When Jordan asked me to write a guest post on her blog for Mother’s Day, I almost turned her down. Who am I to write on something that used to cause me so much pain? You see, I’ve never been able to conceive a child of my own and for several years Mother’s Day had been a difficult holiday to get through.
I lost count of how many times I heard other parents complain about their kids and I longed for their trials, their daily routines of wiping noses and changing diapers. How I craved their sleepless nights, pacing with a sick child, the cookie crumbs crunching beneath their feet on the kitchen floor. I cringed every time a friend announced she was expecting or when a baby was blessed in church. The inability to conceive a child had worn through to my soul. I doubted everything I did, everything I was.
My husband and I chose to deal with our infertility differently. He dealt with it in silence. I, on the other hand, had the idea in my head that if I could make the world around me perfect, that maybe God would perform some kind of miracle and make me pregnant. I insisted on a perfect home. Shoes came off at the door. Dirty dishes were never left in the sink. Coats were not allowed to hang on a doorknob or chair—they had to be carefully hung in the closet. My compulsive behavior soon drove a wedge between my husband and me. He spent more and more time at work and I spent more time complaining about it. He could do nothing right.
It was a trip with my mom that changed everything. She needed help cleaning my grandmother’s house and asked me to go with her. While there, I met with a cousin I hadn’t seen for years. She had also been unable to have children, but had chosen to adopt. They had a beautiful little girl. We talked for hours about the process and how much joy it had brought to her and her husband.
On the long drive home, our conversation played over and over in my head. Why hadn’t we thought of adoption? Was it the answer to our prayers? Was there still hope for us? Could we love another woman’s baby?
The following week, Ed and I had gone grocery shopping. We’d gone different directions with our own list of wanted items when we found ourselves at opposite ends of an aisle. As we walked toward each other, I realized we were on the baby aisle. Emotions swelled up inside me. This was a place I always avoided. This time it was different though. I’d let a glimmer of hope wander into my heart. Adoption.
Where we’d avoided talking about having children in the past, I suddenly had the courage to confront Ed about bringing a special spirit into our homes. Without hesitation, he said yes.
I don’t even know if we finished shopping that day. I don’t remember. All I know is that the walls we had built between us were falling down and we were talking. We discovered each other’s feelings and realized that in sharing them, the pain was easier to handle.
After months of paper work and interviews, we were finally approved to be adoptive parents. Four years later, we held the most precious baby boy in our arms. The joy in our hearts was overwhelming. In spite of all the sorrow and pain we had endured 
as an infertile couple, we had come together as a couple and were now a family.
Our son, Joshua, is seventeen now and even though he’s been diagnosed with autism, and life with him as been a challenge, he has brought more happiness to our lives than we could have ever imagined possible. As for me…well…let’s just say I hang my coat on the dining room chair and there are usually dirty dishes in the sink.
Being Joshua’s mother is a much more important thing to do.
About the author
Christine Bryant has always been a writer. She’s spent the last twenty-three years married to the man of her dreams and raising their family. After helping run the family restaurant for most of their marriage, Christine has finally broken away to pursue her dream of being an author. She blogs about her writerly pursuits at Day Dreamer by CK Bryant.
