China and Russia were trying to take us down

When I think about last night I smile. Not when I think about bedtime. Not when I remember the tiny toddler angry in his crib, kicking the already broken side rail. Not when I try to figure out why he went from happy guy to angry baby in the blink of an eye. But before that, at dinner time, awesome.

I remember when my tiny toddler wouldn't even come to the dinner table. Then he would show up in his chair but refuse to participate in anything meal related. He would scream, on purpose, during the prayer. He would lunge across the table trying to grab things from his brother. He would throw his food on the floor. And, sometimes, he still does.

But last night, when I asked who wanted to say the prayer, fully expecting my little guy to remain silent and my super six year old to step up, his hand shot up in the air. My tiny toddler wanted to say the prayer? Alrighty then. He clasped his hands, fingers laced together. He brought them over his head and started singing. "God made rainbows, God made rainbows, sunshine too, sunshine too." He brought his still clasped hands down under his chin. "Now we say our blessing, now we say our blessing. Amen. Amen." Every word was clear. Every word was respectful. He wasn't shouting the words or purposefully being loud. He was praying. I turned from watching my young son and locked eyes with my sweet husband across the table. Both of us had tears in our eyes. A 20 second prayer. A moment of quiet in the loudness that is our lives. A glimpse at a calmer future.

After the super six year old was finished eating and the tiny toddler was done staring at his "oatmilk", (this is how he says "oatmeal" and it is his new go to food. He doesn't really eat it, but he wants it and he likes stirring the brown sugar into the bowl of steaming oatmeal.), the boys left the table. I asked them to please go upstairs and play, something they usually do not like to do without me. This time, off they went. A few moments later I heard footsteps on the stairs. Giggling. Whispers. I could tell that the super six year was in command. Orders were whispered in the dark of the dining room. I jumped as loud pops sounded behind my kitchen chair and then I heard clatters as the suction darts fell to the floor. We were being shot at!

Suddenly a dart flew through the air over my sweet husband's head and stuck to the red and brown checked wallpaper. Then a dart hit my husband in the head. He got up from the table and staggered over to the sofa in the living room, falling over, dead. Much to the delight of the boys. I sat at the table, laughing along with them. My sweet boys. They were using their imaginations. They were playing together. They were working as a team to take us down. They were on a spy mission and they played their spy game for a long time.  Together. China and Russia were trying to take us down.

When I am carrying the tiny toddler like a football under my arm out of daycare because he won't walk. When I am turning up the radio to drown out his screaming and when I am dodging projectiles being thrown at me from the backseat because I forgot to remove his shoes when we first got in the car. When I am angry and frustrated and think I can't do this a moment longer, I will remember last night. I will remember how I felt when I heard my tiny toddler singing the meal time prayer, his voice strong and clear. I will remember his smile when he got through the whole prayer. I will remember how happy everyone was when they boys were on their spy mission. Sometimes it seems as though the mountain is insurmountable, but last night the hope was strong.

It Goes Here Momma, It Goes Here...

 I am no different than any other parent. Tired, sometimes broken even. Always moving from one task to another. Get the boys up. Get the boys fed. Get the boys dressed. Drive the boys to two different schools. Run errands. Shop. Clean the house. Make the beds. Wash the clothes. Work. Make dinner. Pick up boys. Clean. Wipe. Diaper. Change. I fight with the key pad on the outside of our garage door. It tricks me into thinking the door is going to close all the way this time, as I stand out in the cold. The door comes down and then goes back up. I smash the buttons again, and again. I wonder why we can't fix this.

I charm the three year old into the bathroom and cajole him into sitting on the potty. He pees. Two minutes later his pants are soaked. Why is he fighting this? Another clothing change, another load of laundry.

I remind the five year old not to jump in the snow when he isn't wearing boots. Every day I remind. Every day he stomps in the snow and must change his socks. Why do we never have enough socks for this kid?

I clean, organize, wash, play, tickle, read to, sing with. And sometimes I feel as though I am doing all this from the outside, like I am watching someone else do it. Like I could just run away. At times likes this I feel broken.

I sit in the old University of Akron rocking chair in my youngest son's bedroom watching him throw yet another fit in his crib. If I leave, he screams. If I stay he screams. He loves me, he hates me, this one. At times like this I feel broken.

