My Kids

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself what an absolute miracle it is that I am the mother of two beautiful children.

Like for example, when R tries to unlock the front door and run out of the house without permission and then has a meltdown when I don't allow her to do so and put her in timeout.

Or when E, while sleeping, pees out her diaper all over my shirt and jeans while I'm stuck talking to our very nice but very chatty and oblivious neighbor.

Umm, awesome.

And then, I think about how much my heart longed to be a mother. And how much my heart ached to hold them tight when they were in Ethiopia and we were waiting. I think about the miracle of two small girls, born in Ethiopia to two other woman, now my daughters and greatest gifts.

I sometimes get really frustrated with R. She's stubborn, and so am I. When this happens lately, I stop what we're doing, and I say, "R, how old are you?" And she says, "Twwwwoooo!" in the cutest voice I've ever heard.

Or, I look up from clearing the table and my E smiles her silly girl smile and says, "Cheese!" I forgive her for dropping her full cup of water on my broken toe. (Oh, yeah, I broke my toe falling down the stairs on Easter morning.)

I'm a mom. I'm nothing great and have done nothing special. I'm just trying to do the best I can for them. Sometimes, I get impatient, sometimes I yell, and sometimes I just want to cry, too.

But at the end of day, when I am putting them to bed, I tell them over and over again that I love them, that I'm so happy that their daddy and I adopted them, that they are beautiful and amazing and sweet and funny little girls.

And I know that despite my flaws, I was meant to be their mom. In that, I find comfort.