A Grand Adventure

In glancing over my most recent posts I find myself a tad unemotional. And perhaps so have you. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. This whole process has taken me through the wringer emotionally and sometimes (okay, maybe a lot of the time) I hold it in. Smiles, tears, anger. I hold it in, tight like it's the last few cents to my name. And it a way it is -- bits myself and I can't afford to lose anymore. 

And it could be that I process everything internally for a good few days before I write about the feel of it. So there is a lag time, which is probably for the better, as I like to use kind words and share joy rather than raw frustration and anger. 

But here's a little more of myself.

I spend a bit of my time each day in the bedroom set up especially for a specific child in mind. I can't believe we've gotten to this point! And I touch the toys, run my fingers over the pages of the books chosen with care over, what seems like, a lifetime, and squeeze the stuffed animals. And I smile a smile I wish I could capture on film. Yes, film. Real, touch with your hands, film. Because this is suddenly becoming real. These toys will be loved. These books will be read. This bed will be slept in. There will be little toes and little hands and wide eyes ready for adventure. My heart jumps!! I can almost smell it. Dreams cracking into reality. 

And I cry. Tears so full. Because some days the wait is just too much to bear. I wonder if we'll ever get there. Some days the emptiness of this room, these arms, weighs too heavy. I work, hard, to count the joy. And maybe each day is made both easier and harder because we know the little one for whom we wait and prepare. She is out there, right now, playing eating smiling laughing crying. And I smile at the thought of her and my heart breaks a little more for the ache and waiting. Yes, that smile with raw joy and sorrow. 

I find it easier to talk about her with family as if the possibility is way off. The pages of the mental calendar are stretched to great distances in my mind. Because if it's far off, and if IF it doesn't happen, it was never within my grasp in the first place. Less loss felt? Maybe not logical, certainly not less loss at all. But this is how I cope. This is how I live both present, and emotionally contained. Because one cannot run errands and bawl without looking like a mad woman. And nothing gets done so well with tears and snot in the way. So I cope. And more than cope. I hunt for joy, count joy, share joy, and hopefully grow a little bit here and there.

If there was only one thing infertility has taught me it is this: There comes a time in any experience with grief and loss that one must get back to the living -- living, real people. living a life. the simple daily tasks of living. How? I have no idea. It doesn't hurt less but we've got to keep moving, simply because...we must. And however you can is good enough for the now. So I'm not too hard on myself for seeming detached or matter of fact. But I do understand it might seem weird to others.  Grace. shovel grace on me. I have learned to heave grace on others -- the hard and heavy, and fluffy light. The hurting, the angry, the misunderstanding, the ill-informed. Just pile on the grace. 

And now to. . .

. : The GRAND ADVENTURE : .

Something magical is happening pretty soon. And when I'm alone and speak it out loud, without the holding it together, without the coping, without restraint or care for the tears, I dance. 

The good man and I are going to visit our little girl!!

In a few weeks we travel to her hometown and will meet her, get to know her, play with her, hold her, hear her laughter, and see her beautiful face!! We can hardly contain our joy and excitement. We are not sure how the visits will go, how much time we will have, or what's going to happen at all. But we are going! And that's all that matters, that's all I can think about. And God help us when we come home. 

We could really use your prayers. We are preparing for a long trip and have virtually no idea what will happen. We're hoping and praying to meet the foster parents, to visit with the social workers and have at least one unsupervised visit. We could use your prayers as we head down and as we come back home again leaving to continue the wait. 

Thank you for your continued support and prayers as we make our way through this adoption journey. We are grateful to have such a wonderful community around us, our village, who love adoption as much as we do. 

We are hoping that our travel costs will be reimbursed. We think it's best to go for at least one visit, but financially, we hope we aren't stretched. We have complete faith that God will provide for this little family spread out so far. But if you do think of us and feel called to help, or if you have been looking for our fundraising website and noticed it completed, I started a new fundraiser. Go to the link listed to the right. And again, as always, we appreciate every bit. Pennies and more. And prayer.  Yes, prayer is always accepted, treasured, and the best.