It is times likes this that I do not  feel like I am living up to every one's expectations. Our home is pulled together enough but not perfect. Our snow isn't always shoveled. Clean laundry lives in baskets instead of drawers. Everyone feels this way sometimes- it is the never ending job of parenting, the constant juggling of work and kids and husband and house that slowly tear us down. My husband and I are parenting together but yet apart, as we divide and conquer. We need time for us to be us again. I want to be with my husband. I want to be with him, there for him, and always standing beside him. But sometimes it is too much.

Sometimes I have broken up too many fights between the boys. Sometimes I have reached too far inside myself to come up with something fun to do to stave off my kid's boredom. Sometimes I have cleaned too many kitchen floors in one day and picked up the same toys too many times. Sometimes I can't stop thinking about my youngest son's future and his current needs. Sometimes I just want to give him juice without negotiating which cup he will drink it out of or be able to put him down, for just a minute. Sometimes I just wish I could relax and not always be on high alert that a storm is brewing. At times like this I feel inadequate, broken.

We all think it. If I were a better mother I could handle it all. If I were stronger I wouldn't occasionally break down over my youngest's needs. If I were just a better wife I could meet my husband's needs.

This is where I was the other day. Alone with my boys in the living room. Feeling broken, again. Not an every day feeling for me, usually I have it all together. But on this day I was sitting on the edge of the sofa, sitting on the edge, period.

My little three year old was playing with the nativity set on the table in the living room.  It is a puzzle, of sorts, and when the pieces are placed against each other it forms a circle.  Each piece depicts a different part of the story; Mary and Joseph, the Wise Men, the Shepherd. He brought me the piece with Mary and Joseph.

"Momma need baby Jesus?"  I took the piece from him. "Thank you Mishka."

"NO! MOMMA NEEDS BABY JESUS!" he yelled at me and pushed the piece towards my heart.

I don't talk about my faith all that much, and I know I should. I know I am called to share. I struggle with that. But I know I cannot do it alone. I know that everything laid on me is given to me by God, and I know that it is nothing compared with what is laid on the shoulders of others. Sometimes I walk too far away and can't hear what God is saying to me. And when that happens, a three year old can hand me a baby Jesus and set my heart back the right path.

"It goes here, momma.", he said, pushing it towards my heart. "It goes here."

it is never too late to do what God calls you to

I just started reading The Boy From Baby House 10: From the Nightmare of a Russian Orphanage to a New Life In America, written by Alan Philips and John Lahutsky. The book's dedication, To the children who never made it, makes me very sad. I have read all of 10 pages so far. Eventually I know I will finish this book. Maybe. In a while, down the road. Maybe when there is a little more distance between my recent trip to Russia and the present day escapades of my little Russian boy. Maybe not. I like to think that the orphanage my son spent the first twenty four months of his life in was not like the one I will read about in this book. I felt love in that hallway of the baby hospital. I think. The caregivers smiled and laughed with the children. The doctor seemed caring. If what I saw is to be believed, then I think that my little guy was loved. He was obviously well cared for. While he came to us malnourished he was clean, free of bruises. So I don't think that his life would have been like the life of the boy in the book I cannot bring myself to read. I don't think that at all. But I did ask enough questions about the futures of the children left behind in that baby hospital to know that his life would have been hard. He may or may not have had an opportunity to go to school and he certainly would not have been able to further his education in college. He would not have known relationships or how to form them. He would have been a number. Just a name and number to a government already overwhelmed by the names and numbers of so many in need.

I attempt to read books like this one for a few reasons. I want to know. I am interested in what is happening in orphanages in the countries my children hail from. I feel a responsibility to one day be able to answer any questions my boys may have. I feel very close to the children we saw, played with, left toys for. I often wonder what will happen to them and I pray that they will find their way out. The attempt to read this particular book about a young boy who would have surely died had he not found his forever family reminded me of the moment I realized my oldest son may not have survived had he not found us. Had God not led us to China my big four and a half year old may not have survived his childhood. I came to this realization during a Stephen Curtis Chapman concert. Read about it here.

I don't think about it very often. We have sports practices and music classes, Sunday school and preschool homework. Oh my God the preschool homework! All I can say is thank goodness next year, when the big four and half year old is in kindergarten the tiny toddler will not yet be in preschool. The year after that though, with a first grader and a preschooler the homework may just overtake me. And by then, another year removed from the dirt roads, the boarded up buildings where tired citizens still work every day, the large ballroom with the beautiful gold and glass chandelier up the two flights of stairs with the peeling paint, holes in the drywall and unlit light fixtures dangling from the ceiling - another year removed from the gray and feeling of heaviness, another year immersed in giggles and kisses and hugs and potty training and preschool homework- by then I bet I will hardly think of my boys big escape.

