Everyday Grace

Earlier this week I found myself driving downtown very early in the morning. I was tired and out of my routine. As I drove towards the sky rises and into heavier traffic I found myself looking inward and focusing on myself. Thoughts about the kids, school work, behavior problems, dinner, budgets, writing tasks and work crowded my mind. Typical working mother multi-tasking. If my brain were a computer I would have 20 tabs open at once. It is no wonder so many of us are just so tired all the time- our brains are always on the move!

I found my way to my destination and, in my typical fashion, circled the block a few times trying to figure out where I should park. As I drove past a well manicured green space something bright blue caught my eye. Foxes! A family of over-sized colorful, movable foxes were peeking out from behind a group of trees. Last weekend my family and I wandered into a group of over-sized and colorful snails hiding out in the downtown library courtyard. We then saw similar birds in another part of the city. The foxes made me smile, remembering the fun surprise happening across the snails had been for my boys. "These animals must be all over the city!", I thought to myself. For just a moment, those computer tabs in my brain shut down and a warm feeling crept in. 

I remained confused as to where to park and so I pulled in to a small lot. The attendant stopped me and I assumed he was going to take my payment so I began rooting around for my wallet, barely making eye contact with the bundled up gentleman at my window. "Good morning!". He greeted me happily. His smile beamed at me. Warmth crept in a little more. After taking the time to ask me why I was downtown he suggested another parking garage just down the street that would better suit my needs for the day, and that was less expensive. He lost business in his little parking lot because he was doing the right thing for me. Warm. Warm. Oh so warm!

As I pulled in to the parking garage down the street the attendant flung open his window. Again, my expectations for whatever interaction we were about to have were low. "Good morning!". Here was another human being smiling at me again. After telling me to have a "most amazing day" he waved me on. so.much.warmth.

Everywhere I went that day my interactions were the same. Police officers, city workers, cafeteria employees and fellow citizens were going out of their way to show kindness and respect to one another. Smiles were waiting down the hall as I turned the corner. Doors were held. "Please" and "Thank You" were repeatedly offered. And with every pleasant interaction any frustration I had carried with me into the city that day melted away. Sometimes our fuse is just ready, isn't it? There are times that one frustration after another pile up and before we know it we are primed to explode at whatever the next frustration might be, regardless of how small. Like many people, I am no stranger to the short fuse. Often, for seemingly no reason at all, I am ready to explode, anger living just below the surface.All the time, it seems. I am two inches from an angry outburst all.the.time.  But on this day, pleasant interaction after pleasant interaction slowly extinguished that fuse. Just think how much we could all move forward along whatever path we are individually on if we all treated each other this way. One big train of warm fuzzy feelings, winding through our families and communities. 

I was driving home that evening when the sunset painted the sky. I am usually inside the house during this time of day, especially during the colder months, when the sun sets earlier. I am rushing to finish my work day and then rushing downstairs to start dinner and homework, and then rushing out to after school practices and scout meetings. Sunsets are not usually on my radar. But on this day I had no choice but to enjoy the beauty. And it was spectacular. 

The grace of God is in the ordinary. In the every day. We know this, of course. In theory, we understand this and we have been told this many times in our lives. We see this ordinary grace in literature, we hear it in songs on the radio and our ministers share it with us over and over again. But I think we tend to forget. We tend to ignore the mundane and focus on the wait for the Big Sign. 

But what if that big sign doesn't come? What if we spend our entire lives waiting? What a tragedy that would be, to miss the every day grace. To miss a brief but tender moment with a child because we are rushing out the door. Grace lost. To lose focus on a conversation with a loved one because we are so focused on getting to our destination on time and so instead are thinking about the traffic that surrounds us. Grace lost. To miss sharing large, colorful animal statues with my boys, because I was annoyed at the change in my routine that brought me downtown in the first place.  Grace lost for sure. 

There is a bigger picture, though, than the simple fact that God is in the details. He is also in the pain and suffering and even the little frustrations we face every day. What if these hard moments are God's way of saying "Pay attention!". "Open your eyes and LOOK!". How many of those moments have I missed? 

"Pay attention! Your child's behavior is trying to tell you something!"

"Look at your husband, right now! Watch this gentle moment he is having with his son!"

"Open your eyes! Your coworker is hurting." 

Hard moments are tough. They can be physically and emotionally draining. They can sometimes feel like huge setbacks, or bring big feelings of disappointment. But they are also the times we so often remember. The moments that live in our hearts, whispering to us to make a change. Maybe it's an adoptive mother who will never forget the look in the sunken eyes of the children at the orphanage where her child once lived. That hard memory of having to walk away from all of those little ones, leaving them behind, knowing they don't understand why there is no love, yet, for them, might lead to a heart whisper that leads to a lifetime of working for orphans.  That call from a friend announcing the death of her marriage might lead to a heart whisper of thankfulness in a relationship and a desire to work harder to sustain a marriage. That hard moment of seeing another mother fall apart at the set backs of a special needs child, yet again, may lead to a heart whisper to get involved, to become a part of someone else's village. Yes, hard moments are tough. But they are needed. They are wake up calls from God to do something. To notice something. To stop running and just be, if only for a moment. 

Grace in the ordinary and hard moments bring His love for us alive. Maybe it's a warm feeling brought on by the goodness of others, a fox statue or a colorful sunset viewed from the windshield of your car in rush hour traffic. Or maybe it's a big push found in the heart whisper we hear as we sit in  the ruins of yet another disappointment or set back. They are easy to ignore, the warmth and the whispers. Open your eyes! Look! The moments are everywhere, aren't they? 

What warmth have you felt, or what heart whisper have you heard today? Share your comment below. 

Adopted Children Are Not Merchandise- Using Appropriate Adoption Language

It is common knowledge among anyone not living under a rock that no one likes to be labeled. Schools go out of their way to not saddle a young child with a label that will follow them their entire academic career. Stay at home moms push back against their label, while working outside the home moms often hate their moniker as well. Labels are, by definition, a way to classify a group, to set apart. And labels are notoriously not all inclusive. You can like a particular rock band, for instance, and be labeled a member of their "army" but that doesn't mean you don't also like many other forms of musical expression. Labels are often so offensive that groups of like minded people go out of their way to choose their own defining labels; we know we can't escape them and just be labeled "human", so we find ones we are comfortable living within. Obviously, being labeled a fan of a particular musical group is not really all that damaging. But you see my point.

There are two sides to the label discussion, and both are passionate. On the one hand, what someone else says about you, how they categorize you, really speaks more to the state of their heart than yours. Our worth is certainly not found in a label, even though many strive, at great cost, to achieve their most prized label, whether that be "Mom", "CEO", or "Mr. President".  But on the other side of that argument stand many, many people who have been harmed by the labels others have placed on them.

The labels we use to describe others is such a big problem that many organizations have created glossaries of "preferred language". GLAAD provides a Media Reference Guide of terms to avoid on their website. Many adoption advocacy organizations do the same. And for good reason. A person who has never walked a path outside of the traditional may not know how much damage a casually thrown out comment, (read: label), can do. If that describes you, then pay attention.

In the wake of the 2016 Presidential elections emotions are high. In sharing a well written Huffington Post article, (Read it here.), on why some internationally adopted children have been scared by the anti immigration rhetoric that has polluted this election cycle the following comment was made:

"there are millions of kids in the foster care system..maybe you should have looked into the citizens of the US before you imported brand new kids from another country."

While there are so many things wrong with this short comment, so much hatred and contempt and ignorance, I want to focus on the label. Do you see it? Imported.  Children are not items to be bought, sold and imported. (As in, "How much did he cost?") And when language like this is used, it degrades the person being labeled. Even if that is not the intention, this type of language slowly wears down a person, demeaning them yet again, showing them, yet again, that there are people out there in their world who think less of them. Who think they are less deserving than others, simply because of where they were born. And it's not just adoptees who face this feeling of being less than. Anyone walking their own unique, spectacular and brave journey has faced this type of judgement. Words are amazing. They let us share, feel, think, escape. And they also hurt. 

It is important for adopted children to feel grounded. To truly trust in who they are. This is an extremely difficult task on a god day. Questions of "Why" and "What if" are always floating just beneath the surface. Finding their place in a world where they are not connected on that primal level with their most loved family members is not easy. Adoption, just like walking any other beautiful non traditional path is an amazing gift, but it doesn't come without loss. Truly knowing who we are is hard. To be labeled as merchandise that can be bought and sold and imported makes it so much harder. 

