The perspective of a young mom transitioning from foster mom to adoptive mom.
In the chaos of life, she nearly forgot to stop. To stop and smell the roses. Or in this case, to stop and smell the leaves. To be grateful. To inhabit peace.
Summer had been bright and hot. Sticky homemade popsicles dripping down her hands and her baby’s chin. Bees buzzed. Flowers bloomed. Grass withered, burnt to a crisp. It was beautiful but difficult. Her baby was less a baby and much more a toddler, running through the dirt, sliding down the slides, and happily announcing “Ga!” to each bug she saw. The mom tried to smile. Tried to enjoy it. In the midst of the heat wave, holiday plans were discussed, adoption dates thrown around as the “best Christmas present ever,” and even decorations were appearing in stores.
Truthfully, this summer had been far more hopeful than last year. Winter promised to be joyful–a celebration of their new (legal) family. She was trying to enjoy the JOY, but was still trapped in the trauma of last year.
She forgot to stop and smell the leaves.
Fall was always her favorite season. Pumpkins, flannels, cozy book nooks, and hot cups of coffee. Trapped as she was in survival mode, she could not look out and see the future. Making it through each day was all the energy she possessed.
So she forgot about fall. She forgot about crisp, bright leaves crunching beneath her dusty, leather boots. About spiced cider, pumpkin patches, and flannels with holes. Or spooky little ghosts, crackling bonfires, and thankful hand turkeys. Inside, her heart grew weary as each day was more of the same toils of motherhood, sapping her spark and zest for life.
Realizing that she had forgotten about fall, her favorite season, and all the cozy comforts it brings, deepened the cracks in her heart. Guilt poured in, telling her she was a bad mom. A bad wife. A waste.
Dangerous, dangerous lies.
Thankfully, she could cognitively call those dark whispers what they were–lies. However, emotionally, she needed help. The hooked barbs of the lies had stabbed her in the chest, gripping the ledges of the deep, dark cracks.
So she spoke up.
Instead of shoving it down, she said out loud, “I am struggling, what do I do?” Instead of fighting back at the suggestions of loved ones, she nodded and said, “Ok, I can try.”
Curled up with a blanket, she started reading books again. She baked pumpkin spice muffins, from a box (and did not guilt-trip herself for using a box mix). As the sweet scent filled her home, she felt one of the cracks smooth over. She raked the leaves in the yard and found a short rake for her baby. To redeem some of the trauma, she called up her friend, and they took the baby (toddler, really) to the same pumpkin patch they had explored last year. The baby had grown a whole pumpkin’s worth! Clad in little overalls, she ran around, enjoying all the kiddie activities she was too small for last fall. Another crack began to heal. She made it a goal to go for a walk once a week with her husband and their soon-to-be-legally-adopted daughter. To stop and smell the leaves. To stop and be grateful for how far they had come. To know that their daughter was safe and loved and cared for; her life was no longer at risk.
To breathe deep, taking in the cool, crisp air, and exhaling the fear and anger. She was letting go… letting it fall.
The healing process was not going perfectly. But it was in progress. That’s what mattered.
Would she be fully healed by winter? Of course not. But she would be ready to continue healing with the next transition into the next season of life.
She was enjoying fall, stopping and smelling the leaves, and forgiving herself for (briefly) forgetting.
As an author, Alexandra Rexford enjoys writing stories with wit and romance, including a dash of danger. In a perfect world, she would spend all her time writing, reading, sipping hot cocoa, and snuggling with her dogs.
Featured image by Greg Shield on Unsplash.
