Story Sharers

Five years ago, I stood in a room and I could not stop crying.  

I’d just watched a slide show set to appropriately inspirational music of families and they were ALL like mine.  The faces were, of course, different, but the familiarity of their mismatched eyes and multi-skin tones and long-awaited (or still waiting) smiles resonated to a point that I could not pull myself together. 

When I entered adoptive parenting I figured that with baby in tow, I would slip into an immediate connection with my other mom friends that just sort of reflected a “took me much longer and it was painful and hard, but now we’re on level playing fields so carry on as usual” kind of attitude.  And I did connect in a lot of ways.  Except that my narrative to motherhood never quite meshed.  When other moms shared their labor stories or their pregnancy woes or their frustrations with breastfeeding, I listened because let’s be honest…these can make for some really interesting stories.  But somehow these stories also made me feel like a little bit less of a mom.  I didn’t birth my children.  I didn’t feel them swim around in my belly and kick me in my sleep.    I don’t know how to explain it really except that I only felt like a 95% mom and those around me were 100% moms.

So that room, where I couldn’t stop crying is where I realized that I needed someone else’s story to be like mine.  That may not sound that significant, but for this self-sufficient introvert it felt like a slow exhale released after being held in for a long time.  In that room, I was “one of” instead of “the only one.”  It felt like belonging.

I knew that when my heart ached for children without families, these lady’s hearts were moved by the same ache.  I knew that when I prayed and waited for a fridge picture to turn into a toddling daughter in my kitchen, these ladies didn’t need me to explain the connection I felt to a photo.  I knew that when I struggled with the emptiness my birthmoms lived with, these women also carried their birth families around in their minds with a heaviness, too.    When I got on an airplane feeling a little bit TERRIFIED, they could relate to the second-guessing excitement and happy nerves.   When I talk about my kids living through trauma, loss and rejection, they know how that shows up and what it sounds like and looks like.

I connected in that room.  These were my people.  I fit there.  I was 100% legit.  And that all bubbled up just from the slide show.  So might you imagine where my heart went from there as we shared meals, laughed late into the night, prayed and listened  and worshiped in tandem, and filled up our minds listening and thinking, “Oh…so that!”.

Since they’ve come into my life, my adoptive mom friends have become life-giving friends.  We close down restaurants together or we can hang out at a pool without having to explain why there’s a swim cap protecting an afro.  We plan big things together.  We can talk fungal infections like it’s nobody’s business.  When their eyes prick with tears, I can feel mine getting a little watery.  When I share hurtful things people have said, they’re willing to beat them up or just be hurt with me.  

Maybe now is also a good time to say that these women are clearly not my only people.  My mom brings sanity to our family with her constant helpfulness and childcare assistance.  My dad can write an encouraging word at just the right time.  My siblings love on my kids and have prayed earnestly on behalf of our family.  Our church peeps encouraged us, welcomed us and celebrated us.  My relationships with non-adoptive moms are equally important and needed.  My village is multi-faceted and full of important players.  They, too, are who I want to do life with and connect with.  Hugs all around!  Air kisses for everyone!

I just didn’t know how much I also needed my story sharers.  I could go about my days without them, but I’d just as well enjoy their company for years to come as our kids get older and the need for connection continues and maybe even grows.   Adolescence is coming for crying out loud.

But there’s this other side of connecting, too, in that I am a story sharer for someone else.   That’s what I want to be because deep down, we all want to feel validated and like we aren’t the only one.  That’s why I write slightly personal things.   That’s why I share about our family when I’d rather not be standing in front of a crowd forgetting normal breathing patterns.  (That has maybe happened.)  And that’s why I’m stepping out into unknowns and laying in bed, wide-eyed in the wee hours of the morning as I think about a little get together for my groupies.  I’m praying that God will stir some (<- 200+) hearts into thinking:

Maybe this will be good.  

Maybe I need this.  

Maybe I will be understood.

Maybe I will belong.

Maybe I just need some time to exhale this big breath I’ve been sucking in forever now. 

Maybe I need some story sharers in my life.


For more information on our upcoming adoptive mom retreat, please visit www.wovenbylove.org.

Dear Almost Mom,

I’ve gotten to talk to a few almost moms over the years.  They’re the ones waiting for their first baby to make his or her entrance into the world.  They’re the ones who walk on eggshells as they await a birthmom following through with a difficult decision.  They’re the ones who will soon make their way to the hospital.  My mind has been reliving this time and rethinking it like I’m watching a movie of my own experiences.  Those first-time, soon-to-be, adoptive mamas are on my radar.  I know you’re out there and that we’re few and far between.  You’re soon going to meet your first baby. 
 