When an adoptee does not feel grounded big problems can occur. In little ones this shows up as low self esteem, focus and learning deficits, and often severe behavior problems. In older teens and adults it can lead to drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and even incarceration. Feeling comfortable in our own skin, knowing who we are and who stands with us is vital to a healthy sense of self. Hearing words like "bought" or "imported" are not just insensitive. They can be incredibly damaging. 

What does all of this mean to you? It means we all need to think before we speak. Those words that we feel are funny or harmless might be like daggers to the heart of the person on the receiving end. Some would argue that we are all just too sensitive, and they might be right. We all want to raise compassionate children who are self aware enough to withstand the labels. But as we work towards that shared goal, let's not make it any harder on adoptees than it need be.

If you would like more information on appropriate adoption language to use with your friends and family, consider this list of suggested language from the Adoption Council: Accurate Adoption Language. For more information on how labels can be damaging to our children, please see this article from Psychology Today. 

If you are an adoptive parent, or the friend or family of an adoptive parent, please consider sharing this  on your social media sites. 

repairing the broken

It has been nearly three years since I stepped off that plane with a tiny 24 month old strapped to my hip. I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. Tired, I mean bone tired. Awake for two days straight, emotionally and physically battered kind of tired. Cranky, too. That tiny 24 month old had quickly proven to be quite a handful. After hours of holding his smooth forehead away from my body to stop him from biting me, after trying to soothe his screaming and comfort his angry little body, I was cranky. Worried, for sure. This tiny little life had already attached himself to my heart, as well as to my body. He hadn't let me out of his sight in two weeks. He had held my finger while I showered, not minding the water splashing over him as he stood there, patiently waiting for me to finish. He had held my hand through the slats in the crib, refusing to allow his tired body to sleep. He had broken the old white wooden crib the hotel had placed in our room with his near constant full body tantrums. Even if I held him until he fell asleep his body would jolt awake when I gently placed him in the crib, his tears already falling as he started to scream, again. Worried if I would ever sleep again. Worried about the collateral damage my new son had delivered on our Russian hotel room. Will be always be destructive? Will he always be angry? Will he hurt my then four year old son? Monumental worry. A bundle of nerves, tired, cranky and worried, walking off a plane at the end of a two day journey across the world. With a tiny angry baby strapped to my hip.

I have learned a lot these past three years. I have learned that repairing the broken is not easy. I have learned that it can take years to overcome neglect and trauma, if it happens at all. I have learned that love is not always enough. Patience. Forgiveness. Education. Advocacy. Energy. An endless supply of energy.

Three years in and that boy can still drive me wild. Wild with love and pride for him and his accomplishments. Wild with frustration. Wild with worry over his future. Will he be able to make it through a one hour Sunday school class? (He can, now.) Will he ever stop purposely breaking things that are important to others? (He has, mostly.) Will he ever just go to his room when asked, to give himself, and me, a time away? (Not yet.) Will he stop hitting his daddy and I out of anger? (He has, most of the time.) Will he continue to have multiple breakdowns and screaming fits daily? (No.) Weekly? (Yes.) Will he ever be able to step outside of his state constant vigilance to be able to learn? (Yes, slowly.) Will he ever be calm enough to sleep through the night? (Yes.) Will he ever sleep through the night without an herbal assist? (Yes, mostly). Will he be able to attend a family function without eventually getting so wound up that he hits a cousin? (Not yet.)

So many worries. And for the bulk of the past three years these worries have all been about him. Will he...? Can he...? Should he...? But then it hit me. This repairing the broken is not about fixing him. It's about helping him, yes. Helping him find the strategies he will need to cope in this world. Helping him to be successful in whatever educational setting works for him. Helping him to make friends and sustain relationships. Helping him. But not fixing him. There is no repairing going on here. Not on his end, at least.

The repairing comes in on my end. Repairing the hole in my dreams that began as a tiny little tear way back in that hotel room in Russia. The tear that grew a little with each swing he took at me and each shoe he winged at my head from the backseat of the car. The rip that became a gash with each argument between my husband and myself, for raising a child of trauma is not easy and maintaining a team spirit is difficult at best and downright impossible at times. The gash that opened further with each second guess and sleepless night. The second hole that appeared the day I watched my young son's entire special needs preschool class stand up and sing a song, sans my son, because he couldn't process what was happening and he couldn't stand still long enough to participate. That was the day I learned exactly how much time my son was spending walking around his preschool with the aid, due to his disruptiveness in class. That was the day I put my boys in the car in the preschool parking lot, drove them to a drive through smoothie place, parked the car, and cried, quietly, in the front seat as they chattered and fought and giggled and drank their smoothies in the backseat. The rip really grew that day.

Every day that tiny tear either grows or is repaired in some way. There are days when I think the tear is close to sealing shut forever, that the problem is lessening and the solutions are close. And then I am blind sided by a new behavior, a new fear, a new outburst of some kind. And I fall again, taking my young son down with me.

But there is more to the repairing that rewriting the story of my dreams. There is the repairing of my parenting. What comes easily with my oldest is a struggle with my youngest. It is easy to understand the concept of "parenting the child you have, not the child you wish you had." It is not so easy to actually parent the child you have, when the child you have is frequently physically and mentally incapable of molding to your ways. So I have had to repair my parenting techniques. I have had to reach out for help. I have had to advocate on behalf of my son, on behalf of my family. I have had to educate family and friends on our needs. I have had to justify my parenting to many who should not have a say in how I raise my children. I have had to explain why we don't want him to play organized sports, at least not right now. Why we watch him like a hawk during family events. Why we remove him from "fun" before he even shows signs of going over the edge. Why we don't want to hear that he is simply "being a boy". That, yes, early life trauma is a real thing. And no, it is not always reversible. I have had to parent in a fishbowl, instead of the privacy of my home, because much of my son's anxiety issues show up in public, masked as hyperactivity and disobedience. I have had to repair my thin skin.

I have learned grace. To give grace to others, especially to my boys. And to give grace to myself.

These past three years have taught me that "normal" isn't always better, and that repairing the broken doesn't always mean fixing the child. These past three years have broken me in ways I am just beginning to understand. But something that is broken can still be useful. Broken can still be beautiful. Broken can be made whole again. I have chosen to advocate for and support my son. I have chosen to help him learn the skills to get through life. I have chosen to forgive myself when I break, yet again and when frustration gets the best of me. I understand that sometimes adoption is about repairing the broken. But now I know that I am the one who was broken. My son? He is perfect in his own way.

Today, This is What Adoption Means to Me

November is National Adoption Month. I have been thinking about what adoption means to me, and about what I wish others knew about adoption, and I have had so many thoughts about what to write about during this very important month. This is my chance to help get the word out. To help fund raise, to help further the cause. I don't believe that everyone should adopt; in fact, I feel that many, many wanna be parents should not adopt. It is not for everyone. But I do think that everyone can help in some way. I do feel that children are our best resources, they are our future, and not a single one of them asked to be born into this world. I believe that all of us have a responsibility to care for orphans, and I will probably talk about that here later on in the month.

But before I get to that, I have been thinking about what adoption means to me. I was driving the boys home from school and daycare tonight and while they played games and chatted in the backseat about the soon to arrive and much anticipated snow, I tried to string coherent thoughts together about what I wanted to say about adoption. I tried, ya'll, I just want you to know that. But I was not successful.

Instead, this is what entered my brain, courtesy of my youngest son.

