A Look Back on Lasts

Then: Excited to ride the carousel

Now: Probably a last ride

My son just graduated from middle school – one of the “lasts” we parents see coming, even if we still can’t believe it. It reminded me of this essay I wrote seven years ago, which still rings true. What about you? 

My almost seven-year-old son duly informed me this week that he’s grown out of Sesame Street. It’s not often you get notice that your child has done something for the last time. Firsts are noted and even diligently recorded: his first steps, first word, first tooth in and first tooth lost. But the lasts usually go out gradually and with such stealth that it’s months before you realize they don’t happen anymore.

When was the last time I was able to carry him around? The last time he wanted help with his socks? The last time I squeezed his chunky legs before they became the beanpoles they are now? It was just a couple of weeks ago when we were taking turns reading chapters from Henry Huggins and he said, “We haven’t done this in a while,” that it occurred to me he was right. I had read to him every night since he was a baby until he graduated to chapter books and started to prefer reading on his own. When did the switch happen? I’m not quite sure. We're happy to see our kids growing up, but can't they tell us when they do?

For the most part the lasts will be unknown but now I am keeping my antenna up. Those evenings he still wants to cuddle next to me with a book, I especially cherish. When he blasts his CD’s from his bedroom, I still ask him to turn down the volume, but it does make me stop and think how quiet the house will be the day he’s old enough to leave the nest. And that makes listening for the hundredth time to the Kids Bop version of Yellow Submarine just a little less cringe-worthy.

I must admit there are some lasts I won’t feel too bittersweet about. The last time he shows me what the half-chewed food looks like in his mouth? I can let that go. The last time he wipes his Dorito orange fingers on his pants? I don’t think I’ll be wistfully sighing at the loss of that particular habit. But the last time he’ll kiss me in public and not be embarrassed by it? That one will be a heart breaker. So just in case, I kiss him twice.

ON MOTHER'S DAY, I THINK OF HER

I recall past Mother's Days when my son would wake me up at 6 AM, proudly bearing the gift he created for me, thanks to a kind teacher: the macaroni pencil holder, the painted rock, the tissue papered baby food jar vase (see photo)... Now that my son is a teenager, gone are the days of handmade gifts (although thankfully the cards keep coming). On the bright side, he sleeps in until 10 AM.

But, like all mothers, I didn’t become a mom because I thought I’d get to sleep in, receive daily accolades or collect a hefty paycheck. That’s not to say I don’t savor feeling extra special once a year. We do what we do because we’re blessed to have children. My blessing was made possible because of another woman’s sacrifice. I was lucky enough to become a mother through adoption.

Especially on two occasions - his birthday and Mother’s Day - I think of her. She lives in Russia and we know few things about her, but I know she must think of him and her heart must ache. I don’t know what led to her ultimate decision and I only venture a guess when our son asks us about it. I have not lived her life and so I cannot know. But there came a time when she had to do what was best for him or her or both of them and then leave the rest up to faith.

Our journey through adoption entailed a lot of research, a pile of paperwork, and months of preparation. And then we had to leave the rest up to faith. What a wonderful parenting lesson to learn so early on: I can’t control everything. Some people don’t know the gender of their child. We didn’t know the gender, race, or age. There weren’t any conversations about whether she’d have my curly hair or my (then) husband’s green eyes or if he’d be as creative as me or as intelligent as him. We couldn’t put any of our DNA expectations on him. From the get-go we had to let this child be whoever he or she was going to be.

It was our second day in Moscow and we were anxiously awaiting the meeting with the Ministry of Education who was in charge of international adoptions. After waiting for over an hour, we were finally led up three flights of narrow stairs to her cramped office. We were there with two other couples who were also adopting children, but she said our name first. She opened the file and the minute she said his name, Roman, I felt he was mine. (We subsequently kept Roman as his middle name.) She pushed a picture across the table, a small one of the day he was born five months prior. She was telling us in Russian what the file said about him and our translator was talking over her in English and all I wanted to do was shout, “Take us to him!” My hand shook as I signed the papers to begin the process.

Another hour in the car and we were at the fairly dilapidated orphanage. It was a sad sight and I was relieved not to have the opportunity to see any of the other children there. We sat in the director’s office with our agency liaison and one of the other couples who was adopting a baby girl from the same orphanage. We were nervous and didn’t say much.  Abruptly, a stout female caretaker came in carrying a baby all dressed in pink. I assumed it was the other couple’s girl so I was wholly unprepared when a few Russian words were hastily exchanged and then the five-month-old child was plopped in my lap. Obviously, blue and pink don’t have the same connotations in Russia as they do here. It was our son and my first thought when I looked down at him was, “How did we get the most perfect baby in the world?” 

He turned fourteen last month and of course he’s not perfect - in fact, he has several challenges - but there are often times I think he is. We talk about his birth mother with love and gratitude. On this Mother’s Day and every day, I send her strength. And I hope she continues to have the faith she had that day, to know that he will always be well taken care of and fiercely loved.