Beyond Names...the Other Firsts

Before you continue on...

Some Prayer Requests:

{1} A fast and smooth closing on our house. We have signed the purchase agreement and have everything into the lender. We're just waiting on paper work. Waiting is our life's work...

{2} Our home study process. That all the paper work will be completed and given to the correct offices on the first try. That we will be approved shortly.

{3} For the children and families whose lives have changed, and with whom we will forever be connected. 

. : UPDATE : .

...at the bottom of the post

.     .     .     .     .

He has learned to ride a bike, this once-little burly babe, and I can hardly believe how time does fly even when we feel it dragging slow. This child I have loved across the miles and through all life's moments these past few years. This child handed off to me between classes by grateful parents -- he with chubby cheeks and colicky ways and me astonished that someone would trust a broken barren woman to care for their boy. This child I cried with -- he when new to the world and missing mom's heartbeat, and I when mad at the world and longing to be that soothing heartbeat for another. 

And somehow she new, my friend, my Anam Cara, she knew I needed to hold new life, to know there is good, to just smell new baby and smile. And there he is, in all his awesomeness and excitement, riding a bike. My heart swells with love and pride -- for him and her. For she is growing amazing children.

.     .     .     .     .

I wrote about names before. The names we have treasured and whispered. Hopeful secrets. And now these names we hold so tightly we may have to let go. And there is more.

First words. First bath. First food. First roll. First steps. First tooth. First birthday. First day at the zoo. First  winter and snow. First bike ride. First day of school.

A mother's grief is never ending. We grieve the dreams for a boy and we must let go when we have a girl. We grieve the dreams for a girl and we must let go when we have a boy. We grieve the simple, easy baby we had envisioned when they are sickly and colicky. We grieve the cuddling and hugs when they become independent. We grieve the independent life when we discover we have a clingy toddler. We send them to school, and watch them grow. And we grieve. Where did the baby we so desperately longed for go? He up and turned into a young man.

So maybe I'm just ahead of the curve here? Maybe I'm learning early what all moms must be skilled to do -- grieve well and carry on. But that's not at all how it feels.

.     .     .     .     .

He hates it.

Well, maybe not really hates it, but he definitely wants it to stop, to be the growing up teenager, if we would let him. But here we are, again, retelling and reliving every single story from his most adorable years, of which there are many! We throw our heads back in full body laughter. He rolls his eyes and sighs loud. We gasp in surprise at how easily we have forgotten. We smile proud and look long at this young man towering over us all who somehow was, once, the littlest. 

That time he knocked down the Christmas tree in the middle of the night.

That time he climbed into the fish tank…in the middle of the night.

That time Mom became the overenthusiastic sports parent.

That time he licked Jason's chicken dinner.

The things he said, the things he did. The way he changed our everything.

How he made our world exciting, surprising, everyday an adventure.

And I remember the first word. I remember the first bath, the first tooth, the first step, the first bike ride. I remember all of these things. Not because I kept meticulous journals and records.

I remember because I love him.

I remember because these moments are important. Because they are milestones, funny stories we would die to relive, crazy stories we believe only because we were there. Because we watch in amazement as this little strange baby ambles around and suddenly becomes his own person.

    

I know he wants us to see the young man he is, the man he is growing into. He wants to be the star football player, the championship marcher, the student driver. Not the little boy who got carried all day by his big sister. And definitely not the baby who said "Booka booka" when he wanted juice.

But we sit around the kitchen table, around the fire, in the car and talk about all these moments and memories because we love him.

And later, when he is all grown up and out in the world on his own, has children of his own he will treasure the wellspring of memories we all have. And he will know always that he is loved.

…Or maybe he will still hate it. Well, too bad, Bro. Too bad.

.     .     .     .     .

I think about the firsts, the milestones and cute stories that I might never be able to tell. And it's true, there are always firsts. But all are not the same. The first word is much more cute and amazing than the first brain freeze from a slushy.

