Tough Questions

The other night, I had a conversation with my daughter that I wasn't exactly prepared for. I mean, since the day she was born, I wrestled with exactly what I would tell her when (or if) she ever started asking questions. Because the long and short of it is, her birth came at a time in my life that wasn't exactly all hearts and flowers. Basically, I was still involved with drugs (see "TBOTE" for that backstory) and her "father" was a rebound relationship I had no intention of continuing. I had actually gone so far as to contact an adoption agency, and there was a couple in Georgia who was thrilled at the prospect of adopting my unborn child. But once she was born, everything changed.

First off, her "father" wanted to give her to his sister in Michigan. Ummmm... NOT! I wasn't exactly receptive to the thought of my child being raised by someone I would most likely have contact with. Then there was the whole maternal instinct thing. When I held her, I cried. She was so beautiful and perfect, and I couldn't imagine my life without her. Then again, I was also terrified that I would be the World's Worst Mother, since I wasn't quite ready to give up the partying and be a responsible adult. Basically, I wanted things to both change and stay the same.

In the end, I kept my daughter, broke a Georgia couples' hearts, and never looked back. She saved my life. For real.

So when she started talking about her "father" (he did finally write her back, albeit over a month later) and asking questions, I kind of had that sick feeling in my stomach. I answered the easy ones honestly ("How come he never tried to find me before?" Because he was sick, sweetie, I can't think of any other reason. "Does he love me?" I'm sure he does, in his own way.) and then came the question I knew would lead down a verrrrry slippery slope: "Mom, was I wanted?"

I took a deep breath, and looked her in her big blue eyes. "All my life, I have wanted you, baby."

"Ok, but did you plan to have me? Or was I an accident?"

She wasn't about to make this easy. And honestly, I couldn't blame her. She had a right to get some honest answers. I thought for a minute, and measured my words carefully.

I explained to her that no, she wasn't planned. That at the time I was pregnant, I was terrified and didn't know what to do. But that somewhere deep inside, I always knew that she and I would be together forever.

I told her I considered adoption, because I wasn't sure I could be a good mother. She asked if I was doing drugs and drinking when I was pregnant (we've already had that talk, you see, she knows about my checkered past) and when I admitted I had, she let out an astonished "MOM!" I explained that it was partially because of that fact that I knew we had to stay together. That even though we don't go to church, I believe in God (as does she) and I also believe that HE took care of her in my stomach until the day she was born. That I truly believe she was put in my life to save my life, because that is exactly what she did.

Her eyes were teary, but so were mine. I could feel not disappointment, but rather love radiating from my little blonde beauty. "You were my miracle," I told her. "And everyone else's too."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

I explained that no one, no one in our family even knew I was pregnant. That only her grandparents and Uncle Bob knew, and when I brought her home it sent shock waves through the entire family. But that everyone came to see her, and fell in love, and never judged or looked down on me. That she was showered with gifts and kisses and so much love it made my head spin. She was that special.

"So you stopped doing drugs then?"

It broke my heart to admit to the truth, but I knew it had to be done. I told her that initially I didn't, that she was three months old when I finally got help, but that it was because of her that I did. That I wanted to be everything she needed, and I wanted her to grow up proud of me. So I worked hard and I followed the rules and I quit drugs forever. Her father, unfortunately, didn't, and I insisted he be clean to be with her. Because I never wanted her to be exposed to a life like that... ever.

And guess what? She smiled at me. She understood. She still loves me, even with my imperfections. She asked me how I thought of her name, and I told her I had read a book, ironically called "No Greater Love," and the little girl in it was named Alexis, and called Lexie, and I just adored that name. She wanted to know if I had thought of any other names, and truthfully? I hadn't. "No boy's names?" she asked. "Nope," I told her, "because I knew you were a girl. And I knew you were going to be Alexis Ann, and you were going to be my miracle. And you were."

So now there are no more secrets. I told her I was sure that someday, when she is an impossible teenager, she may throw this information back in my face. That she may accuse me of not wanting her, of not loving her. Then I told her that I was saying this on the record for when she does say that: "I have always wanted you, have always loved you, and always will. You are my miracle, baby girl, and without you, I would probably be dead. You are my world, and you bring me joy every day. No matter how scared I was initially, I always knew that you were meant to be. And I am so grateful that you are my daughter, and that I am your mother."

"I'm glad you told me, mom," she said, smiling through her tears. "And I'm glad I'm your daughter. 'Cause I don't think I'd like Georgia."

I had to laugh. Only my Lexie could make light of something so serious. So we crossed a huge hurdle together, and guess what? It wasn't that bad. Because I am learning that my daughter is made of strong stuff, and honesty is always the best way to go. I only hope that we stay as close as we are forever - although I have a feeling we may get even closer as she gets older...