Why I Never Let My Baby Cry

It's been a long time since I've written.  I've composed hundreds of blogs in my head but getting to sit down and arrange my thoughts coherently has not quite worked out for me.  Natalie has rocked our world.  We went from a world of fairly independent children, a world where no diaper bags, extra clothes, or scads of baby toys and equipment were needed to a world that revolves around the needs of one tiny little human.  One spoiled little human.  She single-handedly has all eight of us wrapped around her little finger.

Before she was born I had all sorts of intentions on how I was going to "raise this baby right."  She'd be taking naps in her own crib, sleeping through the night early on, and soothing herself whenever she cried.  I'd work with her every day just so she'd be ahead of other kids her age.  I was going to give her every opportunity at learning and growing that my other kids missed.  The other opportunities I have fought so fiercely to make up for, for the sake of their hearts (and mine if I'm being honest).

But then Natalie came and Natalie cried.

And I picked up my baby. 

Every single time.

I wasn't prepared for what hit me.  Crying babies never really bothered me.  Not in theory or in past practice.  But it was so different this time.  Not because she is my biological child but because of what her cries represented to my heart.

Every time I heard her cry my mind and heart raced backwards and heard the cries of my first six babies.  The cries that no one answered.  The cries that I never got to hear.  I dreamt up their little faces and their little cries and just could not ignore Natalie's.  I imagined them being hungry with no one available to feed them.  I imagined them being cold with no one there to cover them.  I imagined them being lonely with no one there to snuggle them.  I imagined them being frightened with no one there to comfort them.  I imagined them being confused with strangers attempting to care for them.  All of her cries represented all of their cries and I just could not let that be.

Psychology has its "nature vs. nurture" argument.  While I believe both play a vital role in the development of a child, I know beyond a doubt that many of the issues in the baggage my children carry come from the lack of the consistent love of a parent in those first formative years.  To them, adults were people who merely met their basic needs (sometimes) and certainly weren't a source of comfort.  This is evidenced in many stories of their first years with us but the saddest is this:  in the first three months of Crystal living with us she became sick in the middle of the night.  She threw up all over her bed.  Instead of crying out for me through the monitor or getting up to find me, she turned back her covers and went back to sleep curled up in a ball.  Still breaks my heart.

I can't erase the damage that was done to their hearts and their minds.  But, I can do my best to make-up for it.  I thought I was doing my best by loving them as fiercely as I did.

Boy do I love them.  I love them fiercely, oh so fiercely.  I have been fighting for them since before they were even mine.  Fighting to get paper work done.  Fighting for a caseworker's subjective approval.  Fighting for court dates.  Fighting to get their academic needs met.  Fighting to get them off meds.  Fighting to get them on meds.  Fighting for their hearts to heal.  Fighting for their trust.  Fighting to give them experiences they've missed.  Fighting to make up for lost time.  Fighting, fighting, fighting.  I have not stopped fiercely fighting for whatever it is I thought they needed to succeed.  Aside from loving Jesus, there is nothing I want more for my children then to feel and know they were part of a family who would fight to make sure they were set up to succeed, they were cherished and loved, they were given every opportunity we could logistically and financially afford.

Loving them is sometimes hard, like I'm sure it is for any parent.  Sometimes they say it and sometimes they don't, but I'm not their only mom.  I don't pretend to be and I don't want them to think that way either.  Though adoption is beautiful, the only reason it exists is because of broken families.  My children carry that baggage with them and there are days it shows more than others.  We have fought (here it is again!) to make them feel confident in who they are, to assure them they are loved, and to be comfortable with their life story.  But let me tell you, that's hard.  Hard for them and hard for me.  While I count it a great joy and privilege, loving them and fighting for them has often left me weary and tired.  I cannot imagine how it must feel for them sometimes, too.

But then Natalie cried.

I realized that I could let up on this fierce love a little and make room for soft love.  The soft love she taught me.  The love they missed out on in their younger years.  Maybe they didn't need me to fix their every problem and fill their every empty day with an opportunity.  Maybe they just needed me.  Needed me to be there.  They are incredibly more self-assured and confident than they were before.  They know who they are to me and they know who they are in Christ.   I will never get out of "their corner" in case a situation arises where they need their mom to fight for them.  But, in the meantime I will wait on the couch and just be there, loving them more softly than I had before Natalie arrived.  Not worrying as much about making up for lost time but focusing on the time we have together. 

Natalie's cries have softened us all.  She's been a healing balm to all our hearts.  She's the string that ties our family together.  She's the one thing in this house that has belonged to all eight of us from the beginning.  She's the gift we didn't know we needed.

She still cries.  And we still come.

Every single time.

ps  She does sleep in her own crib ;)