Before we ever brought our son home from China, we called him “Superman.”

Maybe it was because we come from a house full of boys, or maybe it was because capes and superheroes are just part of our Cuthrell culture. Or maybe it was because Superhero 1 and Superhero 2 had already reserved Batman and Spiderman as their preferred superheroes of choice, and we were running out of options for superheroes popular enough to feature their own line of bedding that didn’t clash with Batman and Spiderman in the room where all three boys would soon sleep.

One of three.

But the first time we viewed the medical file of the 2-year-old little boy with the white arm sling living half a world away in China, God made it clear — this was our son. This was our Superman. And Superman, like Clark Kent himself, was “special.”

Sunday night, I sat down at a kitchen table beautifully decorated by my husband for a homemade Mother’s Day dinner.

(The man prepared this elegant meal of blue cheese lettuce wedges, olive oil and rosemary bread, sautéed garlic asparagus and bourbon-butter steak AND served it at a table decorated with bird décor and linen napkins he had apparently spent the afternoon Googling how to fold. Can we discuss the number of brownie points this superstar just earned? What missed 15-year anniversary of our first date?! #boyfriendforeva)

Spoiled rotten and completely overwhelmed with gratitude for this precious man who had not only cooked for me but also for the mama I hold so dear, I just sat in my chair — not allowed to help or clean — and (because I haven’t sat down in 10 years and I don’t know what to do with sitting time) slowly and intentionally counted each and every one of my precious blessings.

As I basked in the laughter of the superheroes who had gifted me a Lego rose for Mother’s Day — one I couldn’t kill — I just thanked God. And I realized how easily this could have been the Mother’s Day that wasn’t if I had allowed fear to paralyze me years ago.

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