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."

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.

Tell Me, Which is Better?

On Saturday my three year old son squealed with delight as he opened presents from Santa.  If he still lived in the orphanage there would be no presents, no holiday, no squeals of delight.

On Sunday my three year old visited his Aunt Debbie and his cousin Katie and played with their dogs. If he still lived in the orphanage he would have played with mismatched or broken toys, if he played at all.

On Monday my three year old went with his Grandparents to a party at his cousin's home, where he played with his little baby cousin and ate hot dogs. If he still lived in the orphanage he would have eaten thin potato puree that was too hot to swallow but that he would have gulped down anyways, to fill his always empty stomach.

On Tuesday my three year old visited his Aunt Becky's home where he played with his cousins and watched deer in their snowy backyard. If he still lived in the orphanage he wouldn't have been able to see the world outside from the small high windows that were smudged with mud and snow.

On Tuesday night my three year old rode home in the backseat of his family's car while watching a movie about Curious George, his favorite show, with his older brother. If he still lived in the orphanage he wouldn't have seen any educational shows on television, or had a brother to share them with.

On Wednesday my three year old played in the snow, all bundled up in his snow suit. If he still lived in the orphanage he might never be warm enough, and wouldn't have been able to play in the snow, as there was no yard, only a small concrete parking lot surrounded by gray buildings.

all smiles as he plays in the snow with his older brother

Tomorrow my three year old will go back to preschool, where he will learn his letters and colors. If he still lived in the orphanage tomorrow would be the same as every other day. No education. No love dedicated just to him. No choice in meals or toys. No clothes of his own, no family of his own, no mama of his own.

Tell me, which is better?

So many people tell my husband and I that our children are "lucky". "They are soooo lucky that you adopted them." "They are lucky lucky lucky!" And we have always said that we are the lucky ones, not them. I am lucky when I hear my boys laughing with each other. I am lucky when my three year old says "I wanna kiss you mama" and kisses my leg. I am lucky when one of my boys catches my eye and smiles at me. I am lucky lucky lucky. But now, with Russia on the verge of possibly banning adoption to Americans, I feel as though my little three year old is lucky too. Less than 1,000 children came home to their forever families from Russia in 2011, but he was one of them. He was one of the lucky ones.


There are an estimated 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages.  A number of those children have already been placed with waiting American families, and those adoptions are threatened to be disrupted, or, worse yet, not occur at all, if the ban on Americans adopting Russian orphans goes through. These American women and men are not "parents to be". They are already parents. They have visited their Russian child. They have held him, fed her, played. They have bonded. They have promised to return. And now their lives, and the lives of these innocent children, may never be the same. Contact President Obama. Sign a petition, like this one.
Pray.

I have done all of the above. And I will do one more thing. I will be ever joyful that my little boy made it out of a country that didn't want him, but who didn't want anyone else to have him either.

A Letter to President Obama

On December 18, 2012 the Russian Parliament voted to take action that would ban the adoption of Russian children by American citizens. If Russian President Vladimir Putin signs this bill into law without making a change to the adoption portion, thousands of Russian orphans will lose their chance at finding a forever family of their own. This action by Russia was taken as a result of a law our President recently signed regarding human rights violations in Russia. Innocent children stand to lose their chances at a healthy, happy life in an American family because of politics. My letter to our president:




Dear President Obama,

I am writing to alert you to an urgent concern regarding adoption. Congress recently passed the Sergei Magnitsky Rule of Law Accountability Act and President Obama signed it  into law on December 14, 2012.

In response, Russia's legislature has voted to pass the Dima Yakovlev Law, named after a Russian-born child who died in the care of his adoptive parents. This law would ban from visiting Russia anyone involved in the case of Dima Yakovlev or other Russian born adopted children who died in the United States. What is of most urgent concern is that a recent amendment to this law would also end Intercountry Adoption between Russia and the United States. I believe it is absolutely important to protect the rights of every child and there should be a measured response to the death of each of these children. We mourn the loss of these Russian-born children as they were dear to us as American children. However, it is important to note that these children are a very small minority. Many thousands of Russian born children have been adopted and thrive in the love and care of their American families. If intercountry adoption between Russia and the United States were to close, many thousands of children would likely languish in orphanages instead of finding their way to safe, loving, permanent families in the United States.

 

Now, let me tell you our story. Our son, Alexander Artur, came home to his forever family in May of 2011. My sweet boy was born in Vladivostok, Russia and never left the grounds of the baby hospital where he was born. He lived with seven other children in a hallway of the hospital. let be me clear about that, Mr. President. A hallway. Take a moment and walk out into your hallway, certainly much larger and brighter than where my precious son spent the first 24 months of his life. He ate his meals in a tiny room off this hallway. He slept in a crib pushed up against other cribs in another tiny room. He played in the hallway, with windows too high for him to see the world outside. He was malnourished and sickly when we were awarded the honor to be his parents by a Russian judge.

 

I am not going to tell you that this past year and a half has been easy. As adoptive parents we knew what work lay ahead of us to allow our new son to come into his own, so to speak. And while we still have a ways to go, our tiny little Russian born child is now a strong three year old boy. He loves to sing and dance. He loves animals, especially monkeys. He has nearly caught up developmentally to his American born peers. He is physically healthy and thriving. And our whole family is better off. My children, both internationally adopted, are the light of my life. Both of them have seen so much loss in their young lives, both have left the countries they were born in to become a part of a forever family.

 

I cannot help but think about all the children left behind. When we visited the orphanage in Russia these children would flock to us. They were intrigued by our camera, by the toys we had brought. They wanted to be held and loved. I watched them play with broken toys. I heard them crying as they ate food that was too hot to swallow but they were so hungry they didn't care. I saw worn clothes on one child show up on another one the next day. I saw caregivers with only so much time and energy to give. Tell me, is this better? Is it worth it? These laws will keep those children living in that small hallway, and, even worse, will keep many more in crowded orphanages throughout Russia.

 

 

 

 

If intercountry adoption between Russia and the United States closes, other children, like my little Alex,  will not be able to find their way to the many U.S. families willing and waiting to call them their own.

 

Please contact President Putin of Russia and ask him not to allow this amendment to become part of Russian law. U.S. diplomacy at this time is essential to save the lives of many young Russians waiting for a family of their own.