And she or he is coming into the world while you watch.  

While someone else goes through labor pains, you will pace a room in anticipation.  You will let your hope rise just high enough to protect your soul in the event that there’s a change in plans.  You start to think of the future, but also try to silence that question that rises up over and over, “What if she changes her mind?”.  You have an empty room at home outfitted for a newborn.  Diapers are in the drawers.  Clothes are hanging in the closets.  Formula is in the cupboard.  And you still don’t even know if you’ll come home with this baby.  

This mama…you, first-timers, are on my mind.

I wish someone had prepared me for that time when I stepped foot out the door, buckled into the car, and drove the seemingly endless drive to the hospital.  I wish I had heard the wisdom of someone who had gone through that experience.  Instead I felt confident in the run-down of procedure from a social worker.  I was prepared for the schedule of events.  I wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of the uncomfortable emotional reality that for the first few days, I was going to be somewhat of a bystander in the arrival of my child.  

That is a hard spot.  

This is the letter I wish someone had written me. 

Dear Almost Mom,

Can you believe you are here?  THIS DAY.  The one you thought might never happen.  The one where all the past, the pain, the struggle would blur with anticipation at an ACUTAL, REAL, IN-THE-FLESH child on the way?  The one where a phone call telling you that you had been chosen turned into you stepping into the car and heading to the hospital?  It is here!  Your baby is on the way!  She is coming today!  It is happening and I am so excited, joy-filled, overflowingly happy for you.   I know what you’ve gone through to get here.  I know how the nerves are on overdrive, the heart is bursting, the hands are shaking, the adrenaline is pumping and the thoughts are racing. 

Did you make your phone calls?  “Mom, we’re on our way to the hospital.  She’s in labor.  I don’t know the details.  I’ll call you when I know more.”

Did you walk to the kitchen four times trying to remember that you were looking for your keys?

Did you grab the gear?  The camera?  The gifts?  Your shoes?

Did you get in the car, look at your husband and lock eyes?  The look that says more than words can articulate.  You’ve been on this journey with him and it has taken you to places you didn’t know you could weather.  And now you’re here…together.

Did you drive out of the driveway wondering how your neighbor could be mowing at a time like this?   

Did you pass familiar sites thinking they all looked differently?  Did time move too slowly and too quickly all at the same time?

Did you try and act calm as you were on your way?  Did you take deep, deep breaths and let them out trying to settle yourself?  Did you look in the mirror and wonder if you should put on lipstick for this sort of thing?

What I want you to know is that when you get there, when you get to the hospital, it’s going to be hard.  It’s going to be an uncomfortable and awkward kind of special.  This is a part of your labor experience even though someone else is going through the physical pain.  And more importantly…this is going to be a shared experience.  Sometimes you will get a taste of motherhood and other times you will watch someone else look down at her baby with affectionate eyes.  For a day or two or three, you will both be moms….in the same space, in the same room, to the same child.

Can I tell you about my time in those moments?  

I didn’t know where to sit.  In the chair? Across the room?  Next to her on the bed?  I held the camera but didn’t know what to do with it.  Should I even take pictures?  A few?  A lot? Or her?  Or me?  Or just the baby?  Or maybe all of us?  Or maybe none of us?  Do I pick up my daughter or wait for her to be handed to me? Should I kiss her face?  Express my love when she doesn’t yet feel like mine?  Do I look away when tears rise up?  Do I act joyful knowing I will be a mom or do I act somber knowing that soon she won’t be?  Do we stay when others come to visit?  How do we introduce ourselves?  What do we talk about?  Should we stay a long time or keep our visit short?  What do I do and where do I go when her friends pass my/her baby around the room?  Do I refer to her as my baby?  Her baby?  Our baby?

During this time…

I had a young brother loudly and repeatedly ask me where exactly we lived.

I went out for Thai food with a father I had just met while his daughter waited for some forward labor progress.

I had a teenager tell me how to clean out a baby’s nose when he was congested.

I had a nurse ask if I was the sister.

I was asked if I wanted to hold her legs while she pushed.

I watched my husband cut her chord.

And then I went home at night still without a baby.  And I did not sleep.

It is a time of feeling out of control.  It is a time of meeting your child but on someone else’s terms.  It is a time of sitting back and sitting by.  And that’s OK.  Because in a few days, she will put this baby in your arms and then life will happen on your terms.  Let her have this time even though it will fight against everything you feel.  She has these few days.  You have forever.  What a gift for her to have these moments with her baby.  How hard it is to watch it all in front of your eyes.  How hard it is to share.  How hard it is to not be mom yet.   

