I am a failure as a blogger.
Two months ago I felt guilty about not finding time to write. Slowly, with the madness of life, that guilt slipped away until I didn't give writing a second thought. Then, I talked to my Grandma.
I love my Grandparents. My only complaint is that they don't live next door. We don't see each other often and we rarely talk. I take full responsibility for everything.
She mentioned my blog. She mentioned me writing for 100 days. Her excitement...and my failure. Not really, she didn't mention anything about me failing. She just mentioned that she wanted to hear from me. So, I dusted off the laptop and decided to write. This update is for you, Grandma.
I suppose I should begin with where I left off. We still have seven kids. Life is still quite chaotic. I'm exhausted. Seth is exhausted. We are functioning slightly above survival mode.
The biggest update would be that the babies' week long stay has turned into nearly three months with us. Our new norm is hard, I can't lie. It would be a disservice to moms out there who are struggling with littles and bigs and schooling and life, for them to hear me say, "This is a piece of cake." This isn't a piece of cake.
This is hard.
I let things go that I would have been on top of three months ago. My sliding glass door has dried dog snot on it. If you know how I feel about prints on windows, that's a biggie. I know it really doesn't matter in the long run, so I let it go. Or I remind Josiah to scrub the window, "...and I'm not just talking about at your eye level, I'm talking about that nasty jelly hand print encrusted with dog snot that dried there last week!"
So, I'm calming down about how the house looks. Not to say we live in a pig sty, everyone does their chores, but I can't be everywhere, so I have to trust that trash is emptied and litter boxes are scooped. That's one thing that is hard.
The other real hard thing is not knowing what is going to happen. That seems like a stupid statement, since life is full of uncertainties. This is a different uncertainty. Today, seven children, tomorrow...five? What's going on with the babies' mom today? Is she making choices that are bringing her closer to reunification? Is she straying? Will they be here for Christmas? Will they be okay next week at their aunt's?
It's hard, because they aren't our children. And, we don't want them to be.
As much as we love adoption and what it has done in our lives, it comes from a terrible heartbreak. This is the first time that we have stood on the other side of the adoption story. For each one of our children, we have come AFTER their loss. We loved them and adopted them and they were ours. We love these babies, but they are not ours.
You will never pray more often for a person as when you are raising that person's children. That is the underlying reality of our days--we are raising someone's children. I don't have time to think about it during the busy days. When I'm snuggling with a chubby, tired baby in his last moments of being awake, I think of his mom. I pray for her, because she's missing these moments. His first birthday. Cutting four teeth. Eating solid food and climbing up stairs. He will walk soon and she will miss his first steps. That's heartbreaking.
Her little girl calls me, "Mama" and runs to me for comfort. These are healthy behaviors and it's good that she has them, since she needs a 'mom' now. But it's sad that a family she didn't know three months ago has become her familiar comfort. Her mom missed her second birthday, saying goodbye to her binky, and watching her language explode.
That's hard. Then there's the diarrhea for eight days and waking up at night. Seth wearing a mouth guard because he is grinding his teeth. Josiah enjoying the shrieks of anyone younger than him, so his favorite past time has become taunting babies. That about sums our house up.
Screaming, pooping, and mouth guards. And occasionally, screaming while wearing a mouth guard because the dog just ate a poopy diaper. No joke.
Showing posts with label adoption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adoption. Show all posts
November 25, 2015
October 25, 2013
Just a Little Trim...
The hair saga. For the past five years it's been a constant presence. A task that required scheduling. Daily maintenance and then an entire evening for a new 'do.
And the drama. Dear me, the drama! The "You are pulling too hard", "Can't you straighten it?", and finally, the always dramatic final sigh after seeing the finished product. Never pleased with the curly gift with which God has blessed her. Never.
I'm not much better--too thin, too straight, too wispy...but this isn't about me, is it?
Dear hubby has been a bystander for all of these years. He's watched the dramatic hair dos unfold. He's had to manage things on his own when I've been out of town. He's made frantic phone calls after a night without the sleep cap, "The kids and I have a picnic with my boss and this hair is a mess!"
A few years ago he started in on, "Cut it short. It was so cute. Your life will be easier. She will look great."
