Motherhood always starts with a birth story.
Because no matter if you pull your baby out of a birthing pool with your own two hands, receive her from the arms of a social worker outside the hospital nursery, or pull him – screaming – from the arms of the orphanage worker who brought him halfway across the province and met you in a stuffy civil affairs room thick with the smell of stale smoke and fear, motherhood always starts in a monumental moment.
And you never feel ready. But in that monumental moment, a mother is born.
Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours... Won't you please join me there?