If you're a mom (or even if you're not,) you may be saying "Awwwww, how sweet." But you also might think that it's not so extraordinary.
You may think you understand when I say that this makes me choke up and practically hysterical. If your child has or had a life-threatening disease, then you do understand. A woman like me, who a close buddy described decades ago as "like glass - shiny and hard but breaks," has been shattered. To smithereens.
I am not weepy in a Hallmark or Kodak kind of way. No, not weepy. But I weep because it is Redemption. The power of producing Good out of Evil. What could do that? Who? This month 6 years ago, the 3 of us via Seoul, Taejon and DC, arrived back in Pennsylvania. Even then, as a 7-1/2 month old, we are sure he could sense our relief, that this, finally, was our last stop. He fell asleep on the sofa, into that arms-over-the-head I-give-up nothingness.
Our home, but not his. His was back in Seoul, with that other family he knew as his own. In that garlic aromad, seaweed souped, crowded apartment.
He never let me rock him. He never hugged me out of joy or affection. He never sat in my lap. For more than a second. Never mimicked me the way toddlers do. When he was 2-1/2 years old, I distinctly remember laying down behind him while he slept. I reached out to touch his shoulder and he flinched to shake me off. Time and time again, night after night I tried. Weeks of moving bit by bit, a hand, an arm. After months - of emails, phone calls, one therapist then another, this book then that, changing my entire focus and approach, neurological reorganization - this boy, this boy. . . became my son.
During the night, 3 and 4 times, I go to his room and watch him sleep. I touch him - and now - 6 years later, he leans into me. Now he seeks me out to fall asleep on my breast. He was lost but now am found. The miracle in you.