It is autumn. We are matched with birthparents, all of us waiting for you to be born. I spend whole evenings in your room, folding clothes, smoothing bedsheets, sorting diapers and formula into tidy rows. I am willing my hope to be as solid as the items I touch. Before bed each night I slip into the darkened room to look at the empty cradle and think of you sleeping in your birthmother’s womb. The space is filled with the smell of baby lotion, diapers, fresh linens, new clothes--sweetly mingled into an almost overwhelming scent.
It’s nine and a half months later and I’m reaching to the back of a shelf in your room when from deep inside the cupboard the scent hits me. Suddenly I’m feeling all of it again—the longing, hope, worry, joy, vulnerability. Again I’m waiting to hold you, waiting to know you, waiting for someone else to make me your mother.
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