"Mommy why is it going to snow? Why is is not snowing yet? Why is it going to snow? Why is there no snow yet? I am going to make a snow angel. Momma, I am gonna make a snow angel when we get home. Maffew, are you gonna make a snow angel? Mommy, where is the snow coming from? China? Is it snowing in China? LA LA LA LA LA LA. TURN UP THE RADIO MOMMA! I love this song. Mommy? Mommy, I love this song. TURN THE RADIO DOWN. Why is it so loud, Mommy? Turn it down. I can't hear you. Mommy, I had a RED day today. No, I had a green day. Can I eat this candy from my pocket? Why can't I eat this candy? It is my candy. NO MAFFEW! It is my candy! Can I have your phone? Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY? Can I have your phone? I want your phone. Mommy, I want your phone. You said I could have your phone. I want your phone. I am kicking your seat Mommy. My shoes are not dirty, Mommy. I can kick your seat cuz my shoes are not dirty. I am not kicking your seat Mommy. Mommy? Where are we going? Why did we turn left? Which way is left Mommy? Is it this hand or this one? I did not hit you Maffew. I was just pointing out my right hand. I did not HIT YOU! Mommy, Maffew says I hit him. I did not hit him. Mommy? When is Ho Ho coming, Mommy? I love Ho Ho. I want Ho Ho to come tonight. I did not HIT YOU! I don't want Ho Ho to come tonight. I'm not getting any presents. I don't want any presents. Throw my candy in the trash. I don't want it. Mommy, when is it going to snow? Mommy? MOMMY?"

So read this, oh, about 50 times, as LOUD AS YOU CAN. And fast. With a slight whine to your voice. Be sure to read it quickly.

I try to keep up, I promise you that I do. If I am not careful I can find myself stuck in a tug of war of words with this little chatterbox. I answer the first few questions, and then I realize that he doesn't care if I answer. That is he, in fact, not even listening to me. I want him to stop. I want him to just. stop. talking.

It might snow tonight, honey. Because the weather will get colder tonight and that makes the rain turn to snow. I just answered that question. And that one. I don't think there will be enough snow for a snow angel, honey. Yes, it might be snowing in some parts of China. How do you ask for the radio to be turned up? You just asked to turn it up! OK, I am turning it down! You can't hear me because you are talking so loudly, Alex. Take a deep breath. You did not have a red day. No, please put the candy back in your pocket. Yes, it is your candy, but there is no candy until after we eat dinner. Why is it in your pocket? You may have my phone later honey, not right now. Later. LATER! Asked and answered! Please stop kicking my seat. Because I don't want you to get the seat dirty. I don't care if your shoes are clean, please keep your feet still. We are going to the grocery store. Your left hand is the one by the window. Apologize to your brother. Ho Ho comes next month Alex. Next month. I didn't say you weren't getting any presents. I said please take a breath and stop talking. Yes, you are going to get presents from Ho Ho. For the love of all things holy, little one, STOP TALKING!

I said a few of those things. I thought all of them. The chattering continued throughout the grocery store. And then back in the car. Nothing offered to help him climb down from the sensory overload high he was on was accepted. Headphones were thrown into the front seat. The radio was met with him simply raising his own volume. The attempt at calming rocking before leaving the grocery store parking lot was met with loud screaming and curious stares from the other patrons. Is that woman hurting that sweet child? Knowing he had won the battle, he smiled, ratcheted up his volume another notch and continued to talk. He chattered through dinner, reminding me that his mac and cheese was still too hot to eat and that he wanted more watermelon. He chattered through Daddy coming home and the puppy getting a new dog bed. His constant loud chatter was frequently punctuated by our older son saying "Stop it, Alex!" in a very whiny voice. We were stuck in a loop. Child two being loud and frantic. Child one telling Child two to stop it, in a very whiny way. Child two ignoring Child one. Parent reminding Child one to stop whining and to phrase his request as a "do" command instead of a "do not". And the loop starts again. And goes on and on and on and on, until finally Child one smacks Child two while Mommy pulls them apart, secretly thanking Child one for breaking the cycle. (You parents of more than one kid, you know what I mean. I would never hit my child, but I might secretly cheer on the big brother who does...)

Today, this is what adoption means to me. Constant chatter and no space to think. I love my boys and wouldn't change our story for anything. But adoption, to me, now means more than sweetness and light. right now, tonight, it means chaos, loud, and frustration. It means thankfulness at bedtime and more wine than I think I drank in my twenties. It means breathing a sigh of relief when the house is finally quiet and sending up a quiet prayer that tomorrow will be a less chatty day. Today, this is what adoption means to me.

Worth the Wait- That Adoption Wait Doesn't Always End When Our Child Comes Home...

When an adoptive parent hears the words "adoption wait" one thing usually comes to mind. The long months before the child comes home, months  that often turn into years. Years of filling out paperwork, waiting for approvals, standing in line at the Secretary of State's office, locating floor plans to your home, creating fire drill exit strategies, rearranging work meetings to accommodate getting that second, or third, set of fingerprints. Months of looking at that tiny, blurry, grainy referral photo. Months of loving this child you may have never met, and months of waiting with arms aching to hold that sweet child of yours. The adoption wait. We know it well, don't we?

With the adoption of my second child the term "adoption wait" took on a whole new meaning. The final signatures, the court decrees, the flight across the world and that first walk through the door as a family recently grown by one did not end my adoption wait. In fact, when that front door closed behind my newly formed family of four, our adoption wait was just beginning.

Suddenly everything that came so easily the first time around was a huge challenge. I found myself waiting for so much. Waiting, really, to be a mom, again. Waiting for the eye contact. Waiting for the anger to stop. Waiting for my new son to stop racing about the room as though driven by a motor. Waiting for that first hug. You know, the one where he actually hugs me back. The first good report from daycare.  The first family dinner without chaos. The first calm bedtime. The first calm car trip. The first calm anything.

Waiting. Always with the waiting. The first 27 months of our lives together were spent mired in the adoption wait.Waiting for the storm to pass. And when it didn't, I found myself waiting again. This time, waiting for therapists and doctor's appointments. Waiting for diagnosis and treatment plans. Waiting for spots to open in special schools and IEP's to be created. And then to be updated. Waiting for return telephone calls and emails. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And just when you think you can't wait a moment longer, some new reason to wait pops up.

With our first adoption wait we knew what to expect. Fill in all the blanks in the paperwork, make the required five copies of everything, visit FedEx for the 100th time, and then wait. While that first wait wasn't easy, not by a long shot, it was, at least, predictable. At the end of the wait, if we followed the plan laid out by our adoption agency, and if nothing went wrong, like political unrest or a natural disaster, we would have our child. Maybe I was naive during those two "first" waits. Looking back, and knowing what I know now, seeing how the Russian ban on American adoptions has torn families apart, I am sure I was very naive. Thank God I was naive.

With this second adoption wait, the wait that started the day we came home with our 24 month old son, there was no "plan". My plan was to follow the same steps I took with our older son, steps to bonding that worked beautifully. Practically from day one my little Chinese son and I were glued together, bound by a love so deep that nothing could tear us apart. Meeting each expected growth and developmental milestone, cruising through surgeries with flying colors, our bumps in the road were small stones. The second time around, those bumps in the road were huge boulders that threatened to tear my family apart. Spouses arguing. One child craving the attention he suddenly lost when his little brother came home. One child pushing me away at every turn. And a tired, lost mother, with nowhere to turn. After all, I had asked for this. I wanted  this. I did this to myself. And so, on top of all of the other waiting, I waited for that mommy bliss I felt the first time. I waited for that bliss for two years.

So with all the waiting then came all the guilt. Why wasn't I more excited about this child? Why couldn't I make this work? Where was my heart?

I added waiting for the love to kick in to my list. Don't get me wrong. I loved my young son from day one. From the first moment I saw him toddling down that dingy hallway at the orphanage I loved him. Maybe that was why this adoption wait was so difficult for me. Because my love for him was so strong. My desire to have that family I had always pictured was strong. And so I waited.

The funny thing is that despite all that waiting, that perfect family never showed up. And as each day passed, full of tears and fighting and thrown food, that perfect family picture changed a little. Maybe I didn't need perfect. Maybe I would settle for a dinner without a meltdown. Maybe I would trade perfect for less bruising at the hands of a two year old. Every day the perfect picture faded and eventually a new image settled into my heart.