I often wish there was more I could do. I want to go back and bring them all home. The little boy who always asks when his mommy and daddy are coming to get him. The little girl who wanted my full attention. The tiny Chinese babies, all dressed in little pink and blue outfits staring up at me from row after row of cribs. I can't, of course. But once you've seen them, hugged them, played with them- these children are real to me now, and their needs are real as well. That is why I like show HOPE. This amazing organization provides orphan care, adoption aid, and so much more to the world's most needy. And right now you can help. If you are still in need of a last minute gift for a hard to buy for loved one, consider a gift from show HOPE's online Gifts of Hope. I like this gift catalog because you can select how, and where, you would like your monetary donation to be spent. Food, shelter, baby supplies - what is your heart saying to you? Christmas is right around the corner, but it is never too late to do what God calls you to.

I am so thankful to be a part of a community

There's this woman I know who is feeling totally alone. A busy, burned out, hard working single mother of a girl on the verge of teenage craziness, she is finding that there are very few supportive people in the corners of her life. Unlike me, I thankfully admit. I have loving, supportive people in my corner. In every corner of my life. And it feels good, it really does. And so, naturally, I feel bad for this woman. I do. I really do. So I have been thinking about the supportive people in my life and it got me thinking. It is all about community. And becoming a part of a community takes time. It takes work. It takes the realization that it's not all about you. It takes putting others first, especially your children. It takes faith.

My husband and I used to belong to a small group through our church. We were matched with four other young couples and met at least once a month for three years. About two and a half years in it became painfully clear that this wasn't working for us. We brought our oldest son into our family about a year into joining the group and became the only couple with children. Suddenly we were dealing with baby sitters and issues our fellow small group participants couldn't understand. We found we weren't getting as much out of the bible studies as we should have. We began to dread the get togethers. So we decided, after much thought, to leave the group. That was a while ago, and since then I have realized that it wasn't the small group mentality we didn't like. It wasn't the bible study. It was just that particular group that didn't work for us, even though we liked and respected everyone there. From that small group experience though, we found a few very good friends and many others who would help us in a pinch. We see these people at church, at day care, in the community, at the grocery store... they are  part of our community.

I am a busy woman. I have to feel pretty strongly about something before I get involved. I am quiet by nature and am happiest when at home with my husband and boys. So it was a big step for me to join the board of Central Ohio Families With Children From China. (If you check out the link that's my sweet boy on the front page, on the right, in the Brown's shirt.) But I had to join. I felt that our youngest children from China, and our boys, especially, were under served by this very family friendly group. And I believe that you must be the change you want to see in the world. So I joined the board. I became active. I helped to start a social group for the youngest adoptees. I put mine and others' kids first, and I was the lucky one. The other families in this group - they are a part of our community now.

I have a small handful of close friends from college that are  part of my community. I have my Kent State University Kappa Kappa Psi brothers. We may not chat every day but my brothers will always have my back. They are my community. And it goes on and on.

I find myself getting frustrated sometimes when people feel so alone. Why can't these people see the bigger picture? They feel they don't have the time to join a church, or a club. They think they are the only ones with busy jobs or occasionally wild kids. They live in their cocoon. And when the need a ride because the car broke down, or need a sitter because the kid is sick and that meeting just can't be missed, they have nowhere to turn. Which perpetuates the cycle of feeling alone. I know it's not easy. But break the cycle. Find your community. It takes time. It takes work. it takes putting others, including God, first. But being a part of a community is how we are intended to live. I am so thankful for my community.

God doesn't have a Plan B- what I wish everyone knew about adoption

A few weeks ago I was at a friend's home attending a home sales party when my friend asked me how life was going since our return from Russia with our new son. This was a good friend and so of course she knew about our adoption adventures. And everyone who knows us knows that we wear our adoption badge proudly - in our trans racial family it is certainly no secret that our boys are not American by birth. I don't mind a friend asking an innocent question about my family. What I do mind is what happened next. Another guest at this party, someone I had not met until that evening, made the following comment: "Why didn't you just have your own children? Can't you have children of your own?" While I was processing these questions another guest followed up with the statement nearly every adoptive mother has heard a million times: "You know, now that you have adopted you will surely get pregnant." I then did something I don't normally do at these types of events. I accepted the glass of wine the host was pushing into my hands and I smiled as I responded through clenched teeth: "Oh, well, with two little ones at home I am not interested in getting pregnant!" (cue awkward laughter.)

