It's almost Christmas...

You know those days.  The ones where you beat yourself up.  The ones where you are feeling sorry for yourself, you know you're doing it, and you just can't stop it.  That's what today is for me.  I really thought we would have, at the very least, met Squishy by now.  I feel it as a loss, like I was supposed to have this and I don't and I feel cheated.  How ridiculous is that?  How selfish?  What my head knows, is that I should be thinking about how Squishy feels.  I should be sad for him having to go (another?) Christmas without a family of his own.  I should be on my knees praying that God brings comfort to ALL the Squishies in the world who are waiting for their forever families.  But, here I sit.  Pity party, table for one!

I worry about Cowboy, and the incredible pain he's in.  He'll be having hip replacement surgery in three weeks, and he's not even 40 yet!  My heart breaks for him and the hell he's living right now.  I pray furiously for him.  If anyone deserves a break in this life, it's my Cowboy.  I've never in my life known a man so kind, compassionate, generous.  I would give anything to take the pain from him.

On the plus side, it's almost Christmas!  The house is decorated, the gifts are wrapped, the love is boundless!  We have helped friends, indulged our children, and celebrated with friends.  And, though I complain from time to time (see above), I could not have dreamed of a better life, and I thank God every day for these blessings! Merry Christmas!

We're still waiting....

It's been more than six months since my last post.  I'd love to say that we've just been so busy with our new family that I've had no time to write.  But that is not the case.  Oh, we've made forward progress.  Just not a whole heck of a lot!  We've gotten a new case worker.  That part is kind of disappointing, because we loved Rosa so much.  But, this is progress.  We've had our outside-agency home study, just a few weeks ago.  We have to wait for the study to be approved by 1. Contracting Agency, 2. Foster/Adoptive Supervisor and 3. Foster/Adoptive Program Administrator.  Which is to say, we still have a lotta waitin' left to do!

I've been reading adoption blogs. One in particular, Heart Cries.  Let me just tell you, this woman's story is such a blessing to my heart!  She is raw and open and beautiful and I am drinking in every word.  There are plenty of differences in our stories, but there are parallels, too.  Moments where I can only cry for her, because I feel her pain.  I've been there, too.  I am there now.  I want to bring every parent-less child into our home and love on them until each one knows without doubt that he is a child of the King, and is loved beyond all imagining.  I want to fill up this table every day, not just at Thanksgiving.  I want to be a living example of God's love.

Dear Adoptive Mom & Dad:

A friend shared this earlier, and I just had to get it down here.  I need to be able to see it again and again.  There is such truth, sadness, beauty in every word.  Just today, I had someone say "Oh, God! Why??" when I said we were adopting.  Thank you, Kathy Lynn Harris, for penning such a perfect letter.  And, thank you Shani Young, for sharing it with me!

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,

I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son's school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.

It doesn't matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.

Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn't in God's plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin's neighbor's friend. Maybe you ignored them.

Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.

Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that's what we do, isn't it?

I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes -- but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.

I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes -- so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.

I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.

I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.

Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby's room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.

I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.

And I know about the follow-up visits, when you hadn't slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.

And I've seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what's being promised and what's not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.

I've seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that's emerging. I've seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn't have to go through with this. I've seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments -- while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.

I've seen you look down into a newborn infant's eyes, wondering if he's really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.

And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.

I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.

I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn't even know you were holding for months. Months.

I've seen you meet your child's birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I've seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile ... people who love him because he's one of them. I've seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he's shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.

I've seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things -- but you can't protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.

I've seen you at the doctor's office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little spaces don't turn into big problems later on.

I've seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?

I've seen you wonder how you'll react the first time you hear the dreaded, "You're not my real mom." And I've seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.

I've seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being that it is the other way around.

But most of all, I want you to know that I've seen you look into your child's eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that's just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter -- and whose loss would be like the loss of yourself.

The Waiting Game

I haven't posted a new blog because, well, there's nothing new to tell.  We had our initial Home Visit, got a very short list of things to finalize, and now we wait.  We get TB tests.  We get finger-printed for an FBI database.  And we wait some more.  It still doesn't quite feel "real", probably because it's been so clinical so far.  I know this is all necessary, and I'm really glad the process is so long.  I think it's important.  But, I am really ready and anxious and excited to start meeting the Squishies!  And, let's face it, patience has never been my strong suit!