Happiness replaced anger. Grace replaced selfishness. The wait came to an end. The end snuck up on me, really. We are not through with the issues. My son may always have early life trauma related baggage to carry around. But I will always be there to help him carry it. And I no longer feel as though I am waiting for anything. I think I realized it for the first time the other day, as, ironically, I was waiting for our behavioral therapy appointment to begin. My son and I were sitting together on a sofa in the waiting room, surrounded by older kids and harried looking adults, and as we snuggled together to read a book I realized something. I was not holding my shoulders so tight they ached. I was not practically sitting on my son to get him to sit still. I was no longer holding my breath. I was simply a mom, reading a book to her four year old son. Yes, he still cannot sit still. He still has food issues and he still has moments of total meltdown. Yes, a good part of the reason that he is doing so well is all of the work we have put in to getting him to where he is. And yes, there are days that it is exhausting. But I am no longer waiting. No more do I wait for the anger to pass, both in him and in myself. No longer do I wait to run an errand because I just can't face taking him with me. No longer do I dread bedtimes or family dinners. No longer do I feel as though I am simply housing this lost little boy. No more. Now when I look at my persevering preschooler, I see my son. And it makes me smile. Because we made it through the wait. There will be more waiting in our future. More therapy, more issues, more meltdowns and, I am sure, a lot more frustrating moments. But during all of those waits  it will feel less like waiting and more like what it is- living. The wait is over! We may not look like the perfect family, and we may not look like the family I always pictured as perfect, but we are perfectly placed together. And that was worth the wait.

Happy Birthday to my son and Thank You to the "other woman"

Today my youngest son turns four years old. In the blink of an eye he grew from a tiny 24 month old into a strong and healthy four year old boy. In the blink of an eye he pushed away the bottles and pacifiers and grabbed onto trucks and games. While I was fending off chaos and blinking back the tears of exhaustion, frustration, and pain, my youngest son grew taller, sturdier. And today he turns another year older. Another year further away from the baby I never knew.

When a doctor or teacher asks me for my boys' birthdays I have to stop and think. I get odd looks when I do this. "How do you not know the birthday of your child?", I am sure they are thinking. But why would I? I wasn't there. I didn't wait for this day with anticipation and excitement. I didn't plan for this day of birth. So I have to think about it, when I am asked. Ask me their adoption dates, the dates they joined our families and I am quick to respond. Ask me a birthday and I pause.

So I don't think too much about the actual birthday. I don't look at my newly minted four year old and think back to his birth. I don't tell him the story of how long the labor was or what his daddy did while we waited for him to arrive. I do tell my boys these stories on their Family Days- how long we waited and prayed for them to come home, how Daddy paced around the room because the van you were riding in to meet us was late thanks to a flat tire, (the oldest), or how nervous and excited we were as we waited in the court house hallway, (the youngest). No, on the birthday of my boys, I don't think much about my actual boys. I think about the birth mothers I will never know.

Do they think about their lost little ones on this day? Is there a woman in Russia today thinking about the tiny baby she gave birth to four years ago? Does she think about this baby boy sometimes? Does the unknown Chinese birth mother think of the little boy with the cleft lip and cleft palate that she left on the steps of an old hotel? I have no answers. But I do know that if the tables were turned I wouldn't think about anything else.

On this day, on the fourth birthday of my youngest son, I send my thoughts to his birth mother. I want her to know that I am thankful to her. I wish she had found her way to better pre-natal care, yes. I wish she had been able to ignore the call of drugs and alcohol while carrying my son. But I am thankful he was born in a hospital. I am thankful that she knew she could not care for him. I am thankful that she carried the pregnancy to term. I am so very thankful to her, for my wonderful son.

She could have made so many other choices along the way. She could have ended the pregnancy. She could have refused to go to the hospital for the birth. She could have left her tiny, hours old baby in the street. She could have walked away from the hospital with that baby in her arms. She could have come back to claim him, dragging him down into her world. She could have said "no" when officials hunted her down and asked for her to sever her parental rights. She could have changed the course of my destiny.

If I could, I would tell her that my son is healthy. My son is funny. My son is smart. I would let her know that he is getting the help he needs. He is growing, both in body and in mind. He is learning about love, and family. He is learning about God. I would tell her about my son's amazing imagination and his love of Curious George. I would share with her his wit and how infectious his laughter can be. I would ask her if other members of my son's birth family cover their mouths when they get to laughing uncontrollably. I would ask her if his quick temper and "outie" belly button are birth family traits. I would ask her if she was aware of proper pre-natal care and simply chose not to care.

One thing I wouldn't ask her is "why". I would only say "thank you". On this, my youngest son's fourth birthday, to him I say "Happy Birthday!" And to the birth mother who gave me this great joy, I say "Thank You. To you I will always be grateful. I thank God for you."

"The Cleaning led to Reading Which Led to Relaxing Which Led to More Cleaning Which Led to Getting Back on Track to Fulfilling My Purpose", or, "I Finished a Book!"

Yesterday I finished reading a book on my Kindle. When you finish a book on the Kindle it asks you if you would like to let the world know, via facebook, that you have accomplished the often monumental feat of actually finishing an entire book. I said yes. And then many of my friends, who will be reading the same book for a book club we are in together, all expressed their amazement. I know, I was right there with them. Me, finish a book? I haven't had time to read anything that wasn't about ADHD, early life trauma, fetal alcohol syndrome, or behavior in nearly two years. Now don't get too excited for me; it was, after all, a very short book and an easy read. And it was enjoyable, providing interesting food for thought on what it must be like for an older child to be internationally adopted and removed from the only home, and country, they have ever known. I started reading it while my super six old was at China school, when all I had was time and a comfortable chair. But I was able to finish it at home thanks to the fact that I have been cleaning like a mad woman. I have been working hard to keep the toys picked up, the kitchen counters cleaned off, and the kitchen floor sparkly clean. And when all that is in place I can relax. I can sit on the sofa after the boys are in bed and actually focus on something other than what didn't get done that day. And so the cleaning routines, (thank you fly lady!) led to the ability to read for enjoyment, which led to me being relaxed, which led to more cleaning. Finally! A cycle I don't mind being caught up in!

For some reason I am really feeling the spring cleaning bug this year. Maybe it is because the boys in my life are so messy. Maybe it is because my in-laws are visiting next week to watch my super six year old play football and have offered to stay with the boys for a few hours while my sweet husband and I sneak away for some much needed alone time. (Sadly, we are only planning a quick trip out to eat, but we are both super excited about it. I will get to drink all of my ice tea with no boys stealing large gulps from me! I will be able to sit still with no one touching me, or climbing on me, or elbowing me or kicking me. I will be able to eat my dinner while it is hot. I will be able to listen to my husband and actually concentrate on his words.) Wait, where was I? Spring cleaning. Yes.

So the in-laws are coming. And then the next weekend the social worker is visiting for yet another post placement visit for the tiny toddler. Who, while still tiny, is not really a toddler any longer- he will be four years old next month! The house certainly needs to be clean for her visit! And then a day or two after that we have a baby sitter coming over so that my sweet husband and I can sneak away again; this time to see the documentary STUCK.

Who knows what, or who, has prompted this spring cleaning bug but I am feeling more in control and happier than I have felt in a very long time. There is just something about purging and organizing that makes me happy. I have cleaned out all of the upper kitchen cupboards, throwing away chipped glasses and old vitamin bottles. I have cleaned under the sink, (gross!), and added stacking plastic bins to hold the soaps and scrubbies. I have added a shower curtain rod to the back of the boys' bathtub to hang plastic baskets holding their toys and wash cloths. Thanks to the holes in the baskets the toys can drip dry and the tub stays clean! I have cleaned the huge kitchen cupboard that held mismatched plastic bowls and lids, throwing away everything that didn't have a match. Now there is no Tupperware, but there is a large space for the boys' back yard necessities like bubbles and chalk. I cleaned and organized the walk in closet in the master bedroom- we can see our clothes again!

The cleaning out of every cupboard and closet, combined with our weekly family meeting, has made me feel more in control than I have in a long time. I have no control over the issues my youngest son faces. I have no control over schedules changing or my super six year suddenly being worried about his sweet little smushed in nose. I have no control over computer issues at work or the fact that I often feel as though I am drowning in toys. But I do have control over what lives in my cupboards and what is thrown away. I do have control over some of the chaos that naturally comes with raising a family.

Maybe it's the warmer weather. Maybe it's the cleaning. Maybe it's the new organizing bins and systems I have put in place. Maybe it is the fact that we are finally getting back to having regular house cleaning help around here; something every working mother should have. I am sure it is a combination of it all, but I don't really care. I am finally feeling more in control. Which means I am feeling more able to be the mother God designed me to be. So go throw something away. Go clean out a cupboard. Go open your window and breath in the cool Spring air. Go be the person God designed you to be!

