for those suffering in silence

In an effort to make good on my previous commitment to be real, I wrote the following as a guest post for Kim Van Brunt's blog {Honestly} Adoption:

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. May, 2011.

The screams have finally ceased, replaced by shuddering sighs as my newly adopted daughter gradually surrenders to fitful sleep in my arms. Perched on the edge of the mattress, I complete my third consecutive hour of rhythmic rocking and humming, and then begin another. It will be several more minutes before I can ease my rigid embrace and attempt to lay her down.

My arms burn from the extended effort of restraining a thrashing two-year-old. Perspiration, hers and mine, soaks my shirt, the blanket with which I’ve swaddled her, and her brand new Carter’s pajamas. The hot dampness smells of strife and mocks my pre-adoption visions of this bedtime ritual. I’d imagined the rocking, swaddling, and humming. I just hadn’t planned on the full-body wrestling, blood-curdling screams, clawing fingers, and buckets of sweat.

Then again, few things about our three weeks in Africa have gone as planned...

(To read the remainder of this post, please click on {Honestly} Adoption.)