Natural/Unnatural

They always say that having children teaches you many things.

Over the last few weeks I've been trying to articulate, mostly to Matt, because he's available (and just a good person to talk to!) something I've been becoming increasingly aware of. And it's something that isn't going to come across very well, but I believe is important to get out — you just have to promise me you'll either quit reading here or else read the whole post.

 

There is something so automatic, so natural, about the emotions that well up inside of a mother when she looks at her children. I *love* these little people so much!

Owen - the one who made me a mother!

Little Leah

Reuben Matthew - look, a son! a gift from God

Beautiful Rinnah - so much hair!

And she gets a second one - I l-o-v-e this look, which I call the milk-induced-coma.

Tiny Evania within minutes of her birth. Holding her I knew I would do this again in a heartbeat.

So, apparently, I did. Twenty-one months later, here's Gloria. Pudgy, wrinkly, yummy Gloria.

There is something so very natural about the love that a mother has for her newborn baby. It is very instinctual – without even thinking, all of the snuzzly, wuzzly kisses and sweet talk and unquestioned devotion just naturally spring up as you first hold that wet, wiggly bundle of new life. For that matter, that love begins even before the baby is born as mommy talks to, carresses, and dreams about the little one growing inside of her.

Having both biological and adopted children, and in particular, a brand new baby fresh on the heels of the arrival of an adopted child (Evania was born almost 6 months to the day after Krassimir came home), has made me realize that as much as my gut reaction is to want to say otherwise, I love these children in different ways.

Before you start thinking this is a bad thing, take a look at this young man.

c. 1996

My love for him is not based on any sort of genetic connection (beyond the fact that we're both of German descent. But that's not why I love him.) Rather, I made a choice, and followed that up with a very solemn promise that is legally binding that he and I belong together now.

While the love that I have for Krassimir may not be “natural,” it is very real, and growing, and deep and in many ways intentional in a way that is different from that of my other six children. But looking at him does not elicit the same warm-fuzzy feelings that I get from the children who have been mine from the beginning.

This picture is just oozing with warm-fuzzies to me!

And I think that last statement holds the biggest clue to where the core of this issue lies. How often do we confuse love with feelings?

I'd started writing this entry you're reading now back in July, but I realized the beginning of it began over two years ago with something I started writing right after Evania was born and I was basking in the post-pregnancy hormonal glow of a perfect tiny pudgy baby of mine a mere six months after bringing Krassimir home as mine. Some of those thoughts have been folded into the writing here.

When I started thinking and writing about this in July I realized, in a rather stupid sense, that I really didn't have a clue what love was!! This hung me up for a while.

I was talking with a friend a few years ago about the fickle nature of love. Even our best and most loving actions may suddenly seem to turn and become something else. I see this in the way I relate to my whole family, but perhaps more clearly with Krassi. There are times when, for example, I am feeding him, or changing him, or just watching him play on the floor that I will find myself being irritated with his little habits (mouthing the floor, bending his left pinky finger back so far it touches his wrist, things like that). My irritation does not spring from love for him, but love for myself, and a desire for him to be so satisfied with his life here that he doesn’t feel the need to revert back to the old stimming behaviors that were his sole occupation for so many lonely years of his life. There are absolutely times, yes, when my re-directing of him is based out of love and concern for him (if left to self-regulate, he will wipe his right index finger on whatever surface is nearby and lick it - wipe-lick, wipe-lick, wipe-lick – until it’s deeply cracked and bleeding and takes weeks or more of care to help it heal). But there are also times when my response to these behaviors is not Krassi-motivated, but ME-motivated.

It takes a conscious effort to love my Krassimir.

Playing outside together with water balloons this past summer.

And then one night, working my way through 1 Corinthians, I stumbled upon chapter 13. Okay – anyone here who knows their Bible, and probably even those of you who don’t really know it well know that 1 Corinthians 13 is “The Love Chapter.” Seriously – I was in 1 Corinthians already as I was mulling this “what is love?” question over and over in my head, and didn’t think of it until I opened up my Bible one night and there it was!!!

What is love?

Love is patient. Patient. Yikes. Why does it have to start with that!!?

Love is kind. Kind is such a “ho-hum” sort of word. Nothing dramatic or exciting, nothing extreme or showy. Just “kind.” But that’s what love is. Love is kind.

At this point, I decided I’d probably read enough to keep me thinking for a good while!

Patience. Kindness. These are not responses that always come “naturally.” It’s pretty easy to be patient with a sweetly sleeping baby, or a cute-as-a-button toddler, but I’m guessing I’m not the only mother out there who has been less than patient when that baby is up after only a 10 minute nap, or up for the third time in the night, or when that toddler is standing stubbornly in a puddle on the floor with dirty underpants RIGHT next to the potty chair she refuses to sit on.

As I mulled over this, there was a sudden flip-flop in my mind. I do love some of my children better than I do others. And it is Krassimir that is likely the one I am the best at loving, because when I am patient and kind with him it is NOT stemming from my self-serving pride-filled estimations of the little human beings I had a role in producing (as adorable as they may be!) but rather is coming from something much closer to what love really is. That realization is a rather sobering one, and one that leaves me with a lot of room to grow in my love for every single one of them.

The thing that comes naturally to us is not really love, but is really a round-about form of self-love, something that only cares about what that little person makes me feel, rather than something self-sacrificial that truly puts the other one above myself.

In these months as we’ve been working to bring our girls home, I’m realizing how very much more I still have to learn about what love is.

What I know for certain is that love is a choice, and that it springs from trust and obedience to the One who IS love.

Oh God, would you teach me to love!!