From Birth Mothers to Bullying- the boy is doing just fine

"Daddy is not answering his phone.", I said to my super six year old, as we sat snuggled together in the restaurant booth, waiting for our dinners to arrive. "Keep calling, Mommy. You must persevere!" Persevere? My super six year knows the word "persevere"? After grilling him for the definition, it turns out, he does.

Learning that my oldest son has a vocabulary even larger than I thought was not the only thing I learned yesterday. Apparently my young man knows this word because it is one of the awards given out monthly in Chapel in his school. I just found out about these awards last week and am still a little sketchy on them. I hear there is an award for "Honesty", and now one for "Perseverance". What I do know is that my guy has not been awarded one of these yet, and he really, really, really wants one. At his age, and knowing his temperament, I doubt he wants one for the meaning behind it as much as for the idea of "winning". My super six year old loves to win. But what a great thing to win at, right? I learned about this at 7:00pm last night, after spending the entire day playing at COSI.

The morning started with a trip to the pediatrician for my son's six year old well check up. There I learned something I had been suspecting for quite a while. My young son can act calmly in that doctor's office. I was beginning to wonder. He questioned the nurse, "Am I going to get any shots today?" She wasn't sure. He questioned the doctor, who confirmed that, no, he would not be getting any shots. He had been questioning me for two days. He immediately stopped wiggling and grabbing for items in the drawers under the exam table. He let his strong body melt into the table, stretched out long, and began to play his DS while he sang to himself. (Smashmouth!) I could actually talk to the doctor! I could think about my answers! I could stop being that frazzled mother who has to keep one eye, and both hands, on her child at all times! Yesterday morning I learned that when my son has the information he needs he can be a calm little guy. And yes, I already knew this, but it was a great reminder.

I learned that my super six year is maturing in ways that make me proud. While we waited for nearly two hours to get into COSI - ALWAYS BUY YOUR TICKETS ONLINE DURING SPRING BREAK PEOPLE!- I allowed my boy to wander off to the nearby hands on exhibits. I could always see him, and he came back to me every time I called his name. "Such a patient boy you have there!", exclaimed a grandmother waiting in line behind me. "Not usually", I thought. But maybe, just maybe, he is learning this. Patient and a good listener. Who knew.

I watched my son share the small rubber balls in one of the Space exhibits with a little girl. He had watched her be denied a ball by the boy on the other side of the exhibit and when she showed up at his side he didn't need me to remind him to be a gentleman. He willingly gave her a ball. And when the little boy on the other side tried to take it back, my young man grabbed it first, saying, "This ball is hers", and handed it to the girl. He shared, and more importantly,  he stood up for what he knew to be right. He did not let that little boy do what stands for bullying in the kindergarten set. And I learned that my super six year old is on his way to becoming a man.

I learned that my guy knows A LOT about space. He had his facts right and was able to hold a conversation with a much older boy about planets while waiting in line to see the space capsule. He taught a younger girl about how the earth moves around the sun, using his hands and a ball to further explain. He is an educator, this boy.

I watched my super six year old take command of a group of children, both older and younger than he, to run the mini land rover and cranes. He gave direction to everyone, making sure every child knew their instructions before starting the mission. He is a leader, this boy.

We played together in the Ocean exhibit, my son showing me how to place the water stream just right so that it would intersect with his. His little engineering mind figured out where to place all of the water streams so that all five of them intersected. It was late in the day and we had the exhibit all to ourselves, so he had the time to really figure this out. I learned how single minded my son can be. He wasn't leaving the exhibit until he had those streams of water precisely where he wanted them.

I watched my boy play a game of checkers in the outside play area, with checker pieces bigger than his head. He bounced around the giant sized playing board, pondering his choices and making his moves. I had warned the older girl he was playing with that he may not know how to play; turns out I didn't need to do that. Sometime between the last time I played with him and yesterday he learned the rules of the game. I learned that my son frequently plays checkers with his friends at his after school program. Once again I was reminded that my super six year old has a whole life I know very little about. Again I was reminded of the importance of cementing this relationship early on in life so he will be sure to include me in his life as he grows. Just imagining what parts of his life I may not know about when he is a teenager makes me shudder!

I learned that my son is outgoing. Which, of course, I already knew. But this boy is confident. I watched as he realized he didn't have a partner for a game he wanted to play and with just a tiny nudge from me he asked the girl next to him if she would like to be his partner. There was no fear that this older girl would deny him his request. He was confident that he would not be shot down. I also learned where his head is about his birth country. He is currently in a phase where he is very proud to be Chinese. The girl he asked to play this game was also Chinese. While the girl won the game, the two of them had a very high score- higher than the other kids who had gone before them. When I pointed this out to my son he exclaimed, loudly, that it was because both he and his partner were Chinese. The girl's Chinese father hid a smile when this was pronounced. OK, still doing good with the birth country thing.

I learned that my super six year old is still not ready to discuss his birth mother. He was very interested in the display of fetus', looking at each month of pregnancy with great care. He was amazed when he realized how very small he started out. I was cautious to use the correct terms and to make sure he understood that when he was a fetus he was in his birth mother's tummy, not mine. We spent a lot of time in this exhibit but it wasn't his time to ask these questions, not yet.

I learned that my boy is all boy. He spent quite some time playing the "bodily function" organ, where each key he pressed gave us a loud sneeze, hungry rumblings, or a cough. The "vomit" key was his favorite. So much, in fact, that he continued to make the disgusting sound long after we left the exhibit.

As we finally left the museum, eight hours after arriving, we walked slowly to the car. We had parked in the farthest lot from the door, and on the way in my boy had bounced along and run ahead numerous times. Now, on the way out, he was lagging behind, his little legs tired. Despite my equally tired legs I picked up my 45 pound six year old and carried him to the car. He rested his head on my shoulder and ran his fingers up and down my back, enjoying the feel of the fabric of my coat. "I think my legs are broken.", he mumbled in my ear. I hugged him as we slowly made our way to the car. I learned that my  big six year old, the one who acted as a leader, a teacher, a protector, was still also a little boy. My little boy.

I don't often have the chance to spend an entire day, uninterrupted, with just one of my boys. We went to the museum because my son asked to go, and because it is such a great educational opportunity for him. But all those hours, alone with my oldest son, were educational for me as well. A reminder to sometimes pause and take a moment. A moment to appreciate the growth. A moment to ponder the amazing creature before you. A moment to play like a child, with your child. And a moment to carry your child in your arms again.

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.

the day we moved your security cereal

You ask for your favorite cereal. No surprise there, kiddo. You ask for your favorite cereal a thousand times a day. Rarely do I see you without your cup of dry cereal close by. It sits next to you in the living room when you watch Curious George on TV. It stands guard next to your plate at dinner time. It sits high up on your dresser in your bedroom while you sleep, waiting for you to wake up and claim it. We add cereal to it when you ask, which is daily. Or more, if you are having a tough day.

Maybe you don't know this, little Mishka, but we eat a lot of cereal in this family. And we have a tiny pantry, so your mommy has to be creative in how we store our food. That is how your favorite cereal ended up in a Rubbermaid cereal container. I had no idea that without the box you would think we ran out of your security cereal.

When you are older, and, hopefully, able to trust that you will never be hungry again, I will tell you the stories of how you fought me, daily, for your food. You will be amazed at how you needed to see your cereal and yogurt. I will tell you how sometimes you just opened the refrigerator to look at your cups of yogurt lined up on the shelf. I will tell you how you threw yourself on the floor, screaming and crying, when you saw the empty cereal box in the trash can. I pulled out the plastic cereal container and tried to show you how we had lots of your cereal in the house, but you were too far gone. Finally I set the cereal down and picked you up, holding you close while you threw your food induced fit.

The memories of starvation are slow to fade, I am told. When you saw that empty cereal box you lost your mind, little one, temporarily. You started thinking with the back of your mind, where the memories you cannot voice are stored. In that moment, in your mind, you truly thought you would never eat that cereal again. It doesn't matter that I buy it for you every week at the grocery store. It doesn't matter that you have never once been without it. It doesn't matter that you have been with me at the store and witnessed where it comes from. None of that matters. At that moment, you are fighting for your life, little one.

I should have known. I should have shown you how I moved the cereal from the box to the plastic container. I should have taken the empty cereal box to the trash can outside so you wouldn't have seen it. I should have just left well enough alone.

