On Christmas Eve nearly two years ago, Hope called me “mom” for the first time. It was the most precious gift I could have ever received since it was entirely her choice to call me mom instead of my given name.
I love the sound of her calling me mom. It’s become so routine, so natural now that I almost take it for granted.
And then something reminds me that mom, and other names or terms of endearment, are Hope’s little presents to me. I don’t know if she knows they are presents, but they really are.
In moments when Hope and I are really connected and things are good, she calls me mama.
On nights like tonight, when I’ve been out to a group meeting talking about this adoption journey and I call her on my way home to check in and see if she needs anything, she answers the phone excitedly, “Hi mama,” and I smile.
I know she’s excited I’m on my way home. I know she’s fine, but she missed me. I know she loves me. I know she’s been thinking about me.
I know that no matter the funky BS we may have been going through, she loves me.
Mama is music to me.
Mama reminds me that we’ll be ok.
I hope to be worthy of being called mama every day by my daughter. Most of the time I feel unworthy. Like a lot of parents I fret over whether I’m doing any of this parenting well at all or if I’m just really, really effing everything up and failing miserably.
I guess I’m doing ok. I’ve had a string of mamas this week. I’ll take that as some validation.
Tomorrow, I’ll try to earn this epic term of endearment again.
I think I can.
I think I can.