Bonding with Our Babies, Biological and Adopted

I try to filter everything I write through the lens of my children reading it as teenagers. I never want to share deep thoughts or even innocent stories that could make them feel overexposed, disrespected, or insecure. Adoption makes this particularly tricky, because as you might imagine— I have many blog topics itching to get out of my fingers on this extremely complex experience.

But Warren comes first. Always. Not my advocacy, not my worries, not anything but making sure I do everything in my power to love him intentionally well.

Intentionally well.

That actually describes what I want to write about today pretty perfectly— a post that I don’t think Warren will have any trouble reading when he grows up. It’s about bonding with our kids. You see, the topic of bonding with our kids might sound sticky, especially because of the comparison trap. We might compare our bonding experience with that of other new moms, or between our own experiences with each child. When you throw adoption in the mix, all of a sudden it feels extra concerning. Like we’re rating our love or something.

Deep breath, y’all! I’m here to share good news. Not a lesson. Not how it “should” be. Just my own perspective that has brought a lot of peace to this part of my motherhood journey. The “bonding” part. Maybe you’re wired like me and what I have to share will be helpful, or maybe we’re wired totally differently— and this is my preemptive permission for you to simply go, “Huh, that’s interesting!” and move on with your life.

Okay so.

I wasn’t really worried about bonding with our adopted son until other people seemed to think I should be worried about it.

Even then, it was barely a concern. Now, this doesn’t mean I hadn’t done ample research to learn how to help him bond with me, because he’s a baby and babies can’t manage their own emotional and physical health. That’s my job. So I knew I’d do as much skin-to-skin as possible, talk to him even more often than to bio babies because he didn’t have months of learning my voice in the womb, and things like that. But I wasn’t worried how I’d bond with him. I knew I’d love him as easily as I’d loved Anders and Jo.

Ironically, the reason I knew I’d love him so easily is because of guilt I’d already experienced with this whole “bonding” thing. Frankly, I never knew what moms were talking about when they recounted these intense wild bonds with their kids upon birth. Yes, I immediately loved my bio kids after I pushed them out. I suddenly thought of nothing except for them. But the whole magic floating unicorn glitter elation love wasn’t my reality. Especially with Anders, because I was mostly like “soooo now what do we do with this lil’ potato?” My feelings grew with him like with any relationship, becoming more and more intense as I learned more and more about him. The preferences, the smiles, the behaviors, the quirks. With Jo Bear, I felt the squishy feels a little faster, but mostly because I’d already gone through it once, so less stress in the unknown made room for more glitter.

Was I a Bad Mom?

Anyway, whenever moms would talk about their bonds with their newborns, I used to feel like I did something wrong. Maybe I wasn’t wired like good moms are. I felt embarrassed because I could name like, five days that I’d consider the best day of my life over the day Anders was born. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my absolute everything and I love him beyond words, but…my wedding was awesome. The best days of my life when the kids were involved have been picnicking in the backyard or cooking together in the kitchen. Lying in a hospital bed wearing a diaper when they still looked like aliens and only interacted to wake me up and destroy my nipples just didn’t cut it for me. Glad they arrived. Super glad. Can’t imagine life without them. But they did not arrive in a glitter cloud, okay??

I came to terms with my atypical bonding experience (at least it felt “atypical” until I realized many moms felt just like I did) because I made a conscious decision that flowery poems on viral Facebook posts didn’t say more about my love for my kids than the way I raise them. Than loving them…”intentionally well.” Than the fact that I bent over backwards to breastfeed Anders when he was in the NICU and shared a single-person hospital bed with Aaron for the first 11 days of his life. Feel-good immediate bonding stories don’t trump how much I researched safe sleep and car seat safety and nutritional guidance. And ultra-bonding really had nothing on the kisses and the cuddles and the embarrassing high voices and the book-reading and the rocking chair marathons I offered my kids.

Love is a choice.

Actions. To me at least. Biological wiring exists, sure, fine, whatever. But I found confidence in my love for Anders and Jo by looking at HOW I loved them. Not WHY I loved them— not because of some magical bond that happened in utero. And that’s the way I feel about my husband and my family and my friends, too, if I’m being honest. It’s why I’m such a loyal person. I’m not saying this is the “right” way to be, because the bonding some other moms talk about sounds great! But this is just how I operate, personally. I don’t get caught up in thinking my feelings or biology are the biggest component to my love. Often they’re not. For me, I’ve found my confidence as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, AND mother in my ability to love wholeheartedly without some big constant feeling of loveeeeeee. In the choice to love. I do feel a LOT of gooey love for all those people in my life, but I love them the same even during low-goo stages.

And honestly, the fear I once felt about my baby-bonding which led to the learned confidence in my love for Anders and Jo has served me well as Warren’s mom. I haven’t experienced something much different in bonding with him than I did with my bio kids. He’s my baby boy and I’ve loved him from day one and will love him forever. I’m still good at safety and feeding and nutrition and cuddles and kisses and high voices and rocking chairs. DNA doesn’t affect those things. And as I’ve absorbed his habits and expressions and preferences, the goo is getting gooier and the glitter is getting messier and the squishy feels are even squishier.

You see, I love all three of my babies. I love them each differently and each the same. I’m “bonded” with them—whatever the freakin’ heck that even means—and they better be ready for me to tell them about all my glittery feels for the rest of their lives, even when it embarrasses them in middle school or their spouses think I’m nutty. Even when I don’t remember my own name, I know I’ll love these children to the point of near-explosion, and that’s good enough bonding for me.