I've been meaning to write two meaningful pieces here, for the ol' blog. But I'm not. I mean, I could say, because blah blah blah molars, the sun was in my eyes, whatever. It comes down to not doing it. So. Soon.
We have a visit planned tomorrow with Tristan's birthfamily, and as always, it has plunged me into thought. I wonder what they feel like when they see him? I wonder if they miss him every day? I wonder if they're still glad they placed him with us, still glad to see he fits so well? I doubt we'll ever have that conversation, it's not really my place to ask and it wouldn't be healthy for either one of us. So I have to accept that they really are okay, and choose not to worry about their mental health. Which is a little strange, since I regularly take on the burden of total strangers, i.e., "I wonder how Sandy (Bullock) is coping with the divorce and all..."
So there's that mental gymnastics, which has no bearing, and is almost disconnected from, my relationship to Tristan himself. Tristan is my son. Fully, completely, forever my son. In my heart, my emotions, my days and my mind, there is no difference between him and the children who came from my body. Sometimes I'll remind myself that I didn't give birth to him, and do a little internal heart-poke to see if that bothers me, and it never does. He is mine.
So we'll visit, and we'll all enjoy him, how beautiful he is, and how happy, and how confident. For them, I'm sure it will be bittersweet. And then we'll say goodbye and we'll all go back to our lives, lives that are irrevocably connected and deeply richer because of a little boy who was given life.