So here it is: we moved across the county to live in a more diverse area. And, thank God, we (so far so good) found the perfect community for us to raise our internationally adopted daughter.
Loving it here! Green, and kids, and pools, and neighbors who seem honestly pleased to welcome us home.
Was it a sacrifice? One quarter the space we had, sans garage, sans yard. No family or friends. Often 90% humidity, and not a cafe other than Starbucks in sight. However, yesterday the young bank teller confided that she still cries for missing her friends back home in Bangladesh whom she left two years ago, just minutes after the teenage pizza employee shared that he immigrated from Peru at eight with the help of his uncle. Our not yet five year old daughter sat for two hours this past Tuesday beneath the hands of a woman from the Ivory Coast for her first corn-row experience, with visible cultural pride before, during and after.
Further, yet, still further, as my husband and I learn more about our role as adoptive parents (see Patricia Cogen‘s informative website) it is obvious, clear, and at times these days, heartbreakingly so, the commitment to become a parent via international adoption is not one that can be taken lightly, nor is it a commitment that will ever fade into the sunset.
Love, joy, frustration that sometimes leads me to scream inside that I want to kill myself, all of it, indeed all of this tremendously ginormous life as an adoptive mother of this one particularly spectacular Ethiopian-born delightful human being is turning out to be the best thing that not only has ever happened to me, but one that I could not have imagined possible.
I will continue to fall to my knees pleading for help, and crying for joy, thanking All That Is for leading me down this path, as I simultaneously skip into the great unknown that spreads its wings wider with each passing day, and every quarter inch she grows.