The time is coming when you will get back in the car, make the drive again, and walk into the hospital carrying an empty car seat.  The emotions of the days before will now be amplified ten-fold.

You will walk into a room and the mood will have changed.  It will be uncomfortably quiet or there will be meaningless conversation to fill the room with noise.  There will be a sense of what’s to come.  What you thought would be the best day of your life will equally be the worst day of your life.  These are moments of acute reality.  These are moments of finality.  These are moments when a decision made months ago become a decision coming to fruition.  This is the painful, painful part of adoption.  And you will maybe even start to blame yourself for having a part in the grief.

What I did not see coming was how awful I felt when I saw the red, splotchy face.  I did not anticipate the guilt that would come as she kissed a tiny face and whispered a few words and then walked away.  Instead of smiling, we all stood there weeping in the public lobby of the hospital.  I did not feel joy-filled anymore.  I second guessed this decision for her.  I wondered if this was a mistake.  My heart was heavy and grieving.  My emotions were tricking me.   I partly wanted to buckle this kid up and run for the car, partly wanted to stay right in this moment, and partly wanted to adopt an entire second family on the spot.

Almost mom, you can do this.  It is one more time when most won’t understand what you’re going to go through.  I do.  Love this baby and her first mom, but give her this time.  It is a gift to her and to your child.  Let it go.  Take the pictures.  Take them of the two of them even when your heart kind of hurts doing it.  Someday, your little one will grow into a bigger one and these pictures will show her she was loved, cherished and wanted when she feels abandoned and rejected.  Love on the both of them.  Say how hard it is.  Hug often.  Let her see your tears.  Let her see your smiles of delight.  They’re both important and honest and part of this whole, crazy, complicated situation.  Write it all down.  It’s your child’s birth story and you don’t want to forget it.  Bring her flowers.  Pray in the midst of it all.

There will be this one moment…the one where everything switches.  You will now hold your baby and you will no longer be almost mom but instead just mom and she will watch.  You will weep for her and for your baby and for this whole life-changing moment.  And then you will get in the car again, this time heading home for good.  Those hard feelings…they’re going to stick with you.  They’ll be right on the surface for some time .  Ten years later they may bring tears to your eyes when you think back on the whole situation.

It will get better.  

How thankful I am for those special, difficult days.  It softened my heart to a young woman who it may have been easier to keep at an emotional arms length.  We are now bonded over a deep love for our daughter.  We both stepped into an impossible situation and came out the other end.  

It was so worth it.

But above all else, can you remember one important thing? 

Someone else was in that room.  He held us each in our different emotions.  He wept and loved and encouraged and took hold of our hands.  He saw us in our desperate times.  When she got in the car without a baby, he went with her.  When we got in the car and began our shaky days of parenting, he came with us, too.  How. Great. Is. This. God.   He was there!  He was there!  

So, dear almost mom, I am hugging on you right here in my kitchen wherever you may be, whatever you are about to go through…You are on my mind as you learn to love your little one and her first mom.  May this time be filled with the full spectrum on emotions, but more importantly may you remember that you walk this path with Him.  

He will be there for you, too.

K

Another Kind of Journey

Ten years ago, I sat in an auditorium listening to an adoptee share her top 20 list of things she wished her adoptive parents knew.  She was going on and on about creating a grief box and putting something symbolic inside representing each loss an adopted child experiences.  A grief box?  Doesn’t that seem a little, I don’t know….depressing?  Morbid?  Sad?  I left with a slightly skeptical response.  It was heavy  information.  I liked to think that she had a difficult adoptive experience.  Perhaps her parents didn’t tell her they loved her enough.  Maybe she wasn’t affirmed or accepted for whatever reason.  I stored it away (not too much) as interesting and maybe semi-relevant but probably for someone else.  

We adoptive parents sometimes ( most times) think that the “issues” will show up in someone else’s family, because we will just love and hug our little ones through the yucky feelings.  It will all be just fine.

I wish I had paid closer attention.  

As a young 20 something, I just preferred living in adoption La La Land.  We will role play with dolls and speak of the gift of a family and the love of a birthmom’s choice and we will all just get it.  

Well, that was a nice idea.

Today my feet are wet.  I’ve traversed some hard conversations with the agility of an elephant.  I’ve tackled the tears of rejection and loss feeling ill-equipped, like a mumbling, keep-it-together mom.  And I’ve maybe even googled “grief box.”    Luckily, said speaker put her ramblings in a book and I’m willing to take notes this time.