I struggle intensely with this, not that I would change anything. This road to adoption and adopting waiting children has been an amazing adventure and, quite honestly, it's our calling. BUT…I do struggle. I struggle to grieve what I must without feeling guilty for grieving. The counselor in me says "I am a real, honest, self-aware person who recognizes the need for and process of grieving in order to move forward in a healthy manner." But the others parts of me wonder, Am I an ungrateful person, a critical person, for allowing this to bother me so? Shouldn't I just be happy?

I guess the truth is -- we all grieve. And although we might not like it or think it unnecessary, we grieve and we move forward. Not forgetting, but learning and growing. We all live in the unexpected life. We all experience the now differently than we thought it would be 5 years ago. And that's part of the beauty of the adventure.

Oh, I'm babbling…

And really, though I would do nearly anything to see all of their firsts, it's not about me.

They deserve their firsts. They deserve the silly, crazy, funny, embarrassing stories of firsts and adventures. They deserve pictures and albums and retelling. They deserve to have these minor and monumental moments treasured, recorded. They deserve to know how they too made our world exciting, surprising, everyday an adventure.

They deserve to know that someone loved them from the first breath.

A child adopted out of foster care at 2 years old does not come with a photo album describing firsts. There is no file detailing the silly misadventures of this child, my child, learning to walk or eating first foods. We have the memories of the foster parents, if they were the foster parents at the time.

And no matter how much I long to bring the chronicles of firsts to them, no matter how much I believe they deserve it, how much they do truly deserve it…I might not be able to. And it breaks my heart.

I can come to terms with my unexpected life. But I would give anything to give them something them a normal beginning.  

And maybe it won't matter to them later on.

Maybe we'll find the stories and moments.

Or maybe we'll be that crazy odd couple running around creating firsts everyday

.     .     .     .     .

. : UPDATE : .

This afternoon the good man and I are scheduled to complete our second home study visit. 

We have also paid for and sent in our background studies and handed over much of the paper work. We're hoping to have our home study completed and approved before December. But in order to do so, we need to have all of our house stuff figured out too! So much going on! 

Thanks for reading, for learning about adoption, and for your support! 

Waiting for You and...Nesting?

Before you read on...

Some prayer requests:

 - the mountain of paperwork to climb and complete for the home study (post about this coming your way soon)

 - the mountain of paperwork to complete for the mortgage approval

 - two more home study visits

 -for our future children and their birth families. For whatever reason, circumstance, or situation they will come into our lives and home forever. Pray for protection, comfort, adjustments, and that the Father may use this difficult time for good and His glory.

.     .     .     .     .

There have been some changes taking place and I'm not entirely sure how to explain them. A change of reference? A change in perspective? A change in heart? All of these and something more.

The good man and I filled the forms and licked the seals, dropped the package in the slot with a prayer. For a child, a family, a little one waiting. A nerve-wracking task -- lay it all bare before another to be weighed and measured as parents, when teen moms are on primetime and daytime talk shows. And I wondered, how could this be fair? And it's not.

Last bits of hope for more in our nest packed neatly and crisply in manila and love. It echoes a thud as it hits, and the heaviness is more than apparent to us. This is it. The moment. It's all come to this, the beginning of an adventure or the beginning of the end. Hands held together, linked and clasped with fingers intertwined -- a most natural movement now carries so much more -- comfort, unity, strength and courage and we hold tight to each other, hold up the other, and nod together. It's done. And it's all up to them, to Him.

.     .     .     .     .

Days later and I am deep in the valley. Aching and longing and hoping again, useless hopes of two blue lines, a plus sign or a happy face on that stupid stick. And again, I am disappointed. Yes, we chose adoption. Yes, we chose it long ago, but the realization that this is it, our trying is over, is hitting hard and it won't quit. I've battled it over and over again. We could keep it up, this charting and trying and taking temps and eating all the right things (can't there just be one fertility diet plan? No, there are hundreds, of course) and struggling and working so hard for that perfect moment when the heavens open and the time is right and the earth is spinning at just the right speed and the air is just the right temperature….and finally…

We could keep doing it, again and again, but we decided enough was enough. Enough stress and worry and regret and blaming and shame and tiredness. Enough. Besides, we're buying a house and completing an adoption, isn't that enough to juggle already? And I'm tired. It would be nice to just hang out and not count days and let a stupid piece of graph paper rule our time together!

