I had an epiphany yesterday.

We weren’t doing anything special. Maybe that is what made it significant.

It was a Monday. Monday mornings are hectic around here. Getting the two older kids to school can be hard on Monday mornings. Then, I have about a 10-minute gap during which I come back to the house with the two younger ones, get some dishes done or throw a load of laundry in and then take Drew to preschool. I usually go to the grocery store after dropping him off and shop for the week with Lydia in tow—something that often becomes stressful for both of us.

This particular Monday, I had some extra errands to run. So, we did the grocery shopping and still had three more stops before it would be time to pick up Drew. Since Lydia is crazy very active, I brought the hip carrier I use and carried her in that to try to contain her a bit.

This was the set-up for my epiphany—clearly, nothing extraordinary, just normal life.

It was at the second stop as I was toting her around, occasionally petting her flyaway wisps of brown hair and giving her kisses on her forehead when she would snuggle extra close and tuck her arms in tight to me and dialoguing with her constantly (as of this weekend, she has officially entered the “why?”-stage), that I had my epiphany.

I love this little girl. She is my daughter. Every little idiosyncrasy of my reaction to her was because I am her mother and she is my daughter. Every answer to her “why?”s, every glance down at her, every pat on her back and pet of her hair, every smile in response to someone we past by who smiled at her…all was because I felt completely normal with her on my side, literally attached to me. And, it was really a good feeling.

I realized that as well as I thought attachment had been going for the last year, as committed as I was to her, as much as I loved her and loved seeing my husband embrace her and the other children dote on her, there had been something missing, a very important thing missing.

When we first brought her home, we had the opportunity to meet with an attachment therapist as part of a research study. I remember at one of these meetings towards the end, she asked me a pointed question along these lines, “Many adoptive parents say that it takes them a little while to really feel like their adopted child is their child. Do you feel like she’s yours?” Yes, yes, I answered. She’s mine. I can’t imagine her anywhere else. And, yet, there was some small amount of disconnect. I attributed it to her bonding with Mark more than me. She clearly likes him more, I thought. She sees me more as a glorified caregiver, I thought. Maybe that’s why she bonded to Mark more than me.

But, yesterday, there I was walking around in one of the most mundane places. And, there, God did it again. He made the unholy, holy. He made the ordinary, extraordinary. There I was, shopping for jewelry displays, and I realized I was holding my daughter.

And, my heart grew big.

When we had been home about a week, a woman at church asked me, “So, what did it feel like?” I didn’t quite get her question. “What do you mean? What did what feel like?” “What did it feel like when you saw her?” What did it feel like? I gave her a short answer, as we were standing in the lobby with people bustling around us. Amazing. Overwhelming. But, this question deserves more of an explanation than that. So, I’m taking the chance to document it here. Maybe it will inform some people, encourage some people, I don’t know; mainly, it will just help me to remember.

What did it feel like? I just watched the video again of when we saw Lydia in person for the first time. I can remember it so clearly even without the video. My heart was beating out of my chest. I felt like someone could actually hear it beating if the honking on the street 6 floors below us would stop for a few seconds. Mark and I had gone from the airport to our hotel and had about 30 minutes to put our bags down, freshen up a bit, and prepare our room for a baby. The empty crib was there, a visual reminder (as if I needed one) that our child would be here momentarily. Mark and I sat on the bed and prayed before we had to go downstairs to meet our guide and go to the civil affairs office. I started to cry as soon as we sat down. He had to pray; I couldn’t get any words out.

We walked to the office, right across the street really—well, that’s relative because there were about 6 lanes of traffic going every which way. But, we just kept going, sticking close to our guide.

Up to the 6th floor we went, the door to the office appeared locked and the office dark. Our guide made a phone call to the orphanage, and we checked another floor. Were we in the right place? Yes, yes. She sent us in. The office was basic, no frills at all. We sat down on a couch and waited. We only waited a few moments when our guide told us, “Here she comes.” Mark turned the video camera on, and in came the assistant director of the orphanage, a boy of about 4 (not sure who he belonged with. I think he was the assistant director’s son), and the head nanny who was holding the most beautiful little puffy bundle of a baby. If you listen closely to the video, you can hear me gasping for breath. My hands were covering my mouth, and I was trying not to fall apart. For a few seconds (it seemed so much longer when we were there), the nanny held Lydia speaking to her in Chinese and showing her to us from about 10 feet away. Mark and I just sat, trying to hold ourselves together and not knowing what to do next. Thankfully, our guide didn’t wait too long before she said, “Kelly, you can try and hold her.” So, I approached her slowly and reached my arms out to her. It was amazing. It was overwhelming.

We had been anticipating, expecting this child for 3 years, talking about her, dreaming about her, preparing for her long before we knew who she was. Then, once we were matched, we had only a handful of pictures of her that we “bonded” to for a little over 2 months before we traveled. Then, there we were, and there she was, live and in person. She was smaller than I had imagined. In fact, the first thing I said after several “hi”s in a baby voice to her was, “She’s so little” to Mark. It was a very unique feeling, one I cannot fully describe, to first see the child you have committed to loving forever. Were we “bonded” right away? Did it feel like a biological labor and delivery? It was different. It was unique. I was overwhelmed with emotion and pretty nervous too. I knew I loved her—but it wasn’t because I was in love with her. I didn’t even know her except for the very two-dimensional information we had received with her file like “fond of listening to music,” “She loves caretakers holding her to go outside to play,” “She is happy when someone play with her. If not, she would feel a little sad.” But, I had made the choice to love her. I felt like saying to her, “I love you dearly, not because of anything you have done but because God has called me to, and I have chosen to. And, I cannot wait to learn about you and get to know you and fall in love with everything about you.” That commitment was a little bit scary—could I make that commitment? I feared not connecting with her and her not connecting with us. I feared that she might not feel like my own child and that she wouldn’t feel like we were her mama and daddy. But, we knew that the One who called us to this in the first place would not fail to equip us for the task. We prayed that He’d equip our daughter as well. So, we just pressed forward; anything less would have been disobedience to His calling. The first few days were interesting as we all tried to figure each other out. Everything was new for all of us. I cannot say that I loved her more as I got to know her—there’s no more when you already love with your whole heart. But, the love became less of an obvious choice and more personalized—more adoration focused and less simply commitment focused.

Having been with Lydia for 8 weeks now, we are still learning about each other. In a way, she still seems to be discovering herself; for that matter, I guess I am too in a way. With our biological children, as we studied them, learned the little quirks that make them who they are, our love for them has matured. The same is true with our love for Lydia. God knows everything about her already; she is His child. And, as we get to see more and more of who she is, my love for her is maturing. What a privilege it is to call myself her mother.