Last Squishy School Class

Last night was our final P.R.I.D.E. class.  And, let me tell you, it was the toughest of all.  Last night we covered sexual abuse in thorough, heartbreaking detail.  I cried.  Cowboy had to leave the room.  The things we can't begin to imagine, can't bear to listen to or think about, are things these poor Squishies have had to endure.  The hardest part wasn't hearing the stories.  The hardest part was knowing that we couldn't just scoop up every last one of these kids and promise them we would never let anyone hurt them again.

So now, we move on to the investigation portion.  We have our Home Visit next week, which is when a Case Worker will come to our house, look in all our drawers, and tell us what we need to change.  Yes, I'm exaggerating a bit.  But basically, that's what's happening.  After we get our home in order, the FBI investigation begins.  And after that, finally, we get to start meeting Squishies!  I am so excited for that part!

If you have ever given even a moment's thought to adoption or being a Foster Parent, I encourage you to go to an Information Meeting.  There are so many areas in which you can make a difference.  Even if it is as simple as donating diapers and baby formula to a local shelter.  You CAN make a difference in the life of a child!  Every small act of kindness makes an enormous impact on kids in Care.

Here are some links!

Court Appointed Special Advocates for children

Texas Dept. of Families

Heart Gallery of America

Siblings

I can't imagine what my life would have been like, if I'd grown up without siblings.  I have 2 big brothers.  Strong, dependable, protective, silly brothers.  I can remember, when I was really little, thinking those two boys were the coolest boys on Earth!  They played sports and worked on cars and took karate classes.  They were my big brothers, and they could do no wrong!  I also have 3 big sisters.  Wow, the things I learned from them!  I learned about hair and makeup and fashion, sure.  But, I also learned about loyalty.  Trust.  Forgiveness.  My sisters have always been my best friends.  My voices of reason.  The shoulders I cried on.  My cheering section.  And, sometimes, the partners in crime that kept my life so beautiful and interesting!

I know there are a lot of people who don't have that kind of relationship with their siblings.  I get it, I guess.  Your circumstances and experiences shape your relationships.  I am so unspeakably thankful that I have such a close relationship with my siblings.  I know that I have learned real life lessons and coping skills because of them.  My Cowboy and I work to foster that kind of closeness in our kids.  And, when Squishy joins our family, I pray he feels it, too.

Used Children

Well, that got your attention, didn't it?  What a horrible, heart breaking thought.  But, they are everywhere.  Children who have been abused, abandoned, ignored.  Used.  And, you pretty much expect to see that when dealing with CPS and the Foster Care system.  You know what you don't think about?  The children being used by "good" parents.  The ones with divorced parents, who become bargaining chips.  Chess pieces.  Weapons.  I was very young when my parents divorced.  My father rarely came around, there were no summer trips or alternating holidays.  Honestly, there was little or nothing from him at all.  But, what stays with me to this day, was how my mom treated him.  And how she insisted - and still does - that we treat him with respect.  Not because he deserved it, because God knows he never earned it.  But, because she raised us to be better.  To treat all people with respect.

Now I'm going to step on some toes.  You know who I see pulling this nonsense?  Women!  You very rarely see men doing this.  It's the moms.  And I won't get into the whole "Well, you don't know what he put me through" conversation.  Because, you're right.  I don't know.  And, I pray your kids don't know either.  Because it isn't their burden to carry.  Yes, he may have screwed you over.  And I'd bet money you had one or two times where you got him good, too.  But, your JOB as a parent is to protect your kids.  That means protecting their hearts, too.  Teaching a child that his parent is a bad person will teach that child that he is bad, too.  Because we know that who we are is largely because of who our parents are. We are who we come from.

My heart hurts for these kids.  My heart hurts for these parents.  My heart hurts for the future of our Country, because it will be in the hands of Used Children.  If we are who we come from, does that mean we are raising a generation of users?