Dear Daughter,
I don't know your name. I don't know what you look like. I don't know much about you, but I know this: I love you fiercely. Deeply. Madly. Passionately.
It's been two years since your father and I decided to expand our family through adoption. In that time, we have prayed for you, every single day. In the morning, when I get your brother, Reagan, up, I whisper a prayer that God will give you restful sleep with sweet dreams. And at night, when I tuck your brother in, I pray that you will have a good day, with a full tummy and hugs and things to make you smile.
I don't know what you have experienced in your life, but I know that you already have had much pain, much sorrow. It pains me, more than you will ever possibly comprehend, to know that right now you have tears that I can't wipe away, boo-boos that I can't kiss, and fears that I can't soothe.
It might feel that you are in an orphanage because you were unwanted, and unloved, but let me assure you that NOTHING could be further from the truth. NOTHING. You are so loved, and desperately, desperately wanted into this family.
We talk about you all the time, with Reagan and whoever else will listen. Reagan proudly shows people your room. Your Daddy got me a charm of a girl, to represent your place in our family, and Reagan often asks to look at the 'one of his sister.'
I know you most likely have some physical challenges. I won't pretend to know what it's like to be so young and face the things you have had to face in your short life, but I assure you that we will do everything in our power -- everything -- to make sure you receive the best care when you come home with us. We have a fantastic pediatrician who we have already been talking to about you, and we will move heaven and earth to get you the best possible treatment.
I miss you. Isn't that odd that I miss you but I don't know who you are yet? But it's true. I get teary a lot. Part of my heart is with you, and until you are in my arms, that void is always going to be there.
So, a little bit about our family ... your Daddy is a GOOD father. I mean, the kind who will read you books past your bedtime, get on the floor and play with you, carry you around on his shoulders, and take you out and buy you treats just because. He loves you. He will protect you at all costs. He is patient (way more patient than Mommy), and always sees the bright side.
Reagan is two years old. He'll probably be three by the time we meet you. He is VERY active, and loves playing with cars, his new kitchen, his farm animals, his race track, and pretty much anything else he can get his hands on. He loves to play outside on his swing set, and he often helps Mommy bake. He is a true nurturer. Even at his young age, he always makes sure other people around him are ok, so I'm sure he'll take good care of you.
I'm home most of the time, so you'll see a lot of me. I am imperfect on a good day, impatient when I'm tired and more of a realist than I'd like to admit. But, I will always, always, always, always, always love you. As your parents, we'll make a lot of mistakes, but we'll learn from them, grow from them, and hopefully figure out the best way to love you and take care of you in the process.
You'll also see a lot of your grandparents, Poppy, Gran Jan and Oma, and your Aunt Tracy and nephew Daniel (or 'Doolule' as Reagan calls him). Poppy and Oma come over often to play, so I'm sure you'll love them. They already love you. And Aunt Tracy is already excited to buy you presents.
Twice a year we travel to PA to see my family, your Pop-Pop, Nana, Uncle Mike, Aunt Dawn and cousin Hunter. They can't wait to meet you. You'll love staying with Uncle Mike and Aunt Dawn. And Aunt Dawn has been known to buy a few special treats and surprises when we visit. She will spoil you in the best way possible.
So many other people love you, and pray for you. People from our church and our friends often ask about you, and if we're close to bringing you home. You are an extremely loved little girl.
When we first told our choir at church that we were adopting you, our friend Jenn prayed that God would 'fill your room with Hope.' The word 'hope' stuck. Our friend Alicia gave us a cross that says 'Hope' on it, and I look at it every day and smile, because it represents YOU. And you make me smile.
I love you, sweet girl. Our family is incomplete until you come home with us. I miss you. I can't wait to meet you.
See you soon.
Love,
Mommy