Respectfully,

Beth Wilkison
Mother

Despite Pat Robertson's warning, I am hoping my children "grow up weird"

The other day I read the most recent “stupid adoption statement” to hit the media. This time is was Pat Robertson sharing his convoluted views of international adoption.  This is the  same man who once told a lonely husband whose wife was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease to divorce her, because “it was better than adultery”. My entire grown up career has been spent in the world of senior health care and so I have seen many a lonely spouse, grieving the loss of their beloved partner long before a death occurs. My own grandfather was one of those lonely spouses. I have seen friendships blossom in the halls of memory care assisted living communities as lonely spouses turn to each other during visiting hours. I have seen divorce and adultery over this horrible disease.  I wouldn’t dare pass judgement on these husbands and wives, and, unlike Pat Robertson, I wouldn’t dare speak so casually of what is always a very difficult and painful situation.

This is also the same man who has shown agreement with the Chinese "one child" policy. This policy has been at the heart of abandonment and murder of babies for years. I would like for Robertson to meet my son and explain to him his thoughts on this policy. While I am sure Robertson does not condone murder, (well, I am pretty sure), any intelligent person can see the link between this policy and the fact that many many many babies born in China do not live to see day two of their young lives. I am thankful, every day, for the brave birth parents who possibly disregarded their safety to assure their newborn son was cared for, even if it did mean abandonment.


 And now he has done it again.

Those of you in the inner adoption circles have most likely already heard about the thoughtless remarks Robertson recently made on his television show regarding international adoption.  Basically, a women wrote in asking for advice about her boyfriend not wanting to marry her because she was the mother  to internationally adopted children.  Had they been her “own” children, (meaning biological), according to the woman, he would have married her.  That this ludicrous topic even made it on to a television show is absurd enough. Say it with me people, “Adopted children are our ‘own’ children.” 

But Robertson’s response is what has most of the adoption community pulling out their collective hair.  He said that he understands that this man “didn’t want to take on a United Nations”, and that you never knew about adopted children- they’re history might have led to brain damage, causing them to, wait for it, “grow up weird.” Wow.

First let me address the “you never know” comment. He is absolutely right. You do never know what you are getting with an adopted child. But not because they are adopted. Because they are a child. And every pregnancy, every birth, every adoption, every blended family brought together by second marriages leads to many unknowns where the children are concerned. I have friends with biological children born with Down’s Syndrome. I have friends with adopted children with heart defects. I have friends with biological children born with cleft palates. I have an adopted child of MY OWN born with a cleft palate. I have friends with biological children with autism. I have friends with adopted children with behavior issues, and I might possibly have one of those on my hands as well. But I also have friends, and relatives, with biological children with behavior problems. So, yes, you do never know what you are going to get.

Now on to the more offensive part of his statement. Thanks, Pat Robertson, for helping to further the stereotype that internationally adopted children are “damaged”.  This horrible stereotype, most often found attached to children adopted out of Eastern European countries, serves no purpose except to frighten prospective adoptive parents and label our children. If the adoptive family is using a trustworthy adoption agency then these potential issues have already been raised, privately, to the individual family. Families do not decide to adopt a child without much thought, prayer, and education. We were not surprised by the behaviors we saw in the orphanage my youngest son called home. We are not surprised by the behaviors we see in him. We were educated, by ourselves and by our adoption agency, and we walked out of that gray building fully knowing that problems may arise.  I am not saying that it was easy. It has been far from easy. I’m not saying that I didn’t lay awake in my bed in that hotel room in Russia, my sweet husband already back in the states, thinking about how my new son was going to fit into our family and how this transition was going to be, for everyone.  But even at those moments, just days after finalizing the adoption, I thought of him as “my son”. I had to sleep backwards in the bed with my hand stuck through the rails of his crib because he would scream if he couldn’t touch me. I had to hold my bathroom needs until I was sure he was asleep, and even then I had to sneak off the creaky mattress and pee in the dark with the bathroom light out so as not to wake him up, because if I wasn’t in that bed, with my hand in his crib when he opened his eyes he would scream with such terror that I was sure the police had been called. I had to shower with my arm stuck outside the curtain, so that his tiny hand could wrap around my finger. Eventually I coaxed him in with me, so he could play in the water and I could stop my contortionist act. I don’t do those things anymore, but I still do a million other things every day to help my son gain his footing in his strange new world.

I know that adoption isn’t for everyone. And thank God for that. Not everyone should take on parenting an adopted child. Not everyone should take on parenting their biological children, and I have often thought that if new biological parents had to jump through the same hoops and survive the same scrutiny as adoptive parents that fewer babies would be coming home from the hospital with their blood relatives.  I am also not saying that the boyfriend that started it all didn’t have a right to feel the way he did about taking on someone else’s kids. I do, however, have to question the judgement of the mom who turned to the 700 Club for advice- couldn’t she figure out on her own that she did not share the same value system as her boyfriend? Did she really need to turn to someone else for advice on this one?

I know that this is not what Robertson meant in his heartless statement, but I have to say that, yes, my children are “weird”. And so am I. They come from a long tradition of “weird”. Maybe it was because he spent all those years teaching middle school band, but my father was the King of Weird. He would talk to his little plastic ant friend, Sam, who sat on his desk at school. He would suggest  to kids still waiting for late parents to pick them up after a concert that perhaps they were busy “changing the locks”. He would make musical instruments out of household items. His mother was also a tad strange, as evidenced by her nickname, “Iguana”.  Lord knows that I am weird.  And my sweet husband? Don’t even get me started.  I am proud of my boys and their individual little personalities, and I will celebrate them and support their weirdness to the day I die.

My minister posted the following comment to my facebook page, as I was writing this blog post.  He had come across another blog post about the absurdity of Pat Robertson’s statement, and he forwarded that article on to me, with the following note:

Beth, when I read this article it got my blood boiling. It will you too. But it also made me think of the wonderful thing your family is doing. You and Brad are being Jesus to your boys. Thanks for the love you have shown to all of God's children.

I am thankful for his thoughtfulness and agree that, yes, I was quite upset when I had heard Robertson’s remarks.  Because, after all, whether it be a toddler in a dark and dreary orphanage, starving for both food and attention, a baby in a sterile orphanage sleeping on a wooden board, also starving,  a biological child with a disability, or a  baby still in his mother’s womb, all children are God’s children, and all children are perfect, just the way they are.

finally normal

My husband and I take turns putting the boys to bed. We each have our different rituals and we feel that the one on one time is as important for the boys as changing it up is for us. While both boys initially pout when they get the news that Mommy will not be putting them to bed, once they are upstairs I can hear the giggles and laughter floating down the stairs as Daddy reads the tiny toddler's books in funny voices or talks football with the big five year old.

