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From Bill McGurn’s magnificent reflection on Mother’s Day in the New York Post:
[F]or my bride, the path to Mother’s Day had no swelling of the belly, no morning sickness, no assurance that some time after nine months there would be an infant in her arms. The only physical signs of pending motherhood were a sheaf of forms and a single passport-size photo we received at some point in each adoption.
Delivery was different, too. Three times we checked into a Chinese hotel. Three times a tiny little girl was brought to our room. Three times I watched my wife wrap her baby in a love so natural and so fierce anyone watching would have thought the two had been meant to be together since the beginning of time.
And maybe they were….
So come Sunday morning, my wife and I will lie in bed as we hear the clatter of pans downstairs, the occasional yell for someone to butter the toast or get the eggs off the stove, followed by footsteps as they carry the finished tray upstairs. I’ll watch and witness amid feelings of peace and joy and contentment that overwhelm precisely because of how magnificently ordinary it all is.
And offer a prayer for three unknown women somewhere in China, to whom my happy little family owes a debt beyond this world’s ability to repay.
Pictured: Julie McGurn and her girls.