That night, after you had come out of your fit and eaten your cereal and happily gone to bed, I lay in my bed, thinking about the cereal episode. I cried for the fear you must have felt earlier that evening, when you truly thought you might not eat again. I cried for your pain, and for the first 24 months of your life when that fear of starving was not just a memory in the back on your brain, it was a real, every day issue you faced. I pushed down the guilt I sometimes feel when I think about the children left behind, the ones still hungry. I pushed off the covers and walked down the hallway to your bedroom. I sat in the rocking chair and watched you sleep. You were spread eagle in your crib, taking up all the space. You were wrapped up in the knitted blue and green blanket that was your father's when he was a baby. You were peaceful. Your cereal cup was sitting on your dresser, waiting for morning.

Oh how I wish all of your trauma could be fixed by giving you a small green snack catcher cup full of cereal.

I am choosing to label him "loved"

This is a great time of change for my little family. I can sense changes happening in my Big Five Year Old. He is looking older. He is calming down and having great behavior days in school. He is talking football, really talking football, with his dad. He is beginning to understand his little brother's challenges and starting to show compassion towards him. He handled the death of his first guinea pig with appropriate amounts of sadness and understanding, and he stood in our living room this morning and explained what it meant that he "rescued" his new guinea pig- he was proud to have taken in this little creature that, in his words, no one else wanted. Oh. My. Change is afoot. He will be six years old in three weeks. Halfway through kindergarten, attending church youth group activities weekly, showing an aptitude for math and engineering. Sometimes these growth spurts are harder to see, and you wake up one day and notice your kid is suddenly heavier when you pick them up, or using words you didn't know he knew. This is not one of those times, no. This time I can clearly see the changes in my oldest son, and it makes me proud. He is maturing yet still oddly weird. He still marches to his own drummer, as they say.

My Big Five Year Old has never really asked about his adoption. He knows his story, and he has heard the words. Birth Mom. Adoption Plan. Orphanage. But he has never really expressed an interest in the finer details of how he found his way to our family. In treating him like the growing boy he is I have begun to explain to him how his little brother came to be born with the challenges he now faces. And in doing so, those words that are sometimes hard for me to say have been coming out of my mouth left and right. Oh yes, change is afoot.

We have come as close to a diagnoses as we will be able to get to with the Tiny Toddler. And now we have "labels", which I don't like but which I know are needed. We have an IEP. We have goals and targets and a plan. We have hope. And we have all of that because we have those dreaded labels. Now I know what research to do. I know how to arm myself with information. I knew before, but I was all over the place. Maybe it's Reactive Attachment Disorder. Maybe it's Oppositional Defiance Disorder. Maybe it's Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Maybe it's ADHD. Maybe it is all of the above. But now we have our best educated guess and we are moving on to the living of our lives. Not to the fixing. To the management, and the living. To the fun, and the family vacations, and the celebration of successes and to all those teaching moments that lay ahead. Because we can't fix. And I am so relieved.

Now we accept. I have a beautiful, healthy, smart, fun little boy. He has trauma, yes. He may always have challenges stemming from poor decisions made by his birth mother. He may never connect all the dots the way I wish he would. We may forever walk through this life armed with techniques and flash cards, and behavior modification charts. But it is a life I am thrilled to be walking through with my amazing son. What he has overcome I cannot imagine. I complain if it is too cold or if we run out of diet root beer. His challenges? They must have seemed insurmountable to him. These new challenges? This time he won't have to do it alone. Again, I have to say how relieved I feel. I have taken my fears for his future, my fears for my family's future, and my fear of the unknown and I have turned it into acceptance and fight. I am ready to step into this new role, as a mother of a "labeled" child. But watch out, because I am the only one who can label my son with any moniker that really matters. And I am choosing to label him "loved".

What I wish everyone knew about adoption

This post was originally written on September 13, 2011. These are my thoughts on what I wish everyone knew about adoption. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.






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.

naming the baby- adoption style

This post was originally published on December 14, 2011. It is a discussion on naming your baby, adoption style. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.




The topic last night at my MOPS meeting was "naming rights". The discussion flowed from biblical babies to our own real time ones, and how their precious names were selected. We talked about how important our names are - they are our identity, a gift from our parents. Sometimes they are a link to our past. Names are so very important.

We talked about that first moment when you hold your new baby in your arms and look in his or her eyes for the first time, and how you just know, you just know the name you selected fits this tiny creature. Being the only adoptive mother in my MOPS group I am used to conversations about our little ones frequently being framed in the context of pregnancy and birth, and that is fine with me. All those mothers, having their babies the old fashioned way! Last night's conversation was the same - very much centered around those first few moments after birth.

But I can relate. I waited to see my baby's face too. I found out I was having a boy not in my doctor's office on an ultrasound table but standing in my kitchen, with our adoption agency on speaker phone. It's a boy! I remember hanging up the phone and sinking down into a kitchen chair, thrilled and stunned that we were having a boy. And the great baby name debate began.

It was funny, last night, participating in this conversation about meeting our babies. I saw my baby's beautiful little face not in person for the first time, but in a picture. But I was in the hospital. It was our adoption agency's policy to not show a prospective family the photo of the baby until after the parents to be had reviewed the baby's medical information, which makes sense. It would be hard to turn away from a baby you know in your heart your can't care for after you have seen the picture. So we had met with the doctor, we were confident we could handle the cleft palate and cleft lip our son to be would come to us with. And so we stood in a cubicle in the International Adoption Clinic offices at Nationwide Children's Hospital and waited as our baby's picture loaded onto the assistant's computer. And so that part of our story might be different than other's. But what happened next was the same as every other new parents' story. We looked at the picture of our new little son, a tiny Chinese boy in an over sized white t-shirt, his eyes speaking volumes to us. And we looked at each other and said, "Yes, his name fits him. He is a Matthew." You just know. You just know.

We talked at MOPS about how we all settled on the names we chose for our children. And again, my story was a little different. It wasn't just my husband and I making this decision. We had boys with names already. One given by the orphanage, another by a birth mother. (sometimes I still struggle with that word, birth mother. But no matter the struggle, I am everyday thankful to these unknown women.) Both names were links to history, to birth countries. So it wasn't just my husband and I. Or even extended family. It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids.

what adoption has taught me

Welcome to November! Halloween is over, pumpkin patches have been visited and pumpkins carved. Costumes have been relegated to the toy box and left over Halloween candy is being doled out two pieces at a time to my young boys. I have pulled out my  annual Christmas planner and updated it. I don't plan to decorate or think much about the holiday just yet but getting out the binder and refreshing the pages just somehow relaxes me. Knowing that I am prepared and ready to organize my family for the always busy holiday season assures that I don't miss a thing. There are so many family friendly activities and events that I don't want to miss, gift ideas I don't want to forget, special dinners I want to plan. Organization is the key to a peaceful holiday season, at least for me. But enough about my Christmas planner.

Before the tree goes up and wrapping paper comes out we have November. A month to be thankful. November is also National Adoption Month. A month for being thankful and a month to celebrate adoption. Now that I can get behind. What am I thankful for? You guessed it - adoption.

Throughout this month I will be sharing my thoughts on adoption, as well as re-posting older adoption essays. (After all, the holidays are right around the corner so time is tight...) To start with, though, I want to share with you what I have learned through our adoption journey.

I have learned that raising children is difficult, no matter how the little monsters  sweeties came into your family.

I have learned that when my Big Five Year Old tells me no one  likes him at school I immediately go to the adoption guilt. Does he feel "different"? Are the other children making fun of his smushed little nose? Has he been asked about why his eyes are slanted or why his little brother doesn't look like him? I know that the other children at school like to play with my son. I know that he has friends. I know that every day is not going to be a good day. And I know that most likely his day to day issues with school have nothing to do with adoption. But I can tell you that as an adoptive parent, I go to the well of adoption guilt every time. Every. Single. Time.

I have learned that love isn't always forged through breastfeeding and co-sleeping. Sometimes it blossoms among matchbox cars and silly songs about cats throwing up.