Last night was my turn with the tiny toddler. On Friday he turned three years old, and he has been having so much fun with his birthday this year. Last year his birthday fell six days after the Russian court approved our adoption; he had a cake a new toy but he also had two new parents that he wasn't quite sure what to do with. He had a sleep deprived Mommy who was equal parts over the moon at having a new son and sad beyond belief at missing her oldest one. He had a new Daddy he seemed to only enjoy while Mommy was around and who he certainly was not going to allow himself to be left alone with. So last year's birthday was somewhat of a blur. But this year? He totally gets it and he is having a ball.

When my oldest son turned five back in February I filled his room with balloons so that when he woke up there was a sea of colorful balloons to greet him on his special day. I didn't do that with the tiny toddler this year because he still puts everything in his mouth and it just didn't seem safe. Last night both boys and my sweet husband headed upstairs for bed a little early so that we could clean their rooms, something that is normally scheduled for Saturdays but somehow got away from this week. Daddy helped the big five year old and I headed into the tiny toddler's room. We supervised bed sheet changing and toy pick up and then I got the little guy ready for bed. After putting on his jammies we settled into the rocking chair to read books, which is when the big five year old burst into the room carrying three of his surviving birthday balloons. "I want to give these to Alex since he had a birthday." The tiny toddler slid off my lap and immediately began dancing around the room with his new balloons.

As I watched my boys playing together with the balloons I  realized how "normal" life had been lately. Friday night we had macaroni and cheese and birthday cake for dinner in honor of the tiny toddler's birthday. His older brother couldn't wait to bring out his presents and sing Happy Birthday. After dinner I watched the boys playing with the new bubble/squirt guns in the back yard. They ran at each other, shooting bubbles up into the air, giggling. Saturday evening we took the boys to a friend's house for a China play group picnic. Both boys played with the other children, bounced in the bounce house, ate hot dogs and generally had a great time. There were no melt downs. No running off. No hitting or throwing things. No screaming and tears. Sunday we took the boys to church, where one went to the nursery and one to Sunday school. We grocery shopped as a family and we all hung out in the living room watching the tiny toddler's newest obsession,  Little Einsteins. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but seeing my little guy actually sit down and be able to enjoy and process a television show is a HUGE deal for this family. And then we got to Sunday night, and the balloon dance of joy. And I sat in my grandmother's University of Akron rocking chair and exhaled. We have temper tantrums and melt downs. We have dirt and rocks and we never have matching socks. We have toys everywhere and still occasionally have bored children. We have whining and sticky kitchen floors. We are far from perfect. But we are finally normal.

the man he will one day become

I saw my little boy grow up a little last weekend. It seems as though right before my eyes he went from my baby to a grown up five year old.  We spent the weekend being very busy, shuttling the kids from one place to another, every moment planned out. Well, to be truthful, we spent most of the weekend shuttling the big five year old around while the tiny toddler came along for the ride. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around I truly was seeing a different boy when I looked at my oldest son.

This happens to mothers every so often. It has only happened to me once before, although I know it will again as my boys grow. I walked away from my then four year old last May to spend a month in Russia finalizing the adoption of his new little brother. I cannot put into words how my heart ached for my oldest son while I was away from him. I couldn't wait to hold him, to touch his hair, to feel his  little body in my lap. My body and mind were tired from the long trip home with the tiny toddler strapped to my hip. My steps had slowed and my sleep deprived brain was getting a little fuzzy. But when we finally landed in Columbus Ohio my strength was renewed and my steps were a little lighter as I walked off the plane and into the arms of my oldest son. I remember sitting on a bench, crying, holding my four year old, with the poor tiny toddler smashed between us. And then I really looked at my boy.

His hair was more course. His head was bigger. His body was sturdier. He had changed dramatically in those four weeks I had missed. And last weekend it happened again.

We are hoping that our big five year old is accepted into the private christian school to which we have applied. Last Saturday we had to rush him straight from China school, where he had already spent two hours completing Mandarin and Martial Arts classes, to an hour and a half of kindergarten testing. While we waited for the test to be completed we chased the tiny toddler around the school and attended a parent orientation meeting. As I sat in that classroom listening to one of the kindergarten teachers talk about the first few weeks of school and expectations, it hit me. My baby was going to be in kindergarten next year. In just three short months he will get on a school bus, by himself, and go to school. He will have to remember his backpack and lunch box. He will not be able to take one of the "baby animals" he carries in to preschool every day. He will be buying milk, for God's sake!

Sunday we rushed straight from church to my big five year old's first flag football game of the season. He played last Fall for the first time and loved it. Football is definitely my little man's game. 

my little football star!

Despite the lack of direction from the coach, my little football player let his talent shine through. He ran for 2 touchdowns and pulled 11 flags. He zigged and zagged and by the end of the game every parent on the sidelines was cheering for him. He was the standout MVP of the game. And I was so proud.

But what made my heart sing even more than the smile on his face when he ran the ball into the end zone was what I saw happening in between his turns to run the ball. My big five year old was doing more than scoring points for his team. He ran next to every other kid when it was their turn to run the ball. He attempted to block for them, even though the team had not yet been taught about blocking. He cheered them on, encouraging his new team mates to run that ball. He jumped up and down and clapped at the end of each play, touch down or not. He not only showed his amazing athletic skills but, perhaps more importantly, he showed his amazing compassion and sportsman like conduct. Watching my son run next to a team mate, cheering them on, brought tears to my eyes. He is growing up so fast.

Later, when I had a moment to sit still and really look at the photo I snapped before the game, (above), I was taken by how small my big five year old looks. Because out on that field I didn't see this little boy- I saw a glimpse of the man he will one day become.

a handful of poor parenting choices can lead to thousands of children with no chance of a forever family

It has been a few weeks since I have posted anything and there are so many topics I want to write about. I need to complete an update on our Positive Parenting adventures. I want to share an amazing new app I found for my iPhone that helps me organize my days and weeks- basically it takes my household control journal and puts it on my phone in a totally customizable way. This little app has changed my daily routine, made me even more useful and has helped to create a little more time for the fun stuff, like playing with my boys.  We are coming up on the tiny toddler's one year anniversary of joining our family and there is so much I want to share as I look back over this most amazing and challenging year. But all of that will have to wait. Because I have to talk about this:

aren't they just adorable?

These twins seem to be the latest in the bad adoption news coming out of Russia. These 15 month old babies were allegedly left on a freezing Russian Street by their American adoptive mother with a note stating she had given them up. Children are not to be discarded, people. Birth mothers may "give up" their children but they normally do so with a plan. It is important that you understand the difference. I am not bashing responsible birth mothers who are realistic enough to know they cannot parent their child and make a plan, out of love. I am eternally thankful to the two birth mothers I will never know who gave me the best gifts of my life, my boys.

