I have an inkling. My baby daughter is sitting in my lap.
Sure, just a few minutes ago she was crying about how much she wanted her Daddy. She has already started using phrases like "I don't want you" and "I don't need you" and the ever-popular "You're mean!"
Carly likes to rub her hand down my cheek. She likes to tuck her head into the crook of my neck. She likes to curl up against me and shimmy as close as possible without crawling under my skin. I suppose that is what heaven feels like.
Sometimes she likes to cling a little too much, but I get over it.
I will never forget the awful day when our enchanted world ran smack dab into reality. For the longest day of my life I thought it was all over, that my time as Carly's mother was over. Our adoption agency worker came to our house and told us that someone had filed an anonymous report with the State. It said that we had a broken window (sadly true at the time but it was the storm window and we didn't think it was a big deal, lesson learned). They reported some other things that were of no consequence, however the damage was done. We were being investigated as unfit adoptive parents. Our worker, in an attempt to be serious and firm, informed us that she should take Carly away right then and there. That she was required to report a violation. That she might have to take our child out of our care and that if she did we would not be able to get her back. Ever.
Have you ever had one of those moments where your brain just stops functioning and starts swirling like a toilet flushing over and over?
Eric wasn't home. That is probably a good thing. Instead of crying and squeezing Carly, he probably would have stood up and punched something. Like our agency worker. In the face.
Obviously, this got worked out. The window got fixed. The anonymous report was rejected as hogwash. The State of Michigan decided we could be trusted.
Now I get to point my finger at Carly and tell her to stop chasing the dog. I get to scold her for crying about nothing. I get to make her take naps. I get to say "CARLY" in that voice of motherhood that every child ignores up until the moment their destruction is made sure.
I get to look at her impish eyes and button nose, her perfect chocolate skin, her sweet toes. I get to hear her laugh and sing and defy and pretend and sass and burp (she just did).
I know how lucky I am.
I am grateful for this small reminder. I am hopeful that the Grace that brought Carly to our house will bring comfort to all the empty houses still waiting.
I know how lucky I am.