I have learned that every day is a gift. Now I know that biological parents feel this as well. And if they don't, they should. Because every day with our kids truly is a gift. But when you try so hard to start a family, go through miscarriages and hormone treatments and shots and painful and intrusive medical procedures, that child finally placed in your arms is a Gift with a capital G. I miss my clean house and my orderly life and quiet time with my sweet husband, and I would give my right arm for a good babysitter, yes. But give up the little every day moments with my two crazy kids? No way. Every day thankful, that is what I am.

I have learned that the general public is way more outgoing than I am. I would never consider asking a total stranger a question like "How much did your son cost?" or "Why didn't you just have your own kids?" But the world is full of people unlike me, and that is what makes it such an amazing place, right? And I have learned grace from each and every one of those stupid questions. Maybe my answers provide lessons for the busy bee who asked, but maybe their questions provide me a lesson on handling myself with grace and dignity.

I have learned that my children don't have to share my DNA to be a lot like me. My oldest son frequently cannot look past something he doesn't enjoy but is forced to participate in because someone else in the family enjoys it. He works himself up to the point that he cannot find even one thing he could be enjoying in the moment. I do this. Just ask my husband about the time I cried at the thought of going to the Brown's game on a super cold, super snowy day. My youngest son has my short temper. Did I teach them these behaviors? Were they born this way? Who knows. All I know is this; these aren't two children who are nothing like me. These are my sons, and they do share some of my traits.

I have learned that these are the children I was meant to parent. God placed these boys in my path for a reason. As I have said before, my children aren't Plan B. I cannot tell you how many times I have been told, "Now that you have adopted you will surely get pregnant."  Believe me, after bringing home a baby, getting pregnant was the last thing on my mind. Adopting was not some convoluted way to conceive. These boys were meant to be in my life. They need me. And I need them.

I have learned patience. Waiting for the right time to submit the paperwork. Waiting on documents. Waiting on a referral. Waiting on travel orders. Waiting on the van that broke down while bringing me my sweet Chinese son. Adoption has taught me patience. As has parenting, right? Who hasn't tapped their foot impatiently while mini me runs around the house looking for his other shoe or favorite stuffed baby animal?

I have learned that post adoption depression is a very real thing. It is energy sucking and works against bonding with your new little one. I have learned more about this than I care to know.

I have learned to ask for help. Prior to having kids I was relatively self sufficient. Now it seems as though I am always seeking advice. How to approach adoption questions in school. How to handle toddler behavior issues. How to bond with a new little one when the older one still needs my attention.

I have learned the importance of community. My son's China play group, as he calls it, has been a life saver. Sure, it is good for him to grow up surrounded by families that look like ours. But it has been an amazing experience for me as well. These other mothers, they get me. They face many of the same issues with their children, and they frequently offer a listening ear and thoughtful advice.

I have learned to trust God. To trust my inner voice. One and the same, I guess. I have learned that adoption is an amazing, difficult and fulfilling journey. And I have learned that I would do it all over again, of course. And I wouldn't change a thing.

What has your adoption journey taught you?

before I hit my desk I hit my knees, or, how I redecorated from the inside out

Sometimes you just need a change, right? I like my life to stay calm and steady, but sometimes I just need to shake things up a bit. And I've felt like that a lot lately. Just a little off. Sometimes it is so hard to just "be" in the moment. Sometimes I feel as though we have just been in this holding pattern for years. Waiting to meet my husband. Waiting to start a family. Waiting to start the adoption process. Waiting on another country to approve us as parents. Waiting on travel documents. Waiting to save money. Waiting to move. Always with the waiting. And always with the wanting. We so frequently want more, don't we? It is so hard to just take a deep breath and be present in the moment.

I try. I remind myself to turn my phone off. I leave dishes on the table so I can play with my boys after dinner. I want to enjoy the moments as they come, instead of worrying or wishing for time to speed up so I can have what I think I want. And most of the time I am somewhat successful. I really do enjoy the little moments marching their way through my life. But sometimes I still feel unsettled.

So lately I have not been as happy as I should be. I have a job that allows me to work and still be the mom I want to be. (As a side note, kudos to Julia from my favorite TV show Parenthood for walking away from something she thought she always wanted, a partnership in her law firm, to be the mom she knows her two kids, one recently adopted, needs.) My husband has a contract position while he job hunts, so he is working also. Our boys are healthy and happy. We are settling in as a family and getting through the attachment and behavior challenges. While our house may not be perfect it is a warm and inviting home. We belong to a great church and can afford to pay for a private christian education for my oldest son. Even when we have everything we need sometimes we want more, don't we? Well here is where my advanced 42 years have helped me.

I have learned to listen to these unsettled whispers. I have learned to make small changes that have big impact. This time, when those feelings started to creep back in, I quieted my heart and listened.  And I made a few small changes that have had a dramatic impact on my life. The first thing I did was remind myself to return to the basics. I had settled into a morning routine of dropping off the boys at school and then heading home to work. Nowhere in my morning could I be found. And more importantly, nowhere in my morning could God be found. Assuring that I take the time every day for prayer and reflection assures that I start my day the way God intended. First moments for God, right? Those moments when the house is quiet and all three of my boys are sleeping- that's my favorite time of day and my best time for reflection. And if I just can't drag myself out of bed on time then I take my moments with God after dropping off the boys. Either way, before I hit my desk in the morning I hit my knees, so to speak. And after I do, I always wonder why I let myself drop this very important habit.

So small change number one- very important. Potentially life changing. Small change number two, not so much. But it made me feel great all the same. Are you ready? Here's the secret. I put a few of my lights on timers and replaced a few old fashioned candles with battery operated ones, also with timers. When I walk downstairs in the morning to pray and make breakfast for my boys, I am greeted by the old accent lamp on the side table in the hallway by the kitchen. This lamp turns on with a switch on the cord, and because of the placement of the table and the cord I rarely turned it on. I would have to pull the table a few inches from the wall, pull up the cord and flip the switch. Then repeat it all to turn it off. Now it is on a timer and twice a day it magically turns itself on. I am greeted by it's warm glow when I come down the stairs every morning. Later, as we are all returning home from our busy days out in the harsh world, it greets us again. When my husband walks in the door in the evening, usually after the rest of us get home, he walks into a softly lit entryway.

If you haven't seen a battery powered candle lately check them out again. They are amazing! They look and smell like the real thing, even casting a moving shadow. They come with a built in timer as well, so they turn themselves on every evening. Now our mantle is glowing every evening, and my kitchen counter is cozier. When the boys head upstairs to bed a pillar candle lights their hallway. I have at least six of these flame less candles throughout my home. Both my husband and I love candles and used to burn them all the time. But with the boys, and their strong desire to blow them out, and their toys flying through the air at times, it just isn't as safe as it used to be. I will still light a candle at dinner or after the boys go to bed, but we were missing the warmth and peace a glowing candle provides. let's face it- it's hard to yell at your kids with the lights down and a candle burning.

My restlessness has passed. I am back on track and feeling centered and full of grace. I start my day with the light of God and assure that my family ends their day with peace and warmth. Kind of like decorating from the inside out. From working on my heart to working on my home, I am doing things to make me a calmer person, a happier mother, and a willing home maker.

just call him "albex"

To most people it wouldn't seem like any big deal. Nearly all three year old's can say their own name, right? But to me, it was huge. Huge! The new daycare that my tiny toddler attends sent home a 36 month old developmental assessment for me to complete, so I was sitting on the floor last night asking my little man to zip up his coat, (he can!), hop on two feet, (he can do that too!), hop on one foot, (he cannot and fell right over.) He looked totally puzzled when I asked him to put his shoe on the table and his book under it. After all, I have spent months teaching him that it is the other way around. My little guy drew a line and circle and he pointed to every body part I named.

When I glanced at the test the day my sweet husband brought it home I figured that my son would do well on it. I knew he could do most of the tasks listed. But one caught my attention : ask your child to say his name. I have been doing this for months now, and every time he either ignores me or says "me". He knows his name; he answers when we call him and he recognizes the letter "A" and will point to it and say "my name". But I had never heard him say his name.

Maybe it's just me but as an adoptive parent I have often wondered what it must be like to suddenly have these strange looking people calling you a name you do not recognize. How disorienting that must be. We did keep both of our son's birth country names as their new middle names, and we did call them by these names at first. In fact, we still call our oldest son "Matthew Zhao" so often that his little brother has called him "Zhao" from day one. But still, you worry.