These adoption conversations are hard to navigate.  And I’ve found that it’s because there are no easy answers, no reasons that are good enough, no simple fix to knowing your first year of life started with someone deciding not to parent you.  Having met each of my children’s birth parents, I can whole-heartedly say that they were well-intentioned people making a decision based out of love or necessity.  And my kids range from clueless about adoption (insert toddler) to really struggling to make sense of it all (insert oldest). But somewhere in the narrative, my children have started to understand that the” love reason” for relinquishment just doesn’t make complete sense.  Sometimes relinquishment love gets reinterpreted into…not wanting me, not fighting for me, NOT LOVING ME.

I didn’t get the loss until we set up a meeting with one of our birthmoms.  We went into it feeling like we were really good adoptive parents.  One of our kids had expressed repeated interest in meeting her birthmom and with the push today for open adoptions, we felt like this would help her answer some questions.  We spoke with experts, set up guidelines, and tried to make it feel low-key.   I anticipated smiles and hugs and the showing of pictures… and that happened.  But my little one moved closer and closer to her until she was on her lap, arms around her neck, leaning in, eyes starting to glaze over.  And then when it was time to go, she clung and wept to a woman she had met one time for one hour.   She had to be carried to the car.  I sat in the back holding her hand, tears streaming thinking “What just happened?  What did we do?  Why is she so upset? WHAT DO WE DO NOW? “   The feelings of biological connection, belonging, pain, sadness, rejection, fear…they all came bubbling up and pouring out in a deluge of tears.  They were feelings I thought weren’t even there yet.  And to be honest, I was a little confused, a lot panicky, and ready to flee hoping an ice cream would help us all JUST CALM DOWN.

But that moment was important and inevitably going to come.   It snapped me into reality and the responsibility I have as a mom to walk beside my children through those dark emotions, fold them onto my lap or in my bed and talk about it over and over, to bring “it” up, to stick my chin up when the anger comes pouring out, and to understand that for now, they just can’t understand it all.  And that’s OK.  When I put myself in their place, I can only get a bite-sized portion of what it actually feels like and it doesn’t feel good.

I wish these kiddos could process their stories with the intellect of an adult.  Maybe with the life experiences to understand the stigma that can come with an unwanted pregnancy, the difficulty of provision in a place of poverty,  that sometimes choosing what’s best for a child means making the ultimate sacrifice a parent could make.  

But they don’t.  

When we sit down for dinner and a little one says out of the blue, “Why didn’t our birthmoms want to keep us?” as though this is a conversation that every family has over green beans and grilled chicken, my heart hurts for the hearts of my children.  What a thought to have so early in life.  What a difficult question to be asking when you aren’t even old enough to tie your shoes.  To the rest of the world, we show up and are a happy, loving family.  We’re so cute and diverse and lovely and we are those things on most days…happy, loving, cute, diverse, and lovely.  But we’re also real and some days are raw and ugly and sad and angry.  How could they not be? 

This adoption journey for many is defined by the homestudies, the numerous papers, the approvals, the background checks, the trips to far places, the fingerprinting, the waiting and waiting with the culmination coming on the day we finally come home together as a family.  Thank you, Jesus!  We did it!  Adoption journey complete!  Check and double check.  

Um....not so much.  This so called journey is just getting started.

But here’s the thing.  I’m willing to take the trip.  I’m willing to take the “You’re not my real mom,”  the “I don’t even belong here,” the “I hate being adopted,” the “I wish I lived with HER” because I can recognize where the words are coming from.  

And

 I’m here to help with healing.

 I’m hear to listen and say, “I know.  That is really hard to think about.”  

 I’m here to be a safe place to land. 

 I’m here to let it come out instead of avoiding or pushing it back down. 

I’m here to set boundaries for what we can say or do when we’re mad.

I’m here to say, “I think we should pray about this.”

I’m here to remind them HOW MUCH I WANTED THEM.

I’m here to kiss the tear-stained cheeks and whisper "I love you no matter what and I WILL NEVER GIVE UP ON YOU."

And I’m here to speak of the love of a Father who has adopted us all into his family.  He takes hold of our right hand and says, “Do not fear.  I will help you,” who hears our prayers and changes our hard stories and makes them HIS stories.  

 Because that’s what real moms do and we don't let our kids journey alone.  

Today I heard my oldest say to her little sister, “You are in our family because you’re birthfather loved you and he thinks about you every day .”  I knew that all the times I felt like I’ve messed it up, wished I could have said something differently, wanted for more advice…some understanding that love can be a part of relinquishment  is slowly seeping in and I’ve done something right. 

