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The Mommy Moment
The instant of true connection is the most joyful part of parenthood.by Emily Jamberdino He says 'Da-da-da' to me, too, when you're not around. It's just babbling." Thus I explained away my nine-month old son Jeffrey's syllables that had so thrilled his dad. My husband took my verdict with a little skepticism. But I felt I should know. After all, I was the mom. Since Jeffrey's birth, I had been at his beck and call for all but a few hours here and there. Employed part time, I did most of my work at home. In August, though, I was away working in another city for three full days. The night I returned, Jeffrey was excited to have me back. He wasn't used to being cared for by Dad, even though he and Dad were having fun. After a welcome and a hug, I collapsed on the bed. I wasn't used to this either. Grinning, Jeffrey crawled hurriedly away to explore. He looked at me to see if I was watching. One tiny arm slipped, sending his chin crashing downward. I pushed myself from the bed as his tears welled up and he cried out his anger at the floor. "I'll get him," my husband offered, but Jeffrey's face turned angrier at his father's approach. Gasping with outrage, he arched his back and bellowed his order: "MMMMAAA-MMMMAAA!!!" In a second, he was in my arms. After weeks of "Dada's", he let us know that he knew the difference. It was a treasured moment, one not replicated when my soon-to-be-adopted five- and six-year-olds dutifully called me "Mama" in response to the orphanage director's introductions.YOU'RE HERE NOW Jon came to us a child of few words. He rocked himself to sleep every night and, sometimes, to console himself during the day. Back and forth, back and forth, each evening the bed responded noisily to his rhythm, sometimes punctuated with soft bangs against the wall. The classic sign of a child who had been neglected as a baby, our psychologist niece pronounced it. How could I ever fill all the holes in my second son's heart? One night the banging continued long after we had said our prayers and goodnights. I peered into the dark corner where he lay. He paused to look at me. I went into his room and sat on his bed, drawing him into my arms. Then we began to rock awkwardly back and forth together. "You know, if you had come here way back when you were a baby, I would have rocked you like this every night." He smiled that close-mouthed grin of his that spreads across his whole face. "Then what?" "Mmm? Well, then you would have fallen asleep and I would have put you back down into your bed and tiptoed downstairs." "Why would you tiptoe?" "Because I wouldn't want to wake you up again." The grin faded very slowly, his eyes distant as he imagined it. "I wish I had lived here when I was a baby." I paused in my rocking, not wanting to make his hurt deeper. "Me, too. But the most important thing is that you're here now." His smile returned, and my arms tightened around him. Back and forth, back and forth, we were finding our rhythm.NO ROCKING FOR THIS CHILD Dominika had seemed, at first, the easier one. She took to hugs and cuddles enthusiastically. It was a while before I recognized the drawback. Your hug, my hug, Grandma's lap, a stranger's lap-in her eyes each was the same, equal in pleasure or comfort. Not that she needed comfort. There was no rocking for this child. She sang through her time-outs, talked to other kids through the window when grounded, bicycled if her rollerblades were taken away, and never, ever cried, unless she thought a few whimpers would get her off the hook. Those first few weeks, she didn't bother to show me a wound of any dimension. When she was in the bathtub, I discovered scrapes, cuts, or bruises already healing. She would grin or shrug. "Long time ago," she would respond to my queries. Eventually, she began to point out a well-scraped knee or a cut foot a day or two after she had gotten them. Sometimes, she would even tell me how they had come about. She was never interested in having wounds cared for-impatient with cleansing, disdainful of kisses, and pulling off Band-Aids. Whether she was falling off rollerblades or bicycles, getting hit with a basketball or baseball, scratching herself on a stone or a stick-there were never any tears. Eventually, I accepted her resiliency as a given, despite my reluctance to accept her corresponding lack of need. Almost two years after Dominika came to us, we were vacationing in North Carolina with Grandma and Grandpa. Dominika was running errands with Grandpa and Dad. The boys were playing together, while Grandma and I talked. The door of the condo burst open, and from the bottom of the stairs came an explosive cry: "Mama! MAA-MAA! MO-O-O-O-OM!!!" In a second, she was in my arms. Grandpa and Dad had only turned their backs for a minute. They had told her not to climb on the furniture. They had seen the table falling, but there was nothing they could do. But, they assured me, it couldn't be too bad. After all, she hadn't even cried when it happened. Later, when she began crying, they had tried to console her, but she only wanted Mom. It took us a few days to find out that her finger was broken. The others may never realize, though, that something intangible was healed that day. Now, when Jeff pokes his head in to tell me that Dominika has fallen off her bike, I can see the bravado in the tilt of her head as she pulls her bicycle toward the garage. I can see tears start to well in her eyes when I open the back door. It isn't long until sobs shake her body in response to my hugs. Maybe motherhood is an instantaneous relationship. Maybe I have been "Mom" to my kids from the very beginning. Maybe a lot of things go without saying. Maybe "mama" is just another word. But to me, time and words have made a big difference. Emily Jamberdino and her husband Jerry live in upstate New York with their three children (biological son Jeffrey, son Jon and daughter Dominika, both adopted in Poland).Yes, I want to order Adoptive Families Magazine:
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