The First Three Months

Three months ago today, Alex and Cate sat side-by-side on a bed in Nanjing. I fed them noodles, pretending they were baby birds. I felt pure joy and uncertainty and nervousness. Perhaps Cate felt the same. Perhaps we all felt the same. I was unsure what would happen when I put her to bed. I was uncertain how to comfort her if she cried, what to feed her if she seemed hungry. I knew only that I would love her and hoped that would be enough to help me figure out the rest.

Tonight, I sang to my beautiful girl and tucked her into her crib. "Ni, ni, Mama," she said. "Ni ni, Xi Xi. Wan an." She leaned forward and kissed me as I choked back my tears. The overwhelming newness of new parenthood is beginning to wear off, and with it, the emotion of two years of waiting for this moment flows in, all the protective walls, breaking down. She is here. She is really here.

A parent I met in China, who had returned to adopt her second child, told me that you feel a change during the first three days, the first three weeks and then the first three months. According to experts, true bonding takes three years. But already, it seems Cate has always been with us. She is the completion of our family. The small soul that has brought a sense of contented peace in my own soul. Nothing now is missing. No one now is missing. All the years I wondered what my life would bring - this is it. And it is just right.

Cate is funny. When she laughs, her whole face changes. Her eyes disappear into her happiness. She's a joker who likes a good trick - insisting on pointing to my parents' dog when we ask "Where is Otsi?" (this is what we call my dad) and then breaking into an irresistible grin and fits of giggles. She loves to play, to sing, to dance. She would eat yogurt all day if we gave her the chance and finally ate a strawberry last Saturday, to the amazement of Alex and me. She shudders, a whole body shudder, at the coldness of ice cream, and then forges ahead with determination. She hates dirty hands and feet, but is slowly learning to walk barefoot in the grass and dig with her hands in the sand. Her vocabulary is amazing. She understands everything, but delightfully, still says "thank you" and "I love you," in Chinese.

She has begun to test, digging in her heels, hitting, throwing, shouting like an angry old granny when she is angry. What she is saying, I don't know, but her message is loud and clear. It's a good thing, this challenging behavior. It means she trusts us. She is sure enough of us to test her boundaries without worrying that we will go away.




We are a family.



And now, as the newness of this new parenthood wears off, there is room for more. For thoughts of her birth mother. Raising a child is an awesome responsibility, no matter how she came to be mine. But I think now of her Chinese mother and wonder if she and I begin and end our days with thoughts of this same little girl. She will forever hold the knowledge of her past, of her presence in this world. I will hold the everyday moments, the future. We will never meet. We will never know one another, but our mutual love will help guide this beautiful little girl into womanhood. This I believe.


But for now, we delight in the newness of this moment, in the developing relationship of a sister and a brother, a mother and a daughter, a daddy and his little girl. We are the lucky ones.



Cate is asleep upstairs, exhausted after another hot day of beach and sand and lemonade and laughter.


Wo ai ni, Xi Xi.



Sleep well, my little one.