I ignored him. So did she. Neither of us thought it would be a good idea. I, personally, was afraid of how other moms would judge me. Incapable of doing my daughter's hair equals incapable of raising my children properly. I'm serious.
I never thought hair would play any role in the relationship I have with my children. That was years ago. We were in the middle of a domestic adoption. We had a birth mom who was interested in our family--we were thrilled. On a phone interview she asked about hair.
Silence.
Seth finally answered, "We will figure something out. It's not like we will let our child walk around without their hair being taken care of."
And that was the last we heard from her.
We were so clueless. I was flabbergasted that hair was actually a big deal. Like, duh, wash it, dry it, braid it. How hard is that? I have three sisters. I've done hair.
Yeah, right. I was clueless. After we brought Sally home, I checked out every book on African American hair from the library. I bought cheap products. I bought expensive products. I listened to the lady in the elevator who suggested one shampoo and then changed when the hair blog I read said to try something else. I was all over the place. So was her hair.
Recently, we've got it under control. There were still days that she left the house looking like Don King. Usually, she looked pretty good. Then a few days would pass and she wouldn't put coconut oil on her hair and the braids would get frizzy. I'd undo them and put in twists, which she hates. Then we would undo those and wash. The bathroom would look like an afro exploded from all of the hair everywhere. Nuts.
One night, late, I needed to wash her hair and Seth brought up The Cut again. His coworker 'looks great' with this short style. He brought up some pictures on Google. I was won over and, oddly, so was Sally.
I could have knitted a king sized quilt from the amount of hair we cut. Wow.
She looks beautiful. I'm biased, but I think this little trim was a success in every way.
And the drama. Dear me, the drama! The "You are pulling too hard", "Can't you straighten it?", and finally, the always dramatic final sigh after seeing the finished product. Never pleased with the curly gift with which God has blessed her. Never.
I'm not much better--too thin, too straight, too wispy...but this isn't about me, is it?
Dear hubby has been a bystander for all of these years. He's watched the dramatic hair dos unfold. He's had to manage things on his own when I've been out of town. He's made frantic phone calls after a night without the sleep cap, "The kids and I have a picnic with my boss and this hair is a mess!"
A few years ago he started in on, "Cut it short. It was so cute. Your life will be easier. She will look great."
I ignored him. So did she. Neither of us thought it would be a good idea. I, personally, was afraid of how other moms would judge me. Incapable of doing my daughter's hair equals incapable of raising my children properly. I'm serious.
I never thought hair would play any role in the relationship I have with my children. That was years ago. We were in the middle of a domestic adoption. We had a birth mom who was interested in our family--we were thrilled. On a phone interview she asked about hair.
Silence.
Seth finally answered, "We will figure something out. It's not like we will let our child walk around without their hair being taken care of."
And that was the last we heard from her.
We were so clueless. I was flabbergasted that hair was actually a big deal. Like, duh, wash it, dry it, braid it. How hard is that? I have three sisters. I've done hair.
Yeah, right. I was clueless. After we brought Sally home, I checked out every book on African American hair from the library. I bought cheap products. I bought expensive products. I listened to the lady in the elevator who suggested one shampoo and then changed when the hair blog I read said to try something else. I was all over the place. So was her hair.
Recently, we've got it under control. There were still days that she left the house looking like Don King. Usually, she looked pretty good. Then a few days would pass and she wouldn't put coconut oil on her hair and the braids would get frizzy. I'd undo them and put in twists, which she hates. Then we would undo those and wash. The bathroom would look like an afro exploded from all of the hair everywhere. Nuts.
One night, late, I needed to wash her hair and Seth brought up The Cut again. His coworker 'looks great' with this short style. He brought up some pictures on Google. I was won over and, oddly, so was Sally.
I could have knitted a king sized quilt from the amount of hair we cut. Wow.
She looks beautiful. I'm biased, but I think this little trim was a success in every way.
February 28, 2013
The Braid
"One of the Brown girls had her hair in a heart braid at class on Friday," she says with an accusing smirk.
I'm up to my elbows in coconut oil and hair. It's washing day and we have already had an issue. I washed and began drying using the hair dryer. Which caused pouting and tears from her, anger and frustration from me. All because she wanted me to use the flat iron to straighten her hair. Her wet hair...with a flat iron. She couldn't see that her hair was being straightened with the brush and hair dryer. So she pouted and shrugged and pulled against the brush.
