Rabbi Elena Stein, Cincinnati

I had no doubt that I would love my child. I sometimes tell my daughter Dahlia that I loved her even before she was born. She says, “ but you didn’t even meet me until I was almost two years old.” Which is true. But nevertheless.

When we arrived to our home in Cincinnati, she was 22 months old. I rocked her to sleep in my arms.

She was exhausted from traveling around China with my mother, three other families and a translator. She also was exhausted from all the excitement of meeting our dog and experiencing wall-to-wall carpeting for the first time.

During our week in China, she was terrified of me and confused. But she held onto my index finger where ever we went, necessitating my mother to always push the stroller. I guess that Dahlia was unsure of which was more terrifying — this strange, pasty-looking woman with brown, curly hair, or the thought of being separated from yet another caregiver, even though I was strange and pasty looking.

Now that we were home alone, together, for the first time, I was the one who was scared and confused. I had never been alone with her, after all. I had never rocked a child to sleep.

I remembered something I had read about bonding and attachment in adoption. It said to make eye contact with your toddler, for increased amounts of time. If the child won’t make eye contact with you, then she has an attachment disorder. I worried, “My, God, what if she has an attachment disorder?” So I made eye contact with her. She made eye contact with me and then pressed her nose on my nose and opened her eyes very wide, as if to say, “Why are you staring at me?” Well, at least the matter of the possibility of bonding with her was resolved.

I stopped staring at her and rocked her. She fell asleep quickly, making sucking sounds with her mouth, indicating to me she was in a deep sleep.

I timidly carried her to the crib, worried that I would wake her up. I put her gently into the crib and she opened her eyes. “Oh, no,” I thought, “I did it wrong. She’s awake.” I took a fleece blanket and rubbed it on her little cheek. She looked at me, so purely, so sweetly and so tenderly, as if to say, “I love you, too.” She immediately closed her eyes again and fell asleep in her crib.

Maybe it was the fleece blanket that she loved. She did love all things fleece for many years. But I like to think that the look on her face was pure love for me. It allowed me to relax a little as a parent and just trust the love that was between us.