for Quinn and Lindsay

. . . believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, and have faith that in this love there is a strength and a blessing so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it.
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

To say that I was smitten is the grandaddy of all understatements. I was wholly, unabashedly, wildly smitten. As they placed my new son in my arms and our eyes locked, I held the tangible love I’d only imagined in the weeks before our adoption. It goes without saying that I was smitten with all of my babies, but with Quinn, there was an urgency tinged with desperation that wormed itself through me. He would be the last baby I would ever have, the last late night feedings I’d ever give, the last baby baths and stroller rides, the last chest-to-chest rocking sessions.

I was no stranger to the changes that occur when babies become toddlers become children, for my three daughters had prepared me well for these transformations. As inevitable as these changes were, I admit that I wasn’t always crazy about them. Initially, that is. But then, like most parents, I learned the marvels of the next stage–and then the next. I learned that there was nothing wrong with briefly mourning the stage that was ending, but that I’d better buckle up quickly for the next stage. It was coming whether I liked it or not.

I was blessed to be able to work part-time until Quinn went to school. He went with me everywhere and unwittingly became an ambassador for adoption, as strangers stopped me to ask such questions as: Are you babysitting? Are you a foster parent? What does his father look like? Quinn let them touch his hair and make googly eyes at him, while I answered their questions. People were generally kind–just curious. So, from the time Quinn was a baby, he was becoming a people person, an individual who rarely met a person he couldn’t talk to and didn’t like.

When I was shopping one day, a clerk walked all the way across the store to ask me where my little buddy was. School, I said, he started kindergarten this year. She nodded knowingly but not before a look passed across her face, a look that reflected exactly what I was feeling: if only I could turn back time. Sometimes I can hear echoes of Power Rangers’ battles being played out from the backseat of my car, and I can still remember the feel of his hand in mine as we crossed the street.

Through each season of change, I learned more about myself as I learned more about him. I learned that when he carried the ball during football games, I would run–figuratively and sometimes literally–along with him. Once during a middle school game during which the spectators were standing on the sidelines, I broke free and would’ve crossed into the end zone with him, but blessedly I came to my senses. (Can you imaginethe headlines? Quinn Vesely and his Mom Score Final TD!) With every yard we (and I say “we” intentionally) pounded out, I learned that there was simply no way that I could be a passive bystander in my son’s life. For better or worse, I felt every victory and every loss–athletic and otherwise–almost as keenly as he did. I still do.

This week, Quinn will marry Lindsay, a wonderful partner who makes him very happy. And this change, of course, makes us very happy. Still, even though he hasn’t lived at home for years, there’s something particularly bittersweet about the fact that he never will again. But I take solace in poet Ranier Maria Rilke’s claim that there is a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance, a love so large that you can travel as far as you wish without having to step outside it. My children have given me an inheritance of great love, and it travels from Montana to Iowa to Pennsylvania surely and miraculously, traversing miles and months in a blink of an eye.

Change is in the air this week as we prepare to celebrate Quinn’s marriage to Lindsay. When two become one, the change is sacred and oh so wonderful.

Congratulations and all my love Quinn and Lindsay