The other night we watched our friends’ kids for them and the backyard was full of laughter. They are older, easier maybe, although who’s to say that parenting is ever easy - maybe it’s only easy if they are someone else’s.
My heart was light - I wanted to give this gift and, selfishly, it’s a way for me to playact my dream - I’d always wanted a big family. I loved the joy of a backyard full of kids, my husband acting as head big kid and ringleader for a raucous game of corn hole. Even as I chuckled at the silliness, however, I had a sinking feeling in my heart: I don’t think my dream is coming true. We have two kids and both of them were fought for, loved with tenacity by us and our community and their birth families. It feels like swimming upstream to think we could do it again, let alone again and again. It feels like too much love to rally.
Oh yes, did I tell you? We’re adopting again.
We’ve been ready and waiting for a third child since last summer. In the meantime, it feels like…
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