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Sewn into Me | Dugan Adoption Diaries

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My arms are weary this week.

Tired. Heavy. Sore.

However, I am thankful.

Because I am needed.

She needs me. Sometimes only me. Her mama.

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I’d set her down for a brief reprieve. But her body would arch forward angrily, her arms reached high above her head. A loud , piercing, high pitched squeal of protest would fill the tiny space of quietness.

“Don’t let me go Mama. Don’t put me down. Hold me.” 

I am comforter. Her comforter.  So I hold. I kiss. I don’t put down. I don’t walk away. I stay.

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Work piles up. Projects get delayed. Life runs on her time line. Her needs.

I feed her, her bottle, and her eyes lock mine. Her teeny tiny hands desperately grasp my fingers.

“Don’t let me go Mama. Don’t put me down. Hold me.” 

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I am hers. So we sit together long after each feeding. Milk drips out of the corner of her mouth, and she smiles. She coos, and talks and blows raspberries. I kiss her toes. I kiss the bridge of her nose. I kiss her cheeks. I linger.

I am fascinated that she knows.

I am Mama.

Her mama. 

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Chubby hands caress my face, and she pulls it close to hers. So gentle. So sweet. So loving. I kiss her, and she sighs and, “Mmmm’s.” She can’t get enough kisses, and complains if I attempt to break free, reaching to bring me close again. Thanking me with slobbery kisses of her own.

My heart soars daily knowing that this love. This kind of love she reserves for me and me alone. 

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Other arms hold her close. But she turns to find me. Always looking. Always knowing where I am. Daring me with those deep, dark eyes to walk away.

“Don’t go too far Mama. I need you close. ” 

I forget .

I forget when my arms are weary and when my heart is full that she wasn’t knit close in my womb.

I forget when she cries out in the middle of the night that we don’t share the same blood, and that her heart wasn’t hidden within me.

I forget when I am wrapped up in her , and her in me that I never bore labor pains to bring her into this world.

I forget when I hold her, overwhelmed by her neediness for me, that I share the title Mama. That she is mine only because of another’s love for her.

It’s a gift to be needed by her. Loved by her. Wanted by her.

So I hold her close when I am bone tired. When my arms ache. And I am thankful.

I am her Mama. 

She is sewn to me in a way that brings me to my knees, and takes my breath away.

She. Little her. Woven beautifully into the depths of my heart. My love for her courses through my veins. I soak every inch of her up. The dimples, the rolls, the dinosaur growl. The curve of her neck, the shape of her toes, the curl of her lashes… I’ve memorized her entire being. I am delighted by who she is. I love who she is.

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My daughter.

So this is attachment. Where she needs me. Where I NEED her.

Her mama. My daughter.

Sewn Together.