So we stop. And focus on adoption. And I am mourning, because it is a loss. For the time being I give up hopes and dreams of that coveted swollen belly and maternity pics, the family all gathered in the waiting room and ultrasound pics, baby showers without awkward encounters because I am normal, just like one of the others. I'm giving up the life we expected, the story we expected.

And I am saying goodbye to what could have been. These children who would be created out of us, our love, our stories, our selves -- our eyes and noses and toes and smiles and ears and everything parents look for when they first unwrap the wriggling new life set in their hands. We're giving that up. And will I always wonder, "Who would they have been? What would they look like?" I am relieved the pressure of perfection is gone, but grieving the loss of the expected, the could have been, the what if of our children. Will I always wonder, "Could we have tried harder?" I wrap my arms around my empty womb, flat stomach that I hate so much, and try to imagine a life inside. Feet pushing and kicking and turning. Hiccups bouncing and making us all giggle. And it is sad. Sad to think that something so natural, so easy and normal, so ingrained in the circle of life, this something I will only ever watch before me, and never experience. And I mourn that. I cry until the heaves stop and the tears are dry. And I am done crying. There is a new path to forge, a new adventure waiting and I don't want to wish it any different.

.     .     .     .     .

Weeks later, the process officially begun. Application accepted. We are both not surprised and surprised. I guess hopes soar with elation as if surprised when the first of many mountain tops has been reached and survived. You knew you could do the work and make the climb and take the time to breathe and rest and make the trek, but knowing these things change little the fact that you celebrate with honest, unashamed, unabashed excitement when it's complete. Celebrate like a fool. And you just don't care. So we celebrated good and long with dinner and some of the best, and most hopeful conversation we've ever had -- finally relaxing and allowing a little talk of dreams of the future with children. Sheer joy to dig out and dust off the long lost hopes and expectations from years past, from different lives. Finally.

I am doing the simple, the ordinary -- picking up the well worn clothes of the week and counting quarters, two loads in -- and it crashes over. Mighty and quick and strong and I am taken aback. Tidal wave, earthquake, tsunami all at once. And I am not quite sure what it is or what to make of it. All I know is for the first time, and how do I explain this to you?: These babies are MY babies.

These little ones we wait for and long for I now know are mine. Does that make since? Haven't even laid eyes on or heard a name, yet I know in my heart they are mine. And I burst into tears.

For so long I cried one cry -- of despair and hopelessness mingled with weary and tired. And now…I don't know what this is! I cry and it is lit, this flame blazing, unstoppable. Suddenly I will move mountains, I will fill out a million papers, I will be the fool, stark raving mad if it helps this process along. I will jump through hoops of burning flames and land into a pit of lions. I am that woman who lifts a car. I am that woman who takes a bullet.

I pick up a sock and think simply to myself with a guarded smile, one of these days his socks won't be the only socks I gather up. I think this simple thought, this dream and it is at that very moment, steps closer to reality, and my heart overflows. I mean, how silly and simple and common is that? "There will be more socks." But it is in the imagining of little feet that fill the socks, and where those little feet wander, and what adventures they wander into…the little toes I will kiss goodnight and tickle good morning. The little feet.

.     .     .     .     .

When does one become a mother? A father? Is it in that moment of fists gripping and teeth clenched tight, when the wriggling new life comes into the light and the joy is on everyone's faces? Is it in that moment when two blue lines appear and what has been created in secret is finally known? Is it in those first few days of sleeplessness, sacrifice and baby cries? Is it with the first kissed boo-boo or the first time out?

