment.
