Mother to Mother

Mother to Mother

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Book of Christmas Virtues

Mother to Mother

I sit in the audience with the other parents, beaming at our children filing into their seats. My little ones’ black hair and sienna skin make exclamation points among the other, pastel angels forming the pageant choir.

The chorister raises her arm, and the pianist comes in with the downbeat. So do some of the kids—a bit early. In cherubic fervor, their words spill out, “I am a child of God . . .”

Oh, how I wish both of you could see this. They’re perfect. Just perfect.

I often send this silent message to my children’s birth mothers. I long to comfort and reassure them, to share with them the unspeakable joy their babies have brought into my life. I long to tell them their precious ones are beautiful and bright, healthy and strong.

“. . . and he has sent me here . . .” I can almost distinguish Shyloh’s sweet voice in the choir.

Just the other day, she asked, “Mommy, why is my hair black? Yours isn’t.”

The answer came easily to me. “To make you look beautiful, Shyloh, just like your mother in China.” And typically Tiggerlike, she bounced away, grinning in satisfaction.

I hope you find peace in your decision to share this happy girl with me.

“. . . has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear . . .” I catch the eye of my Samoan daughter, Whitney, whose hair is a shining cape flung across her shoulders and whose voice rings loudest of all the angels. She’s singing with all her young heart.

She’s adjusting, Mama. I grin through my burning eyes. Your daughter’s finally joining in. So is little Luke.

My grateful tears plop down to bless the slumbering head of Whitney’s contented baby brother, asleep on my lap.

What sacrifices these women made for their children, their difficult choices possible only because their powerful mother-love transcended all else. And what joy their decisions continue to bring into my life.

Whoever you are, wherever you are and whatever your circumstances, I hope your intuition calms you and tells you all is well.

Mother to mother, I wish I could wrap my arms around them this holiday season—those selfless birth moms— and assure them of my appreciation for these beautiful children of ours. More than anything, I wish I knew how to express the gratitude in my heart.

“. . . I am a child of God, and so my needs are great . . .” Their angelic voices supplicate and saturate the auditorium and reach into the depths of my consciousness.

And—with sudden, deep conviction—I do know how, the only way that makes sense: I’ll continue to love and cherish their little ones with all my being.

That will be thanks enough.

Annette Seaver

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