I became a mother in that moment of socks and dreams and hoping and praying.  And woe to anyone who gets in my way. And I wonder, as tears puddle and spill over my cheeks, Where are my babies? What is happening to them? How did they get where they are? Where are those little feet wandering?Are they hungry? Warm? Do they know love? And I am angry for what may happen to them for them to be brought to me. Because, if they are in foster care and waiting for a forever home…we know something happened. I am scared for them. And I want to know what and beat someone up! 

The process is now no longer about approval or weighs and measures. It's about bringing my babies home. My babies.  No longer is this about applying for a child, but rather a step to getting our child. No longer are we adopting another's children, we are finally bringing home our little ones. Because if God planned this all out and made the things Satan meant for evil into good, if God was really here all along, these little ones we adopt were always the ones we were meant to have. These are our little ones. There are our babies! (Birth mothers and birth families are important and I will address my thoughts this later, just in case you are wondering. Yes, they are extremely important.)

And suddenly the paperwork is not daunting. The process is not tiring. The finances are not towering. I will do anything to bring my babies home. I will do more than climb mountains, I will move them. And if God had this all planned out, and He does, He's with me. He's with them. And because the future is His, He's already there too.

Suddenly this entire journey and adventure takes on a new urgency and I am lit up with love and passion and fierce commitment. Is this my nesting? I can't plan a room or buy the clothes...so I become this protective, brave, fierce mama bird? Well, alright I guess. I'll take it.

 .     .     .     .     .

The good man and I sit down and pray for these little ones, for their families and their circumstances. We pray for protection and comfort, healing and hope, we pray that they will find a home with us and make smooth adjustments. We pray that His hand would be upon them and keep them safe, whispering love to them. And I feel they are already mine, wherever they are, whoever they are, whatever they look like, and wherever they come from. I love them strongly, fiercely, deeply.

And I want more than anything to write them a note, a message in a bottle, or tied to a bird or, can I scroll it on a billboard?:

 "We are waiting for you. We love you already, loved you for a thousand years! We are bringing you home...

And others are waiting too! A whole community and family, who love you already for you. Uncles and Aunts and Meemaws and Pop-Pops. You are loved deeply, through and through." 

And I know when I see them, I won't be grieving the loss of the children we could have had. No, I will be thinking, Look! Those are our little ones, the ones He always had in mind. Aren't they the most beautiful sight you've ever seen? And, yes, I will count fingers and toes and marvel at eyes and noses, and never stop. 

Adoption and Infertility: Not the Last Option

We're sitting in the overcrowded coffee shop, huddled together in the corner, moving our overstuffed chairs together so we can hear. She's leaning over her hot cup of chocolaty coffee goodness and we have passed with ease into the serious meat of conversation: marriage, family, children, faith...infertility. And she asks, "Have you ever thought about adoption?" And I know this is one of those moments. Careful words can change a life. I lean in close, "Yes, but...have you? Because adoption is not just for infertiles like me."

.     .     .     .     .

If you know anything about me, you will know that the Good Man and I have been trying and waiting and longing for children just as long as we have been married. And if you don't know much about me, you'll figure out rather quickly that I am not too shy about those pages in our story.

But what many people have not been made aware of, until recently, is our strong desire to adopt. It has been carried with us all along, an undercurrent, known and felt but rarely seen. Unlike the crashing waves and whitecaps of infertility. And although it seems that this "adoption thing" is a new idea or a new pursuit, we have been planning and preparing from the start.

What is new and surprising for us is the idea that adoption may be our only road to growing a family. This doesn't scare us, not much now anyway. Much like driving with your googled directions and coming across a detour sign. You are surprised and a little taken aback, but adjust accordingly and continue the journey. And maybe see a little something special that you wouldn't have had detour been avoided -- a random act of kindness, a perfect climbing tree, the most beautiful sunset you've ever laid eyes on.

And what is also surprising to me is the response I have gotten from several people in various places and walks of life when announcing our plans to adopt. Most are excited and know the long road we've traveled. Many are concerned, and rightly so, about the stress of the process and possible let downs we might face. And some...

