Guest Blogger Sara Saylor reflects on her adopted son's two birth stories today on his third birthday.
My son has two birth stories. One took place in a small village in Ethiopia. The other happened 8,324 miles away in Dallas, Texas.
Buturo was born in rural Ethiopia. As I listen to my friends talk about prenatal care, doulas and birthing plans, I think about my son’s first mother. I’ve tried to imagine the day he was born. I think of her pushing him into the world as the sun streamed through her thatched roof. Who was with her? A sister? A midwife? What did she think when she held his little, slippery body for the first time? What did she hope for him when she gave him the name Buturo, which means hard worker? Did she picture him becoming a farmer like his father? I can’t imagine she ever thought he’d grow up half a world away.
Around the same time Buturo took his first breath, my husband and I gave birth to our adoption plan. We had been through two painful miscarriages. It had rocked us to the core. Although I underwent numerous invasive tests to try to figure out why my body had failed me, there wasn’t a magic answer, no certain explanation. Maybe it was a clotting disorder. Maybe it was just bad luck. There was no reason not to try again, but we just couldn’t. It had been too hard, too heartbreaking. So we decided to adopt. The outcome seemed more certain. Eventually we’d become parents even if it took awhile.
So in January 2008, two mothers a world apart, held this new child in their hearts. She likely dreamed of a good life for him. And I dreamed of being there for a child who needed me. Buturo is celebrating his his third birthday today at our home in Ann Arbor, and we will not only celebrate his birthday, but we will also light a candle to honor the woman who gave him life.
