On Saturday night, I went out to dinner with some of my college roommates. One of them brought her baby girl, and I spent all night staring at little Evelyn. At four months, she was full of smiles, and when I held her, she felt so light in my arms, at least compared with the 28lbs of solid muscle that is your big sister. And although I loved seeing my old friends, I left the evening feeling a little sad.
I know there's nothing either of us can do to help this, but it depresses the hell out of me that I won't ever know what you were like at four months old. I have a three pictures of you when you were seven months, but until that time, there's nothing. I can guess that you were bald and smiley and you charmed your nannies, but I also can't help but mourn that I didn't get to hold you in my arms, and that you didn't get to charm me. Four months has always been the golden age of babyhood for me-- a time when I finally felt like all of the hard early months were starting to pay off and my babies' personalities were emerging, and I'm so sad that I won't have those memories with you.
I don't say this to make you feel bad, but I do think it's important to recognize that while adoption has been the right way for us to finish our family, it's not a perfect situation. You've been without a family for seventeen months, and we will never get that time back. It hurts my heart to think of all the time we've missed with you-- all the smiles, all the sleepless nights, all of all of it.
This is my last letter to you, so I'd hate to end these two years of writing to you and Rose on a down note. It's been a little more than seven months since I first saw your face, and even though I guarded my heart for the first few months, I can now honestly say that I am totally and completely in love with you, and more than ready to hop on that plane in two days. In one week, the wait will be over-- you will have a family, and our family, with you as our son, will finally be complete.
I can hardly wait. I love you, little man.