The Power of I Love You

You might think, after 23 years, that celebrating my older son's birthday would be easier. That it would be a happy blip on February 20th that involved a little singing and a special dessert. You might think that and have every reason to believe it is true. But it is never easy. It is never just a "blip," never involves singing, never involves dessert. It is bittersweet, not just happy.

When Benjamin was born, at 12:30 a.m. after 32 hours of labor and, ultimately, a caesarean section, I was freezing. I had never been nor would I ever be, so cold. While I was exhausted from being in labor and tired of being pregnant (he was 18 days late), I was not ready to relinquish him. My body tried to hold onto him as long as it could.

Ben was adopted. He grew up in a home where he was loved and adored and cherished. He wasn't very far from me geographically. His parents provided me with detailed letters about his life and included photographs so I could see his smile and the cicada on his nose and how many people around him were beaming at him. Through these letters I learned about the technology being used to combat his hearing loss and that he loved batman and skateboarding and playing the drums. But I didn't know what his voice sounded like or what his favorite food was or if his hands still looked like my mother's.

I am lucky that I am able to communicate with Ben. We send text messages to one another and, recently, photographs. He sent one yesterday with his mother and thanked me for being gracious in receiving it and asking about his family. I tried to explain that it was gratitude, not grace, that fueled my interest. I shared with him a bit about my first interactions with his parents, that they had a "baby" phone and that he often had the hiccups while I was pregnant. And I thanked him for sending a recent photo that included his hand because one of the things I wondered was if I would recognize them. His response was one of the greatest gifts I could receive; he not only said "I love you" but he showed me. And his hands still look like my mother's.