Mine wasn’t the first face my daughter saw when she entered the world. It wasn’t the second or third or even the 100th face she looked at by the time she finally looked at mine in the over-warm visitors room of a 400-child orphanage in Novokuznetsk, Russia.
She probably looked at me and saw a strange lady with crazy curly orange hair. She probably heard my voice and was scared by the nonsense that came from my lips.
She must have been confused by the hugs of strangers.
And what did she think when her caregivers explained to her in her native language that soon she would fly across the ocean to live with a new family, learn a new language and live in a new culture?
Four years later, she tells me with a proud smile that she was a baby in Russia. In the next breath, she states quietly that she didn’t grow in my belly like her big brother.
She knows she was adopted, but at five, she doesn’t comprehend entirely what that means for her.
In a few more years, I fully expect her to ask me who her “real” mother is. What did she look like? What did she do for a living? Did she have more kids? Are there other children in this big world who could be her siblings?
I won’t have the answers for her. I know very little about her birth mother other than her name, her age at the time of the birth and the fact that she gave me the greatest gift a woman can give another.
I can tell my child about her nationality, the country of her birth, the town where she was placed for adoption and the story of how I came so far to find the daughter I always wanted.
I have few details to give my child on her origins, but when she asks those questions, I will be sure to hold her close and tell her that her roots are in my heart, and they have been growing there since I first saw her face.
Today’s Five Minute Friday prompt is “Roots”. This had special mean for me. What does it say to you? Join us on Lisa-Jo Baker’s site and tell us.