It is the some that I find myself thinking about most often. Those few who, for whatever reason, have it in their mind that adoption is our last ditch effort, the end of the line, the way in which we settle, plan z, the forced choice after exhausting all other options. That adoption is an almost undesirable fate in life. If I do nothing else throughout this whole pursuit of adoption, including never growing our family, I hope to change perspectives about adoption and inspire others to consider if adoption is for them as well.

.     .     .     .     .

"we're  A D O P T I N G !"

"How many rounds of treatment have you gone through then? You must have tried everything..."

"That's great. You know, my best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with a girl whose mom adopted and got pregnant right way. So you never know..." (Hope you 80s kids enjoyed my adapted version of Simone's quote from Ferris Bueller's Day Off)

And there have been others. But these are the most common, I guess. I've been working hard to not be surprised and choose wise words that might ignite change.

The problem with the first is that it assumes we had to have exhausted all medical treatments in order to arrive at the detour dubbed "not our kids." It's the only conclusion, because, "why on earth would someone choose that?" Long ago the Good Man and I had The Conversation. We sat down and the heaviness of the next few moments and words loomed above us. I think all couples need to have The Conversation. But for the most part only the barren slip into the rest stops named "Questions You Never Want To Have To Answer." We drew lines in the sand. We would go this far, no further, in our pursuit of children of our own. Not even when it was free or welcomed or encouraged. We had our reasons, and I can tell you if you wish. We made lines. And we decided definitively that adoption would be part of our story. We haven't bumped up against those lines yet. Adoption is not our last ditch effort. The timing seems perfect now and we can see God moving in it so we are moving forward with Him. Yes, Lord. And obey.

My response: No we haven't tried everything under the sun. There are several medieval and ancient eastern treatments we haven't tried. But we're opting out of those. We haven't gone as far as we could or spent as much as we could. But this is the journey we are choosing and I am so very grateful to be here.

The second, Oh! The second! Sadly, it assumes that adoption could be a means to an end. You "give up" and settle for someone else's kids then surprise you get to have your "real" children! Yes, it happens. It happened to a friend of mine. She is That One. But it happens very rarely. And no one should go into the adoption process thinking that it will get them biological children. Every child is special. Every child is valued. And in our family, every child will be loved and treated the same. I stopped myself there. I was going to write "will be treated as if they were our own." But that's not true. No, they are our own, no matter where they are from. Our children are our children. They might take different roads to get to our arms but they have been in our hearts all along.

My response: Yes, that happens. But I'm not even thinking about that. I'm just going to be glad to have our babies home, wherever they come from.


THOUGH INFERTILITY AND ADOPTION DO FREQUENTLY BUMP TOGETHER, MIX AND MINGLE, EACH IS ITS OWN AMAZING JOURNEY -- BOTH FILLED WITH DEEP VALLEYS AND SOARING PEAKS. 

ADOPTION IS NOT AN ANSWER TO INFERTILITY. BUT IT CAN BE, FOR THOSE WHO ARE CALLED.  


And the third. Not so much a response to our adoption announcement, but an honest question while struggling with infertility:

"Have you ever thought about adoption?"

And this is my question for you. Have Y O U ever thought about adoption? Because it is not just an option for infertiles. It is a choice that deserves consideration by every one of us. The question is not "Could you take in a child that is not your own?" The question is this: "Are you willing to love and care for the fatherless, the orphan, the oppressed, the weary, and the unloved?"

Actually adopting a child may not be an option for you right now. But mentoring could be, volunteering, helping a family raise money for an adoption, donating to an adoption organization, praying for children needing a home, helping out a single mother, walking with a pregnant young woman who has chosen to give her child in adoption.

Not all people who ask this question carry with them the perspective that adoption is mainly for people who cannot have children of their own, but many do. And my hope is that if you are one of the few, you will make time to rethink your ideas about adoption. That you might be encouraged to wonder if adoption might be part of your story too.

Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: 

to look after orphans and widows in their distress 

James 1:27