Adoption touches so many lives that nearly everyone knows someone who has joyously grown their family in this way. It's time to set the record straight. I am sure that most of these comments are meant with no harm intended. After all, people are naturally curious. But it's not just the thoughtless comments that burn into the memories of adoptive mothers everywhere. It is also conversations we are not included in and assumptions that are made about our decisions and our families.

I don't enjoy being left out of conversations about pregnancy and birth. Just because I didn't carry my child for nine months doesn't mean I didn't do all of the things an expectant mother does. I planned the nursery. I worried about the health of my new child. I dreamed about counting fingers and toes. I wondered what my baby would look like and if he or she would be more like me or my husband. I shopped for clothes and would sit in the chair in my baby's room, looking at the empty crib, full of anticipation. I didn't wait for labor pains to hit; I waited for the phone call and the travel letter to arrive. And once it did, my labor wasn't over in hours or days. The time between notification of travel to meet my sons and the day I held them in my arms took months. So don't think I don't have anything to offer to your conversations about pregnancy or labor.

And your stories about caring for newborns? Don't leave me out of those discussions either. While both my sons were older when they joined our family we still had our share of "newborn" type concerns. My oldest son was fifteen months old when he came home but his sleeping habits mirrored those of a much younger baby. He was difficult to put down and then once asleep he would wake frequently throughout the night, screaming. His night terrors lasted for over a year. I may not have cared for an infant but I understand sleep deprivation. I understand feeding difficulties and worrying over how much, or how little, formula the baby is taking. I have thoughts to add to your conversations, but so often I am not asked.

I had someone comment once to me about how adoption must have been "easier" than a traditional pregnancy. Just because I may not have talked about every part of our adoption process doesn't mean it was "easy". If your obstetrician chose to meet with you in the waiting room of his office, ask you very personal questions about your finances, your marriage, your extended family, your health, your home, your career, your fertility, or lack of fertility, while everyone in the room listened in, how would you feel? If you had to welcome the fire marshal into your home and allow him to poke into every closet and check your fire extinguishers, just to have him tell you that they weren't placed exactly in the right spot, or have him wait, impatiently, while you ran around placing outlet covers in the outlets on your counters, because "babies climb, you know", as if you were completely ignorant of how children behave, how would you feel? How about having to take off your clothes in front of doctors (note the plural there) that you have never met, in a room in a foreign country while other total strangers milled about just outside the not completely closed door, and everyone in the room talked about you in a language you didn't understand? Or having to meet with a psychologist to prove that you are appropriate parent material? What if you went to the hospital to deliver your baby but was not guaranteed to bring that baby home with you? What if a judge held the fate of your family in his or her hands? After undergoing two rounds of invitrovertilization I know how invasive the pregnancy medical appointments and delivery must be. I am not saying that adoption is more difficult than traditional pregnancy and birth. But I am saying that just because I didn't receive an epidural doesn't mean that somehow adoption is the easier choice.

I need you to know how frustrating it is when I am told about women who adopted and then found themselves pregnant. First of all, no one knows the story of our fertility except us. When these types of comments are made so are a lot of assumptions. I may be able to have biological children. I may not be able to have biological children. Either way, our choice to adopt was not some convoluted way to conceive. It was not "plan B". And I never want my children to ever think that it was. It was God's plan for me to have my tender hearted, smart, music and football loving Chinese boy and my sweet, tough, dancing Russian boy. And we all know that God doesn't have a backup plan. There is no "plan B" where my boys are concerned.

I wish as my boys grow older they will be seen for the wonderful individuals they are. I hope that they will not be introduced as my "adopted" boys but simply as my boys. I have never once introduced my niece by saying, "This is my niece. She was born prematurely but is doing great now!" Sounds crazy, right? But that is how my boys are referred to every day. Every day. And while I write about adoption and adoption related issues frequently I do not push that onto my boys. I want the history my boys have from the months they lived before they joined our family to be cherished and remembered, but I also want it to be placed appropriately in the overall scheme of their lives. I want people to look at them and see just them.

I want the questions about my reproductive system to stop. I am not going to tell you how much it costs to adopt internationally. If someone is seriously interested in adoption I am the first person to share the joys and the low points of the process. I love love love to talk about growing families through adoption. But I will not answer a question that makes it sound as though I somehow purchased my children. Please stop reducing my family to dollars and cents.

