I like to think I’m a decent writer, but I know there is no way that I’ll be able to do justice to the incredible, emotional and beautiful experience I had with Maeve’s birth parents.  

I met them in the parking lot of the hospital and we all walked in together.  We got so caught up in conversation that the receptionist finally interrupted to see if we were there to have a baby or what.  The birth father “D” was unable to get off work so it was just me and “K”, a woman I met minutes ago on our way to have a baby.  

Our connection was immediate.  Nurses assumed we were good friends, and thought it was a joke that we met in a parking lot an hour ago.  One said she would have thought we were sisters, except K is black and I’m white (someone needs to watch “This is Us”).  I was flattered by the sister comment, because if I got pregnant when K first did I would be old enough to be her mother.   

K made sure I was front and center during the entire process. She got me a security bracelet and told every nurse that I was the mother and decision maker.  I got to witness Maeve coming into this world (and in my excitement nearly pulled down the C section curtain and compromised the sterile environment).  I was the one to cut the cord and the first to hold her.  

The love of motherhood not only came over me for Maeve, but for K as well. Through her tears she kept telling me how happy she was for me and Maeve.  She asked me to stay in the hospital and said that seeing my face looking at Maeve made it all worth it.  She took a picture of me sleeping next to Maeve’s bassinet because we were laying the same way (hands up to face).  

We talked about our hopes for Maeve.  She asked me how it will be when everyone assumes I was with a black man who left me.  We made plans for our first annual visit.  We gave each other recommendations for binge watching series.  We discussed hair, and she was thrilled that I already ordered a book called “Chocolate Hair, Vanilla Care.”  She expressed over and over again how happy she was for me.  

 

As high as the highs were, were as devastating as the lows were.  I witnessed a grief that I haven’t seen since losing my mother nearly 19 years ago.  A nurse tried to talk K out of it while I slept with the baby in the next room.  I had a crying meltdown in a kitchen the size of a closet while microwaving cold Chick-Fil-A.  

 

Rollercoaster doesn’t work as a metaphor for this, and I don’t know what does.  Maybe it can’t be compared to anything, because it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.   I know it will ebb and flow, because that’s what relationships do.   I know it will be hard because life is hard.  I also know that, without a doubt, this match was meant to happen and I am the lucky one.