Statistics are all over the place but I can say with some confidence that there are approximately 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages and foster homes. And that is just one country. There are children needing parents all over the world, including right here in America.  And there are families working their way through the adoption process as you read this, families for whom the adoption process may now be stalled or totally stopped altogether. Because of the actions of adoptive parents like the mother mentioned above these 700,000 children may never find their forever families.

As someone who has made this adoption journey I can tell you that the blame lies in a variety of places. Maybe the adoption agency didn't thoroughly explain the issues often related with bringing an institutionalized child into your home. Maybe the required pre adoption parenting classes didn't cover bonding and behavior management as well as they should have. Maybe the orphanage wasn't able to create an atmosphere in which children learn what it's like to feel love. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a child so badly that they chose to ignore the warnings of what all can go wrong. One thing is obvious- these parents, and others, like Torry Hansen, were not prepared.  And they were not invested in becoming the kind of parent a child needs in order to be prepared for life.

I can say this because it happened to me. I wasn't 100% prepared for my tiny toddler. I had his room ready and the baby toys had been brought up from the basement, washed, and added to the toy box. The tiny clothes had been put into the drawers in the baby's new room and his older brother had been prepared for the new addition to the family. I had taken the classes and my adoption agency had been very clear about the issues we may face. I had read the books and, maybe most importantly, I had done this once before. I knew how to parent, I knew how to bond, I was confident in my abilities to mother my new son. But in hind sight, I was not 100% prepared.

Our second adoption journey was very different from our first one. The paperwork was different. The hoops we had to jump through were a little higher. The trips were a little more difficult and the things we saw were a little harder to see. And I was just as naive as I was the first time around. I expected that if I followed the rules about bonding and just loved this child, the outcome would be just as amazing as it was the first time, with our oldest son. And I was wrong.

Maybe it was post adoption depression, which I firmly believe I was experiencing for months after returning home. Maybe it was the fact that the tiny toddler was 9 months older than his brother was when he came home. It may not sound like a long time but the difference between a 15 month old baby and a 24 month old toddler can be astounding. Maybe it was the lifestyle differences; the tiny toddler had more ability to roam around his little hallway at the orphanage and had experienced the need to fight for food and toys and love. The big five year old had been taught from birth to sit quietly in his crib and wait for the busy nanny to hand him a bottle or carry him to the bath. It is quite possible that he rarely played with toys or spent time with the other babies in a social setting. One learned to cling to love when it was offered and one learned to fight and push it away.

So I was caught off guard, initially, when we opened our front door off that plane from Russia and walked into what felt like someone else's life.  But I had been prepared, at least a little. I had the knowledge to solve the problem and I had the resources to help me. I, like 90% of adoptive parents, did what had to be done. I got a handle on the situation. I worked with my husband. I learned to walk away when the frustration got to be too much. I learned to take deep breaths while holding the refrigerator door closed when the little guy wanted to dump it's contents on the floor. I learned to duck from his swinging arms and to hold him so he could see my eyes but couldn't hit me. I had never done those things before. Teaching a toddler to trust and love when he had been burned every time he gave that trust away before was the hardest thing I have ever done. And there are days that I feel I'm not done yet. But through all of it, I never once thought that I made a mistake. I never once thought of not parenting this child. I am his mother. Period. I shed a lot of tears, but through it all, I loved him.

And I am nothing special. I am no different from nearly every other adoptive mother out there. We all understand that there is no difference between biological children and adoptive ones. We know that you get what you get. We know that behavior and health issues could pop up at any time and just because we adopted our child doesn't mean we have any less responsibility.

We fight for our right to parent our children like every other mother. We get upset when we are referred to as "adoptive parents" or when we are asked if our children are "real".  We stand up for our rights when the hospital wants us to show the court paperwork that proves our child is ours. We point out that biological parents don't have to prove these things. We cringe when our children are introduced by their adoption status or birth country. "This is Matthew, he's from China." ugg. You never hear, "This is little Johnny, he was born in Akron, Ohio at Akron General Hospital." Yes, we have a lot to fight for, where our kids are concerned. And we do it gladly, because we love our kids. But we can't have it both ways. We can't fight for equality if we don't perceive our children as truly "ours". And it is obvious that the adoptive parents who make the news, the ones who hurt their kids or try to "give them back" do not feel the same way.

Help is out there. There are books and doctors and social workers and other mommies who have been there. There is somewhere to turn. There is never a reason to do anything to hurt your kids. And make no mistake, no matter how they came into your life, they are your kids. As my big five year old often says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Well said, little man.

I am nearly 42. it's time I grew up.

Tomorrow is my 42nd birthday. Wow. And, might I add, OH MY GOD. How the heck did I get here? Certainly not a straight and unbroken road. No, I took a cracked path, filled with treacherous loose stones and occasional tall grass hiding land mines. But my path was also covered with beautiful flowers and lots of sunshine. And when the rains did pour down I always had an umbrella handy in the form of dear friends and, eventually, my amazing husband. And I know that my journey is not over yet. I have to admit it, I have, possibly, reached middle age. Hold on while I wipe away a tear...

I can only remember a few birthdays in the past that have bothered me. My 30th was not nearly as traumatic as society led me to believe it would be, most likely because I had just started dating my future husband and was totally enveloped in that hazy first few months of love phase. 35 arrived as we were trying to conceive a child, and so it sort of came and went. And to be honest, I can't really remember my 40th birthday. Not in a drank and danced all night kind of way, sadly. But here I am, turning 42.

A year ago at this time we had just returned from Russia, where we had met, fallen in love with, and then had to leave behind our new son. All I remember about last year's birthday is, well, nothing. My mind and heart were too full of  that tiny 22 month old with the brown eyes and monkey walk.

This has been one of the best years of my life, and one of the most challenging. My mother passed away 2 days before our adoption agency called us with the possible referral of our little man. The next month we traveled to meet him, and then we came home and raced through the paperwork and before I knew it I was back on a plane, leaving my older son again, this time for a month. The memories and feelings of that month away from him will always be with me. Every moment away from my boy has been burned into my brain; it was truly the longest month of my life. While I celebrated the addition to our family and began the process of bonding with another son I mourned the moments lost with the boy I left at home.

And then my tiny toddler and I arrived back in the states. Both of us tired, wrinkled and basically a mess, me walking slowly from wearing the baby for three straight days. But we were home, and I was sitting on a bench, still wearing the baby but now also wearing the 4 year old who had climbed into my lap and thrown his arms around my neck so tight I could barely breath. And it was heaven.

