Eggs for Breakfast

We had eggs for breakfast on Saturday. Scrambled with cheddar and grape tomatoes. Sautéed mushroom and onions on the side. Decaf, rolls and freezer jam made by a friend. I was enjoying seconds and thinking things couldn’t get any better when Mister made an announcement that warmed my heart, buoyed my resolve and validated my meager efforts. “Hey, I have a picture in my special book of this food!” He announced excitedly.

It is true. His first morning home started early, inspired by jet lag and the newness of his surroundings. He explored every room, turning everything he touched into a ball or a car. I watched him in satisfaction, marveling at the ‘real boy’ running around, the eye lashes and elbows of the seemingly imaginary child whose wrinkled photo I had carried around in my pocket for so long. Then we scrambled eggs. He ate four. And dunked his toast in my coffee, snatching it out of my hand with expert quickness and a boldness I hadn’t seen in him before. Buna is a significant part of Ethiopian culture, so why wouldn’t he want an early morning sip, I mused.

I don’t think he remembers that morning, and he doesn’t have to. We have a photo of the event and it has its own spot in his special book. Lately talk about his special book has been hard and focused on the more painful parts of the story. But like every story, his is full of beauty, wonder, pain, laughter, and the mundane. Like eggs for breakfast. He already knows he is unique. But connecting Saturday with his adoption story told me that he is also getting the message that his story is normal and full of the everyday. The jagged pieces of the mosaic butted up against ones with softer edges. And that is important to me.