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At the Park Today

CLS Sandoval

Evelyn’s a little fussy in her stroller this morning. She’s gotten so mobile; she doesn’t want to sit anymore.

“I want out” clearly comes from her bow tie lips as she signs “out” with her right hand for emphasis.

She’s such a little person, I think to myself as I unstrap her and watch her run toward the swing.

“Push, mama?” she hollers once she gets to it.

“I’m coming,” I respond and jog toward her.

Moments like this is what I imagine I will miss when she hits 15—probably even sooner. I now know that my mom really knew what she was talking about—even when I thought she was crazy.

Only three years ago—a year before Evelyn was born—a social worker told me that I would need to deal with my loss of not making a baby before I would be ready to adopt.

“But adoption is my plan A,” I insisted. “I only want to adopt because I had such a great experience being adopted.”

The social worker mumbled something about adoption trauma and how I would need therapy to deal with it. I rolled my eyes on the inside and talked my then husband’s ear off on the car ride home.

I wonder where that social worker is today—whether she’s still trying to talk people into pain, trauma, and loss—or maybe just out of adoption. And I wonder if she has yet healed.

Evelyn doesn’t want to get out of the swing, but her head starts nodding and her eyelids get heavy. I gently pull her out of the swing and on to my shoulder. I hear and feel her breath. As I walk toward my car with my sleeping baby in my arms, all I can feel is gratitude.

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