Yes, this past year has been a challenging one. Folding the tiny toddler into our family has not been easy, and came with it's share of both laughter and tears. I may just have cried more this past year than the rest of my life combined.

Now we are settling in, and I am catching my breath. We still have our tiny toddler moments but the good outshines the bad. And, true to life, now that we have righted the ship, so to speak, my husband has lost his job. We thought it was coming, we planned for it, as best we could. And now all of our plans for summer fun and home redecoration and backyard play sets are on hold. But it's all good. I am used to life being on hold. Anyone who has lived through fertility treatments and international adoption knows how to wait.

I have really been focused on the waiting these past few days. I have been angry at the situation. I have been feeling like maybe it was time for someone to take care of me, for a change. I have been working since I was 15 years old. I put myself through college. When I received my lay off notice a few jobs back I went out and found a new job before the current one even ended. The only time I have not worked is when I quit my job for my youngest son, because he needed me more than all those assisted living communities did. But we all know that staying home with him was the hardest job I have ever had! Now I am back at work at a job that allows me the flexibility to care for my family the way I know they need. I do what every mother does. I work outside the home, and I work inside the home. Our work  is never done, is it? So I was angry. But not anymore.

I have no reason to be angry. We may be waiting for monetary gain but we have so much right now. Our little United Nations wing upstairs, with a tiny brown haired toddler sleeping in his crib, his bum up in the air and a preschooler with jet black hair sleeping backwards in his big boy bed, surrounded by no less than 10 stuffed baby animals and one large Cleveland Browns pillow pet. Our front porch where my husband and I often sit at night, a baby monitor and two beer bottles on the table between our chairs. Our back yard where we play endless games of football with the big five year old while the tiny toddler wanders around trying to tackle us and where we sit by the fire late into the night. The kitchen with the wall paper I picked out where I love to cook for my family. The bedroom furniture my husband picked out all by himself and was so excited when he came home to tell me he had found exactly what we were looking for. I didn't believe him, of course, but he was right. Nine years later and I still smile when I walk into the bedroom. I have everything I need.

This is my 42nd year. This is the year my family will learn to live without me a little, so I can find more ways to be true to myself. Maybe this is the year I finally take those golf lessons, or move my yoga from the living room to an actual public studio. Maybe this is the year I dust off my french horn and go back to the community band or maybe this is the year I walk a thousand miles. This is the year I will sit on the sidelines and watch my big five year old play flag football. This is the year I will carry my tiny toddler into the shallow end of the pool for mommy and baby swim class. This is the year I will begin to date my husband again. This is the year I will no longer be angry at all the waiting. After all, I am nearly 42. It's time I grew up. This is going to be a great year!

my two hearts

I love Pinterest! I know that everybody uses this bulletin board site differently - some use it as a dream board of sorts, some as an electronic list. I use it as a little of both. I am currently capturing ideas for our upcoming master bedroom redecoration, which is a mix of dream and reality. I also use it to store recipes, all of which I will eventually try. I use it to keep lists of books I want to read, adoption related books and items I might wish to purchase, and fun holiday themed treats and crafts for the kids. As a person who loves lists and all things organization, this website seems to have been made for me.

So I saw this on Pinterest a few months ago:

I think this is just beautiful. It shows a couples'  timeline- where they met, where they married, where they live, and love, now. I thought this could be changed up to reflect the birth countries of my boys. I chose a dark wood frame to match the decor in the dining room, which is where I decided to hang this craft project. Our dining room walls are covered with black and white photos of the boys, along with a hand painted picture of a panda that my young niece painted for my big five year old when he first came home from China. Eventually there will also be a picture or two representing Russia. And now there is this:

It still needs some work. I may replace the background paper and add a title- maybe "family" or "love". But it looks great on my dining room wall and the boys love it. The heart on the left shows Vladivostok Russia and the right reflects the  Guangdong Province of  China. Below I have written the Russian and Chinese names of my boys. I think it is beautiful!

my new adoption jewelry wish list

I have a beautiful set of pearls I brought home from China that I only wear on very special occasions. My Big Smart Five Year Old knows these pearls came from China and so every time I wear them he is so very proud. I also have a beautiful silver filigree ball shaped locket that I picked up in China - this I wear often. I used to wear it all the time, until I traveled to Russia. While there I found a lovely yellow and green pendant, so now I have two necklaces to choose from, and two boys who want me to wear "their" necklace all the time. Seriously, they both LOVE my jewelry box so much that I had to move it to the top of the high dresser just so they would leave it alone. And when they see me wearing one of my birth country necklaces they get very excited. Or a little belligerent, depending on which country I am currently supporting. It's sometimes a contest of which country is best around here, and I imagine that it will only get worse before it gets better - when the tiny toddler is old enough to understand exactly what his older brother is talking about then I fear I will be spending a lot of days sporting both necklaces.

To make the competition that much more fun I found these:

Aren't these just the coolest pendants? I can see so many uses... many of my adoptive friends have children from the same country or province- one necklace does the job. Or like in my case- I could easily wear two pendant on one chain, which would be kind of cool. And the possibilities are endless. I see these as adoption jewelry but so many important life events happen around the world- maybe you could celebrate a special trip, where you got married, where your ancestors are from. Really, I just think these necklaces are very cool. I found these on Etsy - go here. At under $11.00 per pendant this is what I am asking my boys to give me for my birthday.

I just wasn't looking hard enough- thank you to my adoptive mommy friends

Sometimes when we look at our beautiful children we don't see their angelic faces, but instead see only their behavior. We might see their struggles with learning, or their inability to love us the way we think they should. We might see the little boy who constantly hits his brother, or the young girl who won't stop pulling the dog's tail. We might see endless cups of spilled milk, toy chests dumped on the floor, books with pages torn out. I think this is normal. And if it is not, no one tell me. I don't want to know yet another way I am not the typical mom.

If you have been reading my ramblings for a while now then you know that the past nine months with our youngest son have been a tad difficult. Actually, the last two months have been pretty good. But the seven months before that? Hardest of my life. The bonding came easily. I had a new little shadow following me around everywhere I went before we left Russia. A few months in to our new routine at home as a family of four I was receiving lots of hugs and "kiss kiss". (sickly sweet, I know, but I say "kiss kiss' and my tiny toddler gives me the sweetest little kiss on my cheek.) But the trust and security came more slowly. The "unlearning" of the fight or flight behaviors came very slowly. And as an adoptive mother I often felt like there was nowhere to turn for comfort. My friends with biological children just have no idea the impact of twenty-four months of institutional living. These women friends are loving and intelligent and awesome mothers, but their advice is often not usable on a newly adopted child. Typical behavior modification techniques are not always the appropriate answer to the questions of self preservation behavior. And the world at large is so sweet in their collective response to the new addition to the family that an adoptive mother often feels as though she has no right to be sad, or tired, or frustrated.

