Mommy Dearest
She still doesn’t call me mom, and yes most of the time it breaks my heart. I can see from her smile and her body language she’s beginning to trust us, but she still won’t call me mom. If she wants food, help finding something, or she has a question she’ll just start talking. She avoids addressing me as if her life depends on it. I on the other hand am not an avoider. Probably to a fault. Not every single thing that occurs in life needs to be discussed and analyzed I tell myself daily. I asked her one night if it felt weird to call me mom and she said yes. So, we (at the suggestion of my adoptive mom mentor) “practice saying mom” now, but there are many days where I think I’ll never hear that magical three letter word.
It’s funny how much power we give words. She accepts hugs, she lets me carry her to the bathroom when her leg hurts, she holds my hand to pray, we laugh together, we talk about tampons and shaving, and I’ve shut her hand in the car door (isn’t that a motherhood rite of passage?). But she doesn’t call me mom, and that messes with my mind.
Her life has consisted of various women caring for her over the years. I’ve had to tell her not to ask my friends for money or to buy her something…. that mom and dad provide for her. This concept is completely new as is the concept of what the word mom/dad even mean. I’ve always believed that God gives us the kids we need to help us become better more wholehearted versions of ourselves. Horrifying, right?
I toss around a few ideas, and the main thought that comes to my mind is that I’m not a failure if she never calls me mom. It means nothing. Maybe if I say it louder I’ll actually believe it. I also realize that if I focus on what she doesn’t do I’m going to feel defeated on the regular. However, if I take our relationship day by day, and I define success as the moments I’m allowed to love her…. everything changes. As I’m writing this she is couch bound. Too much walking in her old prosthetic (and her first football game during P.E.) has left her leg pretty sore. She’s currently in a high school musical hypnosis, wrapped in a cozy blanket, and eating a warm bowl of oatmeal. I have the privilege and honor of giving her a safe morning where she is allowed to be a kid. My frown is turning upside down already.
I’ve heard “how lucky Richa is and how appreciative she should be” many times from others and unfortunately I’ve even said it to myself. How many 15-year-old kids regardless of where they come from know how lucky they are to have the life they have? I know I didn’t when I was 15. I didn’t understand that not everyone has a mom that makes homemade waffles and smoothies every morning before school. I didn’t realize all the ways both my parents sacrificed daily to give my brother and I the best life they could. At her age, I just thought this is what parents do? Now I know better.
It’s unfair for me to put different expectations on her because of her life circumstances or because she’s “adopted”. She’s still a teenager, she still thinks everyone is staring at her or talking about her when they aren’t, she still spends way too long getting ready for school, she still gets embarrassed when Andrew and I sing and dance to her favorite songs, and she needs us to pursue her regardless of how much she pretends she doesn’t. Being a mom is understanding all of this, serving her unconditionally, and emotionally meeting her where she is today. It’s so much more than just a word.