Grrr.
I reacted. I turned her to face the mirror and her glare softened. She apologized and I continued brushing. Letting my hidden anger out with a sigh.
She barbs me with her comment just as I finish drying her hair. It's glowing and soft, perfect for braiding. I tell her as much, then she follows with her comment. Supposed to be an offhanded remark, but I read into it. I grunt.
Yeah, I grunted.
Because, I just spent an hour on your hair and now, I think, you are going to try to make me feel bad. She doesn't disappoint me, as she follows up her comment with, "Heart braids are probably too hard for you. It would be impossible for me to have one."
Oh, here we go, try to manipulate me! Are you daring me to braid your hair into a heart?
Funny. Bonding over hair. It always starts with contention. As I work the coconut oil into her hair, our hearts soften too. This heart braid, she thinks I can't do it. And I accept her challenge, just to prove my worthiness. I always feel this way around our youngest daughter. A complicated relationship that makes both of us so insecure. She puts me in a place in order to prove myself capable of raising her.
I. Am. The. Adult. Said with a foot stomp.
Seriously.
We talk about this heart braid for a minute and agree that it's worth a try. She cranes her neck and I braid as quickly as I can. The braid begins to take shape and she chatters happily as I listen. When it's nearly done, I show her my handiwork and she's delighted. I'm delighted. We share a victory. So much more than just a braid.
Dear me, what will we do when she begins to do her own hair? Or the salon? She'll fall in love with another woman!
I'm up to my elbows in coconut oil and hair. It's washing day and we have already had an issue. I washed and began drying using the hair dryer. Which caused pouting and tears from her, anger and frustration from me. All because she wanted me to use the flat iron to straighten her hair. Her wet hair...with a flat iron. She couldn't see that her hair was being straightened with the brush and hair dryer. So she pouted and shrugged and pulled against the brush.
Grrr.
I reacted. I turned her to face the mirror and her glare softened. She apologized and I continued brushing. Letting my hidden anger out with a sigh.
She barbs me with her comment just as I finish drying her hair. It's glowing and soft, perfect for braiding. I tell her as much, then she follows with her comment. Supposed to be an offhanded remark, but I read into it. I grunt.
Yeah, I grunted.
Because, I just spent an hour on your hair and now, I think, you are going to try to make me feel bad. She doesn't disappoint me, as she follows up her comment with, "Heart braids are probably too hard for you. It would be impossible for me to have one."
Oh, here we go, try to manipulate me! Are you daring me to braid your hair into a heart?
Funny. Bonding over hair. It always starts with contention. As I work the coconut oil into her hair, our hearts soften too. This heart braid, she thinks I can't do it. And I accept her challenge, just to prove my worthiness. I always feel this way around our youngest daughter. A complicated relationship that makes both of us so insecure. She puts me in a place in order to prove myself capable of raising her.
I. Am. The. Adult. Said with a foot stomp.
Seriously.
We talk about this heart braid for a minute and agree that it's worth a try. She cranes her neck and I braid as quickly as I can. The braid begins to take shape and she chatters happily as I listen. When it's nearly done, I show her my handiwork and she's delighted. I'm delighted. We share a victory. So much more than just a braid.
June 7, 2012
Waiting Children
I am a night owl when Seth is out of town. This week, in my solitude, I've pored over stories of waiting children. I've been reading amazing stories of families who are adopting these children. These late nights have been emotional roller coasters.
Right now, I should be watching a NINE hour seminar teaching me to teach children to be excellent writers. It seems too early to be preparing for school next year when we haven't even finished this year. I have the best intentions. I find myself reading Daneille's post for today, instead of watching Andrew Pudewa. I've been visiting her blog almost daily. It's heart breaking to see so many sweet faces that are waiting.
My eyes blur after seeing so many faces. I find myself thinking about them during the day. Will someone come for them? It's too overwhelming to let my thoughts linger for long.
It is easy to forget the waiting children. It's easy to say that their numbers are too many. The price is too high. Caring for a child with special needs is beyond what I am able to do.
My Mom once said to me, "If it's easy then it probably isn't the right thing to do."
Easy is disregarding the plight of so many. Easy is feigning ignorance. Easy is thinking that YOU can't make a difference in the life of one of these children.