Our world slowed down and started to right itself two months ago. Oh, there are occasional glimpses of that angry little boy, but more and more we see his sweet and funny disposition starting to peek out. Time, and love, and patience, makes the days easier and easier, but the memories are slower to fade. There are still times when I look at my tiny toddler and see the anger. I see the food purposely thrown on the floor and the diaper purposely removed. I see the crib sheets torn off and the toys that were thrown at me, at my husband, at the big four and a half year old. I see the tiny tornado who could single handedly tear apart a room. I see the screaming, the hitting, the constant angry outbursts. My tiny toddler can be sitting on the living room floor playing quietly with his blocks and sometimes I still see the "before picture".

But others, those people on the outside of our craziness, they see something different. And the other day I saw my tiny toddler through their innocent eyes. And it was beautiful.

The whole family went to the firefly play cafe for the big four and a half year old's China play group. Both of my boys had a great time running around, climbing, bouncing, sliding, riding toy cars and playing dress up. The tiny toddler only had a few tiny outbursts that prompted him to clear the magazines and children's books off a low table. I was calm and totally enjoying playing with my boys. A part of me was still on "alert" though, keeping a close and watchful eye on my young son in case of an unexpected tantrum. Every so often he would come and find me and lift his arms high while saying "up, momma", and I would pick him up and settle him on my hip, where he would pop his thumb into his mouth and stroke my hair with his other hand. And my adoptive mommy friends all said the same things to me. "He is really such a sweet boy." "He is so beautiful!". "Look at his smile- so precious." "He really  loves his mommy, doesn't he?"

And I suddenly saw my tiny toddler through their eyes. The filter of behavior issues, messes, tantrums, and chaos was lifted. With true clarity I could see the genuine smile of my son. I could relax as I held him and enjoy our closeness without tensing up in case he started swinging. I saw his deep brown eyes full of love instead of anger. And they have probably been that way for a while now. I just wasn't looking hard enough. Once again, seeing my life through someone else's eyes brought everything into focus. Once again I am grateful to my adoptive mommy friends, for reminding me to see my baby, not my baby's behavior.

baby stepping to my new year's resolutions

Today is January 4th and I am finally ready to settle on my new year's resolutions. I used to never make resolutions because really, who keeps them? Then I started making them and, yes, not keeping them. Then I started making really teensy tiny easy to handle resolutions, like spend more time with my husband, get more sleep... And I kept them! What? Is this a turning point for me? Then I came across something I couldn't live without ~ a family, and I resolved to find a way. It wasn't January 1st, but the day I made the decision to not give up on having children was the day I learned something about myself. If I want something bad enough, I mean really want it, then I will find a way. Because I am way crazier  stronger than I ever thought I was. And ever since that day I have continued to make resolutions. Some at the new year, others not. I am always careful about what I choose to work on, so to speak. I want to be challenged, yes. I want to make my life or my family's lives better, definitely. But I am also a wimp  human and I don't want to fail. So I choose wisely. Which takes time. Which brings me back to why I am just now getting around to making my small handful of resolutions today, on the fourth day of the new year.

• let go of the schedule and the organized chaos of  my life every so often and just have fun. I do this already, but not enough. need more fun!
• continue to sing, every day. show tunes, kids songs, weird al- whatever! from country to contemporary christian there are more songs out there to be sung!
• perfect my kitchen dancing. and, naturally, do it with my boys.
• bake more muffins and tiny cakes. now that I have finally used my new kitchen aid mixer there is no going back!
• find user friendly, easy to make, inexpensive green alternatives to my skin care routine.
• find little ways to be more healthy. walk more. eat less. or eat more of the right stuff. maybe drink less coffee. maybe. not sure I can commit to that one just yet.
• get back into life- spend more time with friends and more alone time with my husband.

Now these may seem like silly, easily attainable goals. They may not seem like resolutions at all. But to me they are baby steps in the direction I want my life to take this year. I feel as though last year was all adoption, Russia, bonding, behavior modification and just plain lost time. Don't get me wrong. It was also joyous, fun, and miraculous. But I spent a lot of last year feeling like I was under water- I could see all of the people around me, my friends, family, even strangers just living their lives while I bobbed up and down, often sinking below the surface before being pulled back up with a kiss from my new two year old. So while this year's resolutions might seem insignificant, they are huge to me.

So at the end of this year I will have better skin, and more money in my back account from all the money I will save on skin care products. I will be a little healthier, and happy from all the spontaneity with my boys. I may finish the year with slightly less of a coffee addiction. I will know the words to way more songs. I will have reconnected with friends and with my husband, and I will have an arsenal of yummy muffin recipes. Sounds like a win win for me! What's your resolution?

I love you in three languages

Father Frost- the Russian Santa

My tiny toddler just celebrated the most wonderful Christmas! He seemed to love everything about the holiday, once he got over his totally understandable fear of Santa. They call him Father Frost in Russia and I have no idea if my little guy had even seen him during his 24 months in his birth country.

He squealed over Christmas cookies shaped liked trees and candy canes. He giggled and clapped at stuffed puppies with heads that moved and voices that barked Jingle Bells. He tore into wrapping paper and cheered when he saw the gifts inside. He pointed and yelled from his car seat at the houses blazing with holiday lights as we drove around town. He pulled on Santa's beard and yelled "BUS!" at the top of his lungs whenever he was asked what he wanted Santa to bring him.

Just seven months ago his world was gray. One hallway. Peeling paint, old toys, caregivers coming and going. Did he even know it was Christmas last year? Did he eat the same thin mashed potato and vegetable stock puree for dinner? Did he play with the same toys he had to share with all of the other children? Did he hear Christmas music? Did a loving caregiver sing to him as she quickly settled him in his crib? I will never know. But I do know what he experienced this year.

He sang "la la la" to the Christmas music on the car radio. He didn't know the words but he knew his older brother was singing his little heart out to "Frosty the Snowman" and he la la'd right along. He didn't wear the same clothes he saw on another child the day before. He had his own Christmas sweater and footy pajamas. He was given gifts with his name on them, selected just for him. He sat in Santa's lap. He asked for a special toy, and he got it.  I am pretty sure that my little guy had a truly wonderful Christmas.