Identity is so important to an internationally adopted child. I am quick to anger. Like my mother and her Italian father. I am musical, like my father. My sister and I have very similar voices- sometimes on the phone it is hard to tell us apart. I have very visible roots. In college most of the music professors knew me first as "James Kirk's daughter" and would often greet me by saying, "Hi Beth, How's your dad?" And I hated it. I was so much more than this amazing music teacher's daughter. Having my identity so tightly wrapped to my father's name bothered me so much that I started college majoring in education, only to change to music education two wasted years later.  And being labeled a "Kirk" was nothing compared to the identity crisis internationally adopted children often face. So I worry, sure.

But last night I sat on the living room floor with my little man and I asked him what his name was. And he said "Albex". I cheered. My big five year old cheered. I made him repeat it over and over again- it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. My "Albex" is one step closer to his identity, and I am one proud mama!

finding the right work from home balance

In my previous life as a corporate director of sales and marketing I worked out of a home based office. Or at least that is what my job description said. In reality, I was rarely in my home office. I was usually traveling Tuesday through Thursday, often away from home overnight, and when I was in my office I could almost always be found with the phone strapped to my ear on a conference call. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I frequently had calls that would last for 6 hours. Thank goodness for the mute button is all I'm saying... I was always working.

When I left that position I took a year off to stay home and help my new little one adjust to life in America, life in a family, life with a Mommy and Daddy. It was an unplanned year, as many of you know. I was supposed to take the position I have now but it was put on hold for a year. And while at the time it may have led to some panic at the thought of going from a corporate salary to no salary, it was, in fact, the best thing I could have done for my little family. As always, God had a plan and I just needed to let it happen. And while my little one is not yet quite where he needs to be, he is so much further along than he would have been had I been working that whole time.

So when I took this new position a few months ago I thought the transition would be easy, because I had already been working from home. I could not have been more wrong.

Now I am home for nearly 100% of my work life. I get out to visit our partners a few times a month, or to attend a networking event, but for the most part, I am here, in my office, every single day. Because of the nature of my work, and the fact that I work with families, the hours I work are quite varied.  I can work during the day, I can work in the evenings, I can work weekend and holidays. I can make a hot breakfast for my boys, and sit down and eat it with them. I drop the boys off at daycare and school every day, take my time, talk to their teachers, and still have time to work. I can pick up my boys after school, play with them, talk about their day, make dinner, eat it with them, and then, a few nights a week, pop back into my office for a few hours. Nice, right?

Sure, on paper it all looks great. But my boys get weird if they don't have what they consider to be "enough" time with their mommy. And their definition of "enough" is "all the time". If they are not in school or asleep then they just don't understand why they can't have my undivided attention.  They whine and cry when I head back upstairs to work, no matter how full I have filled their little attention buckets. (I LOVE Positive Parenting Solutions!). Sometimes it is like I am at the zoo, literally pushing small arms and legs out of the office so I can close, and lock, the door. Daddy takes them back downstairs and everyone, including me, is left in tears. Sigh.  So it's not as easy as it looks, and we have a long way to go to make it run more smoothly for our family. But the other day someone asked me for advice on working from home, so here it is, my advice:

• Turn your workstation off every night. It takes a few minutes to power up and turn everything on, which I don't have in the morning as I am starting my day. If everything is already powered up then it is very easy for you to just pop into your office and check your email, plan your day... when you should be spending time with you family. Work time is work time and family time is family time. I can't just pop into my office in the morning on my way to the little one's crib - powering down reminds me to be fully focused on the matter at hand, my boys.
• Plan your hours carefully so that you don't accidentally start working too early. I know, sounds crazy, but with no commute it is very easy to go straight to work. I find that if I go straight to my office after returning home from dropping off the boys then I run out of day and don't have enough time to do all the household management stuff that can easily get out of hand if not tended to every day. Many times I have walked into the kitchen for lunch only to see breakfast still sitting there, waiting to be cleaned up. How disheartening! With a little planning you can take the time you need to complete your morning routine without feeling guilty about not working. God, Family, Work, people. Always. I need to clean up breakfast, drink a cup of coffee while it is actually still hot, check my email, pray, start a load of laundry, and then I am ready to start my work day. Some people center themselves during their commute. I use 20 minutes before walking up the stairs.
• Take your lunch break for you, not for your house. I have to force myself to do this and, I must admit, I don't always do it, but it is so important for your sanity to take your lunch break for yourself. If you were working in an office building across town you wouldn't be thinking about the housework that needs done while you ate your lunch. So don't think it about it now. Taking your lunch time to eat, take a walk, listen to music, play a computer game- whatever energizes you is what you have to do to make it through the rest of your day. Put that guilt away- it is helping no one!
• Back to planning your hours- make sure you stop working in enough time so that you can focus on what needs done for your family. I set a timer and try very hard to finish my work on time so that I can walk away from my office and back into wife and mommy mode. Having an hour to myself before picking up the boys is invaluable. I can start dinner, set the table, tidy up the downstairs or make a quick pass through the upstairs. I have time to bring up the laundry I started in the morning and get it folded and into the boy's individual baskets for them to carry up to their rooms later. This way, when I pick up my boys, they are my only focus. They deserve my time.
• Let your spouse help. Now I know that your idea of a clean living room doesn't include a few scattered toys or cups laying about. But imagine how messy it was before he helped the kids clean up! I want my sweet husband to help out around the house, but it drives me crazy when he doesn't do it the way I would. Or when he doesn't do it at all. So now I make lists. I feel this is nagging but he asked for it, literally, and it really has made a huge difference in our home. He wants to help. He wants me to work. He wants me to contribute to the financial stability of our family, yet he also understands the importance of my being here for our boys. You may have to remind your spouse of why you work where and when you do, but also help him along with a little list or two, if needed. My husband knows that if I am working in the evening I expect dinner to be cleaned up, (and NOT just stacked in the sink!), the boys to be bathed, and at least the tiny toddler in bed. If I need more from him, like the trash or recycling taken out, the dishwasher emptied, etc., then I have to tell him. And once I do tell him, I have to let go. He is an adult, he can handle it.
• And speaking of letting go- you also have to let go of the childcare. There are moments, like earlier this morning, when I can hear total chaos happening downstairs. At times i can hear frustration in my husband's voice, or one of my boys crying. I can hear what sounds like elephants running through my kitchen - my boys play hard! I want to know what is happening down there- my heart aches thinking something is going wrong, or someone isn't happy. But my husband is not babysitting, he is parenting. And maybe he doesn't always parent the way I would, but these are his kids too and he needs the time to figure it out for himself.
• Keep your office as your office. It's not the room where everything that doesn't have a home gets dumped. It is your sacred work space. Our home office is shared by my husband and myself,  and I learned a few years back that the only way this was going to work was with separate desks. My husband has an office to go to every day, and so his desk at home is cluttered with bills and papers from the on the side accounting work he does. Which is fine, he doesn't work there every day. But I do. I was finding my work papers moved, or scribbled on as my sweet husband searched for a piece of paper to write a note on. Matching smaller desks set up facing each other solved our shared space problem. My desk is now mine alone, and I feel as though I am walking into a real work space every day.

It is both  hard and easy, this working from home gig. I know it will get easier as my boys grow older and can amuse themselves. But right now, when they seem to think that I am their lifeline and that they simply can't live without me, it is hard. It is a struggle to maintain the proper work/life balance and to focus on what I need to focus on. If I am working when the boys are clamoring for my attention I feel guilty. If I am spending time with my boys when I know I have a ton of work to finish, I feel guilty. If I spend all my free time with my boys because of the aforementioned guilt then I feel guilty for the time not spent with my husband. Add in the adoption guilt we adoptive parents carry around and the "I want to be a 50's housewife but just can't do it all alone" guilt and some days I am surprised that there is room in my brain for anything else. I remember fondly the days we had outside help cleaning our home and think that this may be the way we need to go in the near future. I don't know. I certainly don't have all the answers. But I can tell you this. When I am working on a weekend and my tiny toddler has been settled into his crib for his nap by my sweet husband, I am reminded again of how much I value being able to have this amazing work/life balance. As I hear him sing himself to sleep through our shared wall, or name the members of his family, (something new he has just started doing, "Mommy, Zhao, Daddy, Mommy, Zhao, Daddy..."), my heart is so full. And that is why we all strive to find the balance, right?