Easy is wrong.
You can make a difference! The faces I've seen are little children, slowly losing hope of finding a family. Your donation may make the difference in one family choosing to adopt that child. Sharing their stories may change the heart of the family who looks again through the photo listing and sees the face of their child staring back at them.
I have to ask myself what do we do? Once I step down from my soapbox, then I must get busy doing something. I share the crushing thought of so many children and how can my family possibly make a difference? I'm still praying about that, but for now I know: there are many opportunities, beyond adoption, to help waiting children.
Share their stories--join a website like Rainbowkids or Reece's Rainbow.
Donate! Sometimes the financial aspect of international adoption is what keeps many families from considering it. You can donate directly to a specific waiting child. Daneille is hosting a June for Jack fundraiser, raising funds towards Jack's adoption as he waits for his family to come. Visit her blog to find out the details and donate. Both waiting child sites have opportunities to donate.
Short term missions...sponsoring an older child for the summer...sponsoring orphans who are not adoptable through organizations like Hopechest...and, of course, adopting!
Please don't choose easy.
Right now, I should be watching a NINE hour seminar teaching me to teach children to be excellent writers. It seems too early to be preparing for school next year when we haven't even finished this year. I have the best intentions. I find myself reading Daneille's post for today, instead of watching Andrew Pudewa. I've been visiting her blog almost daily. It's heart breaking to see so many sweet faces that are waiting.
My eyes blur after seeing so many faces. I find myself thinking about them during the day. Will someone come for them? It's too overwhelming to let my thoughts linger for long.
It is easy to forget the waiting children. It's easy to say that their numbers are too many. The price is too high. Caring for a child with special needs is beyond what I am able to do.
My Mom once said to me, "If it's easy then it probably isn't the right thing to do."
Easy is disregarding the plight of so many. Easy is feigning ignorance. Easy is thinking that YOU can't make a difference in the life of one of these children.
Easy is wrong.
You can make a difference! The faces I've seen are little children, slowly losing hope of finding a family. Your donation may make the difference in one family choosing to adopt that child. Sharing their stories may change the heart of the family who looks again through the photo listing and sees the face of their child staring back at them.
I have to ask myself what do we do? Once I step down from my soapbox, then I must get busy doing something. I share the crushing thought of so many children and how can my family possibly make a difference? I'm still praying about that, but for now I know: there are many opportunities, beyond adoption, to help waiting children.
Share their stories--join a website like Rainbowkids or Reece's Rainbow.
Donate! Sometimes the financial aspect of international adoption is what keeps many families from considering it. You can donate directly to a specific waiting child. Daneille is hosting a June for Jack fundraiser, raising funds towards Jack's adoption as he waits for his family to come. Visit her blog to find out the details and donate. Both waiting child sites have opportunities to donate.
Short term missions...sponsoring an older child for the summer...sponsoring orphans who are not adoptable through organizations like Hopechest...and, of course, adopting!
Please don't choose easy.
May 29, 2012
Wonder of Boys
A friend began a new blog and emailed me with a link to her first post. She weaves a poignant tale of adoption in her life. It's a lovely post and I would encourage you to visit her.
www.wonderofboys.blogspot.com
Just in case you don't heed my advice, I'll do a rather sloppy job of trying to explain what she's doing over there. Besides admiring the wonder that comes along with having wonderFUL boys in your family, she's advocating for boys who are in dire circumstances and desperately need families. Seth came over as I was reading her recent posts. He shook his head and walked away, remarking, "I don't know why you do this to yourself."
I suppose there is no purpose in reading their stories and looking at their pictures, unless I pass along their stories. These boys (and another 140 million orphans) need our prayers. They need families who will step up and adopt. Most of the boys on the blog are from Eastern Europe. It's heartbreaking to see the pictures and know what their future holds. That future might have been Ella's as she was a mere six months from moving out of the baby house and into a huge institution. Her future would have been very bleak---a three year old, severely delayed and missing a limb...I don't allow myself to imagine what might have become of our sweet little girl.
This is a video of Beau that I pulled from Daneille's blog. Beau's a few years older now and still waiting. He's charming and grabbed my attention right away. Visit her blog to see more children, share the information, and help these boys find homes.