But I can also say that I am pretty sure that I had an even better Christmas than he did. Watching my big four and a half year old lead his new little brother through the holiday maze of presents, cookies, day care parties and dress up sweater vests made my heart sing. Hearing the glee in my youngest son's giggles, watching his face light up, seeing him play with his cousins- I spent the entire Holiday season smiling through happy tears.

Last year he had a tiny crib squeezed in between other tiny cribs. He wore clothes from the scuffed shared dresser in the tiny bedroom with the concrete walls. He did not sit on Santa's lap or see the tall decorated tree in the center of town.

Central Square- Vladivostok

This year he has cousins! Warm clothes! Enough food! A big brother! A pet cat! A Home! A bedroom all to himself! And a mommy and daddy.

And I have the family I always dreamed of but never imagined.

My happy family spent the day after Christmas at my sister's home. Our aunt and uncle joined us, meeting my tiny toddler for the first time. As my boys opened gifts and played with my sister's dogs my older aunt and uncle asked me many questions about our trip to Russia and my youngest son's rocky start to life. I shared with them lots of details about the trip and the city of Vladivostok. I shared fewer details of the baby hospital and none of the tidbits of information I know about my son's birth family. Those nuggets of truth belong to my son. It is his story to tell, not mine, and at the very least I owe it to him to tell him the little I know before telling anyone else. I realized, as I sat at my sister's kitchen table retelling the story of our trips to Russia, of meeting my son for the first time, of getting to know him in a small room at a motor inn- I realized that it's not new anymore. I don't look at my son and see the long nights alone in a hotel room with a screaming baby. I don't kiss his head and see him holding his winter hat out to me, demanding to go outside even though rain was sluicing down the hotel room windows. I don't wear him in the hip carrier and instinctively place my hand between my chest and his face in order to prevent him from biting me.  I don't seem to be carrying the battle scars of our bumpy journey any longer. I found that I didn't want to recount my story to my aunt and uncle, even though this was the first time I had seen them since returning home with my new son. Instead I wanted to share my son's triumphs. How his words are coming every day. How he never stops asking "dat?" and seems to want to know what everything is and how it works. How he already has a favorite musician, (Laurie Berkner), and a favorite toy, (buses). How he no longer needs to carry a cup of cereal around with him- I think he is finally full! How he says his favorite color is blue and how he loves to sing and is starting to carry the tune of whatever song he is listening to. How he knows when it is his turn to pick the TV show and always, always picks Blues Clues. How he lovingly pretends to feed his stuffed animals before putting them sweetly to bed, yelling "nite nite!" at them. How he calls his brother "Dao", his attempt at his older brother's middle name, Zhao. How he runs to the door every night when Daddy comes home from work, jumping up and down and hugging his legs.

And how his face lit up over and over again this Christmas as he experienced the sights, sounds, and tastes of the holidays. Ask me about that. Ask me about how I felt as I sat in my mother in law's living room watching my older son share his new racetrack toy with his baby brother. Watching him gently take the little car from his younger brother and teach him how to race it down the track. Ask me how I felt as I snuck away from my in laws home to take in a movie with my husband, leaving my sleeping boys in their grandparents' capable hands. I had to split my life open for all the world to see, I had to
sign my name a thousand times, I had to travel around the world, twice. I had to shed thousands of tears, both out of frustration and happiness. I had to witness poverty and lonliness. I had to learn to make congee and sweet fruit tea. I have worn babies through China, Hong Kong, Russia, South Korea, Japan and America. All to get to this moment, when I tucked in my two sleepy but excited boys and reminded them that Santa would be coming that night.

One last thing I had to learn. How to say "I Love you" in three languages.

I love you in Russian

Best. Christmas. Ever.

I am 62% ready for Christmas

If you have known me for more than a minute you know I am a planner. Which might be putting it mildly. Before I went back to work I dragged out the scrap booking supplies I never use since I went digital and made my annual Christmas planner. And then promptly, because history is destined to repeat itself, I lost it. Or, more specifically, I believe my tiny toddler lost it for me. For those of you who are keeping score we brought our tiny toddler home from Russia the last week of May. Since then we have lost:

complete set of car keys
my favorite flip flops
every baby spoon we own
countless matchbox cars
the cap to nearly every pen in my office
my stapler
a framed photo of our family, pre tiny toddler
my kindle (I don't think I can blame this on him but I am not 100% sure.)
my Christmas planner

I am sure the list is much longer than my memory allows for. So, no Christmas planner.

But have no fear. My return to the work world three weeks ago coincided with the death of our laptop. My need for the ability to work more quickly than if I was hammering out my thoughts on a stone tablet prompted me to be at Best Buy as their doors opened, armed with research information and ready to buy. My husband often says that the sales associates who get to handle our bigger purchases are quite lucky- we walk in knowing exactly what we want and the only work they really have to do is ring it up and collect their commission. Which, before anyone tells me, yes, I know, Best Buy does not pay commission. I know because, somehow, the sales associates work this into nearly every conversation.

So I bought a new computer. And I love it. And now that I am back online with more power I can have my Franklin Covey Plan Plus software back. Oh how I have missed you. Sorry, I need a minute...

I moved from my tried and true paper planner to the software version a few years back. Then my career took me into a position where I was never home and frequently traveling to assisted living communities with no wifi forced me back into my paper planner again. Then I quit my job and stayed home with my boys and put the planner away in a drawer. And totally fell apart. See above list of lost and/or stolen items for proof of my total disorganization.

But now I am back at work, in my home office, with no overnight travel and no need to drag my laptop everywhere I go. I start my day in my office, and I have my planning & solitude time back. So I visited my favorite Franklin Covey website looking for the planning software and found something even better; an online planning system. Just like my paper planner, but better. It looks like my planner. It feels like my planner. I can print out specific days if I need to take it with me. But I can keep way more notes. I can keep better information on my contacts. (That's you, people.) I can easily create time lines for projects. Oh. My. God. I am in love all over again.

I don't even miss my Christmas planner anymore. Which means it will turn up any day now. I have entered my entire holiday season into the project section and can track my progress to assure I don't miss a thing. I can even upload photos and websites to the notes section. And you will be happy to know that Project Christmas 2011 is right on track. According to my software, I am 62% ready for the big day and by the end of the week I am projected to be 80% there. I know. I am such a geek.

no longer a tiny angry visitor in my home

Dear baby boy,
I am so proud of you. You have come so far in six short months. I remember watching you hide in that doorway at Baby House #3, waiting for your baby friends to toddle down the hallway after lunch so you could jump out at them. I remember you laughing as you waited there. I remember thinking that day that you had a fun little personality. But then I didn't see that side of you for a very long time. But I knew it was in there and I knew we could get it back. And we did. I am so proud of you.

