There’s a wonderful full circle feeling when Stella requests I play “Your Song” in the car. “The loud version,” she says, meaning the one sung by Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge, rather than the classic Elton John track. I love them all, so I don’t mind which one.
This particular version–the loud one–is the very song that I listened to in the car on the way back from the adoption center in Fort Worth, five years ago, when I decided to parent my baby instead of place it in the hands of another. I was sobbing. It was a decision I didn’t understand, but truly felt led to, and I walked into the light of motherhood with nothing but fear and blind faith.
I don’t have much money, but if I did, I’d buy a big house where we both could live.
This was the song that was playing when I felt her move inside me for the first time. My hands were resting on my belly, my body rhythmically rocking on a hammock in the still heat of the summer, and there she was. Like butterfly wings or fluttering eyelashes. My daughter, kicking, connecting with me for the first time.
It’s a little bit funny this feeling inside. I’m not one of those who can easily hide.
I’ve sung this song countless times to her since–as she’s fallen asleep, when I’m comforting her and drying her tears, or just as an act of love as she sighs and stares at me, making a heart shape with her hands.
Yours are the sweetest eyes that I’ve ever seen.
Stella pipes up in the car, I’ve been lost in thought. It’s dark and the song has been playing for several lines.
“I’ll sing it to you this time, mama, because you’ve sung it to me so much.”
And she does, and suddenly it’s all come around. I’m sobbing again in a car, listening to Your Song, except half a decade and a whole lifetime has gone by.
How wonderful life is, now you’re in the world.