I'm not demanding, just strongly encouraging you.
www.wonderofboys.blogspot.com
Just in case you don't heed my advice, I'll do a rather sloppy job of trying to explain what she's doing over there. Besides admiring the wonder that comes along with having wonderFUL boys in your family, she's advocating for boys who are in dire circumstances and desperately need families. Seth came over as I was reading her recent posts. He shook his head and walked away, remarking, "I don't know why you do this to yourself."
I suppose there is no purpose in reading their stories and looking at their pictures, unless I pass along their stories. These boys (and another 140 million orphans) need our prayers. They need families who will step up and adopt. Most of the boys on the blog are from Eastern Europe. It's heartbreaking to see the pictures and know what their future holds. That future might have been Ella's as she was a mere six months from moving out of the baby house and into a huge institution. Her future would have been very bleak---a three year old, severely delayed and missing a limb...I don't allow myself to imagine what might have become of our sweet little girl.
This is a video of Beau that I pulled from Daneille's blog. Beau's a few years older now and still waiting. He's charming and grabbed my attention right away. Visit her blog to see more children, share the information, and help these boys find homes.
I'm not demanding, just strongly encouraging you.
May 9, 2012
Orphanage Dust
Dust sneaks up on me. I admit that I'm not a regular duster. I assign that to one of the half-hearted cleaners of our bunch. He generally gives things a swipe, one hand holding a book open, the other aimlessly moving the duster. Our dust gets stirred up every once in a while, then settles back down to accumulate some more. One sunny day I'll happen to glance at the piano and grimace. I frantically move from one piece of furniture to another eradicating dust from each flat surface.
I am ashamed to admit that it seems to work the same way with orphanage dust.
Everything seems so clean, so tidy, so perfect. Then, one day I walk by and notice that dust has been accumulating. It's thick and marring the beautiful surface of our child.
Four years next month. Four years in our family. The magic number for this daughter's life. She's been with us longer than she was in Ethiopia. It seems like four years would be long enough.
The dust has been accumulating and we were slow to notice it. A few strange things happened and then, rather slowly, we noticed. The sun shone down and the dust was glaring back at us.
This business of redeeming a hurt child never allows for a quick fix. We admit that we were too lax at the beginning. Medical needs trumped attachment worries. We were careful, but not vigilant. She seemed so well adjusted...until recently.
A friend gently urged me to do something proactive. She was confiding in me about attachment problems and I began sharing some recent worries. The thick layer of dust revealed, I knew we needed to get busy.
I share this, thinking that some of you might have similar concerns. If it seems like it's been long enough, don't fool yourself into thinking that 'she's really fine'. Do something now, because nurturing behaviors are much easier with a 3 year old than an 8 year old! It's easier to win over the heart of an 8 year old than a 15 year old. We press on through the snide remarks, questions, fibs, and sneakiness. She's sweet and yet she knows how best to hurt us. Ultimately, the battle becomes one within myself.
This is my life with our daughter. She loves me unless there is another adult to please. The kindness of an acquaintance lives on through her praises, while our gestures are snubbed and disregarded. In my heart I want to stop trying and just let her be. We know she's still hurting and the dust is stirred up. We re-read the books that had long been shelved. Entire paragraphs are highlighted and sticky notes mar the pages. It's a great resource, but when push comes to shove it sure is hard to be stabbed in the back daily.
God didn't bring this soul out of darkness and near death for us to flippantly lose her to her past. The real changes have to begin with me. In an effort to win the heart of my hurting child, I realized I have to change my heart. Five children. Three adoptions. Seems like I would have been there and done that. Read all the books. Known all the right answers.
Her shrugs have brought me to my knees. Right where I need to be for all of our children.
Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord. 1 Corinthians 15:58
I am ashamed to admit that it seems to work the same way with orphanage dust.
Everything seems so clean, so tidy, so perfect. Then, one day I walk by and notice that dust has been accumulating. It's thick and marring the beautiful surface of our child.
Four years next month. Four years in our family. The magic number for this daughter's life. She's been with us longer than she was in Ethiopia. It seems like four years would be long enough.
The dust has been accumulating and we were slow to notice it. A few strange things happened and then, rather slowly, we noticed. The sun shone down and the dust was glaring back at us.