I remember the first time they let us feed you lunch. The other little ones had been shuttled off to the tiny little room where you ate all of your meals but you were kept behind, in my arms. I remember your screams and tears as you saw everyone else head to their lunch of thin mashed potatoes, crumbled hamburger, and a lone slice of bread, in chicken stock. You were beside yourself with anguish thinking that you were going to miss that meal. It was heartbreaking. When they finally brought your lunch to us we couldn't get it in you fast enough! And now you have gone through all the stages of eating, from demanding I drag every item out of the fridge for your review to insisting on carrying a bowl of cereal with you everywhere you went. Sometimes it would break my heart, watching your need for constant food close by. But you finally learned, my sweet boy. The food will always be there for you. Those days of constant hunger are over. Now sometimes I have to physically drag you away from your playthings and deliver you to the table to eat your meals. And I love it.

Those loud piercing screams of anger you developed in Russia and then perfected here at home are shattering our peacefulness less and less. They have been replaced with more singing, more "la la's" and lots of baby babble. It has been  weeks since I've had to carry you on my hip, screaming and swinging at me, to the freezer to get ice for whatever injury you just caused me. And it has been even longer since you have bopped your older brother over the head with a heavy toy. Month after month, day after day of you throwing every toy and book and destroying the living room or your bedroom because you were angry seem to be over too. Now you are learning to calm yourself down before you go over the edge, and I am right there with you, holding your hand.

I remember those days in Russia when it was just you and me. I couldn't even take a shower without you holding my finger through the shower curtain. Now you wander around upstairs, playing in your brother's room or reading books in my bed while I am getting dressed in the morning. I couldn't walk to the other side of the room without a constant stream of  conversation to assure you I was not leaving the room without you. Now I can sneak away for a few minutes at a time while you play.  I remember you crying each time we got in the van to go to the baby store or to buy food. Maybe thinking we were taking you back to the Baby House, I don't know. Now you clap and cheer when I tell you to get your coat so we can get in the car.

You have come so far. We have come so far. And oh my god, it was hard. Nothing about you has been easy, little one, but we made it. I welcome the normal toddler craziness I see now. Don't want to pick up your blocks? At least now you just say "no" and walk away, instead of throwing them at me. Don't want to have your diaper changed? Now you may roll around on your changing table but at least you're not swinging at me with both your arms and legs. Mad that you can't have that snack you just stole from the pantry because we will be eating shortly? Fine. At least you didn't sweep every magnet and crayon picture off the refrigerator while you screamed.

But I think the worst is over, little man. It was somewhat like living with a monkey in the house. Never knowing what was coming, sweet boy or prize fighter. And some might say that it couldn't have been as bad as having a primate around, what with the way they smear their poop and throw food everywhere. But you, me, and my Clorox Wipes know better. My little monkey. My little boy.

You are learning to share. You are picking up the language so quickly. You let me hold you close now when you are angry, instead of pushing me away. You tell me you love me in your very own version of American Sign Language. You show love to your baby animals, your stuffed frog and puppies, and you take care of them, pretending to feed them and put them to bed. You play tricks on Mommy and Daddy and you light up whenever your older brother enters the room. Sometimes you giggle so hard that you instinctively cover your mouth with your hands, and it is so damn cute.

I don't have to drag myself out of bed to start my day now. I have loved you from the first minute I saw you, standing there in the hallway of Baby House #3.  I have loved you through every scream, every punch. Through every piece of food purposely thrown on the floor and every diaper purposely painted onto the wall next to your crib. I have loved you through no eye contact and even worse, through that look of anger in your eyes, directed right at me. I have always loved you. And we made it through. You are no longer like a tiny angry visitor in my home. You are at home, finally.

again I am a winner

Last night we had our first post placement visit for our new little guy. I cannot believe that it has been five months since he joined our family and four months since we have been home from Russia! Some days it seems like we have been home forever and other times it feels as though I just stepped off that plane with my life changing youngest son sitting in his hip carrier, with his thumb in his mouth and his hand absentmindedly rubbing my hair. So this post placement appointment kind of caught me by surprise. On the one hand, how have we been home long enough to already be needing to do this? And on the other hand, we're just a typical family, so being reminded that we are being "watched", so to speak, was a tad startling.

I love my children and the family we have created. I firmly believe that these are not only my children; they are also the children I am meant to have. My boys are God given. So I don't usually think about the whole fertility thing, not anymore. I don't mourn the first months/years of my boys' lives that I missed. I am happy and content, yes. But that doesn't mean that I don't sometimes feel frustration over the hoops we adoptive parents must jump through. Before the child comes home there's the personal questions, the walk through of the home, the fire marshall. (for some reason the fire marshall visit really annoyed me this second time around and I am having a hard time letting it go...) After the child comes home there are more personal questions, this time centered around the parenting skills of the adoptive parents. Every so often it all just gets under my skin. After all, parents bring their biologically born babies home from the hospital every day in car seats not properly installed, to houses full of second hand smoke - you get the point.

So these past few days I have been mildly annoyed at constantly being singled out. But then the other day a friend of mine, a mother from my oldest son's china friends playgroup, posted a poem, of sorts, on facebook.

I love Sark.  Her book, Glad No Matter What, really spoke to me. And my friend's post really spoke to me as well, for two reasons. The first reason is my tiny toddler is a handful. He is sweet and loving and has a playful sense of humor beginning to peep through the chaos. But he is also short tempered, easily frustrated, and, occasionally, uses brute force to get his way. Parenting him these past months has not been easy. It has gotten so much easier and will continue to do so, but the journey has been a tough one. This quote reminded me to stop yelling, so to speak, and just love.

But perhaps even more important is the second reason. The person who posted this is more than just another mom from my son's play group. She is a friend. As are so many of the other mom's now. They are friends, confidants, giver's of great advice. They understand adoption guilt. They have their own battlefield stories. They have quietly become a huge and very important part of my life. And without the adoption journeys, with all their injustices, their personal questions, without the fire marshall, (oh my god, the fire marshall!), I would not know them. So again I am a winner. I won the biggest prize of all with my two beautiful boys, and the prizes keep coming.

When I remember all that I have gained- my family, this amazing community of mothers, a multicultural life- I know that I am truly blessed. And I am no longer annoyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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