The Chosen Child

H and I have been sleeping on the couch for months now due to his difficulties with sleeping. It’s become so routine that most nights I forget I’m not sleeping in my comfy bed. 
It certainly helps that our couch is a gigantic sectional that is almost as wide as a twin size bed. Any discomfort is worth it; most nights H sleeps better and longer than he ever did in a bed. 
And for the most part we finally have calm and peaceful mornings without meltdowns. This morning was no exception. I was half asleep when H bounded up, chattering excitedly, full of stories, energy and excitement for the day.

 
I barely heard his tiny precious raspy voice through my almost-unconscious grogginess: “Mommy, I love you. Thank you for picking me.”
Years ago, I read an article about some adoptive children feeling guilt and shame when they were told they’d been chosen, since not all kids are chosen (horrible, but true). As a result, I’ve never told H that he was chosen or picked, I vowed to let him discern his feelings about how we became a family. I am so thrilled my child is finding is value and worth.
Child, for the record, you were picked, chosen, prayed for, fought for, God-given, and the main reason I was put on this earth.