So many people assume that our children arrived to our family just the way they are now. With a biological child you learn to parent as the child grows. The child learns the language you speak. The child learns to love you and bonds with you, never for a moment thinking that you might one day be gone. My children learned to sooth themselves because maternal figures came and went. They learned to speak, or at least to understand, in a language different from my own. And my husband and I learned to parent in hotel rooms and airports. When our son needed medical attention we didn't have the luxury of calling our pediatrician or running down to the corner drugstore for antibiotics. My tiny, underweight fifteen month old was treated at a hospital in a foreign country. He screamed as I handed him through a window, a window, to have blood taken. I could hear him screaming but could not hold him or comfort him. I tried to keep him clean as I watched parents wring out not just wet, but soiled diapers onto the concrete floor of the hospital waiting room, which was outside, so that the diaper could be used again. I struggled with the question of whether to give my new son the mystery powder with the unreadable label or just hope the bronchitis worked itself out on it's own. We didn't have the luxury of making our parenting mistakes in the privacy of our own home. We made our slip ups in public, in airports, hotels, and flights full of witnesses. Talk about feeling judged.

I don't think about these issues very often. It is important to me that you understand that. I don't dislike the way we are viewed as a family. I don't think that every kind smile or comment is a reflection of our adoption story. My kids are adorable and high energy; it's hard not to look. I get lots of great comments as well. One of my favorites came after I returned home with my youngest son. The entire month long trip had been difficult and the three day journey home, alone with a toddler, was difficult as well. My sweet friend Karen probably had no idea how much her words meant to me when she said "I have no doubt that your labor was much harder than mine." Harder, I don't know. But at least just as difficult, in it's own way. So there are great comments made. But there are also  times when I just wish the world out there knew what I knew. So now, a few more of you do.

I must spend time being still

Last Thursday I found out that my job is going to be downsized. That in a few months I will no longer be needed. No, that's not right. I guess I am really not needed now. Except for wrapping up a few projects and cleaning out my work space, what have I got to do? Which leaves lots of time to think. I have worked for this company twice now, for a total of almost 9 years. I have been there over 4 years this time. I like this company. I like my co-workers, I like my boss. I even like the CEO. How often can you say that? I guess I will find out. Maybe I will be able to say that about my next job. Maybe not. Is it as important as it once was?

I am no longer defined by my career. I did damn good work for my company. I created and taught and mentored and monitored and sold and held my tongue at times. I served on committees, brought in pot luck, attended baby showers. I made friends, I tried not to make enemies, I mended fences and, again, I held my tongue. I celebrated births of children and grandchildren. I mourned deaths of parents and young relatives. I gave a lot of myself to this company.

I am not mad, not really. I understand the direction this company is taking. I can't even call it my company any more- I don't feel as though I still work there. But I do. I have work that still must get done, despite this shadow looming over me, this constant reminder that soon I will have no where to go, that I will not be useful in a capacity that I have been useful in for so many years. But I understand. I am sure my boss was surprised and relieved by the calm manner in which I accepted his news. I am sure I made it easier for him. I didn't mean to. Now I think of things I wish I could say, but I won't. I like this company, and if their focus shifts back to a place I can understand, I might not be opposed to working there again. Then again, I might. I am not sure how I feel. It has been less than a week, so I am not sure what I am supposed to feel. I am angry, and understanding, and complacent, and confident, and sad all at once.

I have felt God's presence in my life, really felt his presence, on just a few occasions. When the last IVF treatment we tried failed, I did not sink into darkness like I did the time before. I had changed my thinking between the treatments. Changed from "please let this work", to "please let me be ok if it doesn't work." And I was ok. I felt this same sense of calm. And this same sadness, but overall, a calm that everything was going to be ok. And it was. We changed direction and now we have our beautiful little boy. I felt this same presence when I was given the news last week. It has not been easy, and I know the next few months will be a roller coaster of emotions, up one day and down the next. But I feel as though this has happened for a reason. That there is something I am supposed to do with this opportunity. A certain type of work I am to do now. Maybe it is in this field I have been in for so long. Maybe it is not. But I know I am being led, by a power greater than me, in a direction I do not even know yet. I must quiet my mind, quiet my heart, and listen. I must be careful not to be so caught up in finding work of any kind that I miss the message. I must spend time being still, in order to be busy later.