I sing you to sleep.

The boys, whom I gave birth to, wouldn’t fall asleep to my singing.  We sing together at night, before they go to sleep, but their song is filled with silliness and laughter.  But you relax as soon as soon as I start your song.

I didn’t meet you until you were five months old. I was your fourth mother. I was nervous that you wouldn’t bond with us, after having been uprooted so many times. But, the second time we visited you, it was clear you recognized us.

The weekend you had your first sleepover with us, we went out to dinner. A woman stopped by our table to tell us how beautiful you were, and how she loved watching you stare at me.

“Babies always know their mommies,” she said.

I may be your mommy, but you are still not my daughter.  We wait.  The court is still considering its decision.  It is a decision I am glad I do not have to make myself.  We have come to know your birth mother, your birth father, your birth family.  Both of your birth parents love you very much, and would like you to be with them.  Part of me hopes they can do all the things they need to do to make their lives safe and secure enough to have you back.  But, another part of me knows that it is a herculean task.

I also know that if you do go back, we will be devastated.  Your father has already started looking into therapists, just in case.  Your silly brothers, who adore you and compete to make your smile, will have a really hard time adjusting.  I suspect this will make my postpartum depression look like a party.  But what really worries me is you.  Will you be safe?  Will that nice lady and man you have playdates with be able to continue their progress?  Will you miss your brothers?  Will you grow up to be the happy, healthy, amazing woman I know you can be?

Who will sing you to sleep?