This business of redeeming a hurt child never allows for a quick fix. We admit that we were too lax at the beginning. Medical needs trumped attachment worries. We were careful, but not vigilant. She seemed so well adjusted...until recently.
A friend gently urged me to do something proactive. She was confiding in me about attachment problems and I began sharing some recent worries. The thick layer of dust revealed, I knew we needed to get busy.
I share this, thinking that some of you might have similar concerns. If it seems like it's been long enough, don't fool yourself into thinking that 'she's really fine'. Do something now, because nurturing behaviors are much easier with a 3 year old than an 8 year old! It's easier to win over the heart of an 8 year old than a 15 year old. We press on through the snide remarks, questions, fibs, and sneakiness. She's sweet and yet she knows how best to hurt us. Ultimately, the battle becomes one within myself.
This is my life with our daughter. She loves me unless there is another adult to please. The kindness of an acquaintance lives on through her praises, while our gestures are snubbed and disregarded. In my heart I want to stop trying and just let her be. We know she's still hurting and the dust is stirred up. We re-read the books that had long been shelved. Entire paragraphs are highlighted and sticky notes mar the pages. It's a great resource, but when push comes to shove it sure is hard to be stabbed in the back daily.
God didn't bring this soul out of darkness and near death for us to flippantly lose her to her past. The real changes have to begin with me. In an effort to win the heart of my hurting child, I realized I have to change my heart. Five children. Three adoptions. Seems like I would have been there and done that. Read all the books. Known all the right answers.
Her shrugs have brought me to my knees. Right where I need to be for all of our children.
Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord. 1 Corinthians 15:58
May 14, 2010
Adoption Angst
When I'm done tucking the girls in, Sally stalls. I think she's stalling. She usually starts asking me hard questions. If she didn't wait until I was standing at the door of the bedroom, I would think she was actually interested in my answers. Rather, I think she is grasping at straws hoping to baffle me long enough to get a few more minutes with the light on.
She finally struck "stalling gold." Her line of questioning wound itself around to, "Whose belly did I come from?"
Sigh.
Seems like we have talked about this before. Seems like I've been having this talk for the past five years. Rather, Ella follows up with, "Well, I grew in your belly."
Ahem.
I remind the girls gently that they grew in another belly far, far away. And I began to tell them their amazing stories. It seems, to me, that I've been telling Ella her story since we brought her home. Until now, nearly six years later, she hasn't been too interested. Her face was betraying her feelings and it dawned on her that she spent years without us. It seems impossible.
Though Sally was older, she hardly remembers the way things really unfolded. She can't believe that she and Josiah didn't come 'from the same belly' in Ethiopia. I tell her about the long line of mommies who have babies that didn't grow in their bellies. Starting with their own Daddy and moving down their family tree.
To me, that makes it easier, knowing that so many of your family have been adopted. They have been loved and they have become mommies and daddies too. To my five year old that made no difference. After my sweet words and good intentions her only comment was, "But I wish that I was from your belly just like the boys."
Oh, how my heart breaks.
That was only the beginning. At any random moment during the day Sally will approach me asking 'Whose belly did ____ (insert friend or relative) come from?' Of course, none of them would happen to be adopted. I feel ill equipped to deal with the onslaught of questions. My (adopted) husband is no help either. Simply stated by him, "She loves you and wants to have as much of you as possible." But he can give no great response to ease all of her insecurities and worries. If he can't, who can?
We tread very lightly around our house. In a family comprised of children who have come into our family by birth and adoption, we can easily make someone feel alienated by making the other feel too special. In an effort to keep everyone feeling loved, perhaps we've been too cautious.
I've used the "grew in my heart" line to no avail. I've told them that their stories are amazing and God brought them right into our family. It seems that they are stuck on the unknown. I have no names, stories, or pictures. Honestly, the bits and pieces we know are too much for either of the girls to handle. I have to be relatively creative in censoring their stories.
Any words of wisdom?
She finally struck "stalling gold." Her line of questioning wound itself around to, "Whose belly did I come from?"
Sigh.
Seems like we have talked about this before. Seems like I've been having this talk for the past five years. Rather, Ella follows up with, "Well, I grew in your belly."
Ahem.
I remind the girls gently that they grew in another belly far, far away. And I began to tell them their amazing stories. It seems, to me, that I've been telling Ella her story since we brought her home. Until now, nearly six years later, she hasn't been too interested. Her face was betraying her feelings and it dawned on her that she spent years without us. It seems impossible.
Though Sally was older, she hardly remembers the way things really unfolded. She can't believe that she and Josiah didn't come 'from the same belly' in Ethiopia. I tell her about the long line of mommies who have babies that didn't grow in their bellies. Starting with their own Daddy and moving down their family tree.
To me, that makes it easier, knowing that so many of your family have been adopted. They have been loved and they have become mommies and daddies too. To my five year old that made no difference. After my sweet words and good intentions her only comment was, "But I wish that I was from your belly just like the boys."
Oh, how my heart breaks.
That was only the beginning. At any random moment during the day Sally will approach me asking 'Whose belly did ____ (insert friend or relative) come from?' Of course, none of them would happen to be adopted. I feel ill equipped to deal with the onslaught of questions. My (adopted) husband is no help either. Simply stated by him, "She loves you and wants to have as much of you as possible." But he can give no great response to ease all of her insecurities and worries. If he can't, who can?
We tread very lightly around our house. In a family comprised of children who have come into our family by birth and adoption, we can easily make someone feel alienated by making the other feel too special. In an effort to keep everyone feeling loved, perhaps we've been too cautious.
I've used the "grew in my heart" line to no avail. I've told them that their stories are amazing and God brought them right into our family. It seems that they are stuck on the unknown. I have no names, stories, or pictures. Honestly, the bits and pieces we know are too much for either of the girls to handle. I have to be relatively creative in censoring their stories.
Any words of wisdom?
April 2, 2008
Adoption
For about a week I've been basking in the miracle of adoption. If you snicker at the cheesy ring that sentence has, well, humor me. It's late and I've eaten the last bit of chocolate in the house. I'm not fibbing about the basking (or the chocolate).
On a sidenote-I hate that the word 'miracle' has been so overused that it doesn't stop someone in their tracks when they hear it. It's this desensitized-yeah-whatever attitude that keeps people from stopping to contemplate a wonderful happening. So, I'm using the word miracle in it's most proper sense. An inexplicable act of God. Are you with me now?
Sit still for a spell...and...think...about the miracles that have to take place for one child to meet up with their forever family. Don't make the mistake of thinking that it's just filling out paperwork and then being paired with a child. That would be like saying birthing a baby is buying a pregnancy test and finding an OB.
Some of these miracles we never hear about, but, oh, I can only imagine. I have been, imagining (as I'm furiously still trying to unscrew one stubborn bolt from Ella's headboard...two days later). I'm wondering what happened before our referral. How many 'little' miracles had to take place for our kids to meet up with us.
I'm absolutely certain that there is an amazing story of God's providence behind our long wait. I witnessed the miracles that took place when we adopted Ella. At the time they were inconveniences. Some of them were downright dreadful. Then the day came when God drew back the curtain and we got a glimpse of what was going on backstage. What a story. It gives me chills when I think about it.
And I'm in awe again, wondering what has gone on to bring these two children into our family. This post seemed so timely to me.
On a sidenote-I hate that the word 'miracle' has been so overused that it doesn't stop someone in their tracks when they hear it. It's this desensitized-yeah-whatever attitude that keeps people from stopping to contemplate a wonderful happening. So, I'm using the word miracle in it's most proper sense. An inexplicable act of God. Are you with me now?
Sit still for a spell...and...think...about the miracles that have to take place for one child to meet up with their forever family. Don't make the mistake of thinking that it's just filling out paperwork and then being paired with a child. That would be like saying birthing a baby is buying a pregnancy test and finding an OB.
Some of these miracles we never hear about, but, oh, I can only imagine. I have been, imagining (as I'm furiously still trying to unscrew one stubborn bolt from Ella's headboard...two days later). I'm wondering what happened before our referral. How many 'little' miracles had to take place for our kids to meet up with us.
I'm absolutely certain that there is an amazing story of God's providence behind our long wait. I witnessed the miracles that took place when we adopted Ella. At the time they were inconveniences. Some of them were downright dreadful. Then the day came when God drew back the curtain and we got a glimpse of what was going on backstage. What a story. It gives me chills when I think about it.
And I'm in awe again, wondering what has gone on to bring these two children into our family. This post seemed so timely to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)