Worth My Words

What if I had turned in our paperwork 3 weeks later?

What if she had changed her mind at the hospital and decided to parent her child?

What if I had gotten pregnant?

What if she hadn’t died from something so stupid as a preventable disease?

What if a document had gotten lost in the mail?

What if she had chosen someone else?

What if we had stayed and waited at that agency?

What if someone had supported her instead of taken advantage of her situation?

What if a family had embraced the idea of an illegitimate grandchild instead of shunned her?

What if we had decided three was enough?

What if that country decided to close its doors to adoptions?

What if we had pulled out when things were looking tricky?

A lot of things lined up for this family to be this family.  Had any one of those questions been answered differently than reality defined, my family photo could look completely different.   The four framed faces sitting on my desk could be four different faces.   I think about that sort of thing, the “what ifs”of a family made through adoption, of all the factors that go into a child eventually being matched with a family.  What role does God play?  Is it a tangible working in the minds and hands of people involved?  Or is it more abstract and permissive of situations taking place?  Does he sit up in heaven pointing and nodding, “Yes.  That little man is going to go in that family of three.  And I’ll use that couple to shape the future of this sweet potato.”?  I don’t know.  The more I think about it, the more complicated it feels.  But I believe strongly that prayers are heard and answered in concrete ways.  I have stories to prove it.  God is a part of all of this.

But if I’m going to be honest, more than all of those I think about this:

What if my children were growing up in their first families?

What would that be like for them?  Because in a world without sin and pain and poverty and brokenness, that is exactly where they should be.  And as a mom who loves them so deeply, I’d rather just not even think about that.  I’d rather nuzzle them and squeeze them and pretend they should have been mine all along like somehow God ordained their broken starts so that my motherly longings could be filled. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? (No. Not really.)  I’d like to imagine that the days I looked down at their real or photographed faces, they came free of a history.   I like to pretend that they were gift-wrapped with a large bow just for me.  But I know it is more realistically and theologically complicated than that.  And when I think about their first families, my heart hurts.  I think God’s heart hurts, too.

And then there is this:

What if I could have done something differently?  What if I had redirected my adoption expenses in a way that would have allowed a family to stay together?

If you want to keep an adoptive mom up at night, just have her start mulling on that question.  I’ve learned that in most cases, the answer is not as simple as more money.  There are so many factors going into decisions about parenting or not parenting.  There are social stigmas, family pressures, personal goals and futures, and ultimately unselfishness and love.  

But what if?

I like the idea of keeping kids in their families and being used to make that happen.  I like the idea that a little bit out of my pocket could make a significant change for a little person.  I like the idea that it could be much simpler.  I like the idea that I could provide a meal, some extra clothes, school expenses, medical care all from the comfort of my living room.   I like the idea of being a parent helping another struggling parent.  I like that I could be the difference for one.  Or three.  Or…

So, let me introduce you to some other members of our family.

Mihiret is 9 years old and my Hannah chose her because she is the same age and she liked her hair. 

Eden (no joke.guess why we picked her?) is about to turn 7 and is currently in kindergarten.

Bereket has a face I could eat.  Something about him reminds me of my boy and when I saw him, I knew he was ours, too.  He is a strapping young lad at the age of four.

And all of these kids grew up in the same neighborhood as my youngest son.  And all of them still live there with their families.  And all of them have the same child status:

VULNERABLE.

What if God has somehow ordained, once again, the crossing of my path with the path of these three little ones?  What if our encounter with one another could change their status from vulnerable to hopeful or better or just plain more comfortable?

I try to walk the balance beam of advocating for kids.  It’s tricky.  Don’t be too outspoken that people get tired of the message or tired of you.  Choose your conversations.  Be challenging but not overbearing.  Be well-rounded and approachable.  Don’t overdo it.  Be passionate without being a lunatic.

But here I go again because I just really believe this is good.  It’s worth my words and worth your time.

Children’s Hope Chest is a child sponsorship program. (Do. Not. Stop. Reading.) It meets the basic needs of kids.  It’s a program that has been researched and visited by people I know and trust.  And they’re working in Woliso, Ethiopia, a place that is dear to my heart.  A place where I’ve seen what kids living in poverty looks like.  It’s a place you go to and don’t forget the faces and the dirty clothes and the barefoot feet.  And the smiles.

I want to bring it up because many people want to help but don’t know how.  

I want to bring it up because many people have the heart for kids, but can’t take the leap into adoption.

I want to bring it up because these little ones can’t be spoken about too often.

I want to bring it up because it’s important.

I want to bring it up because part of my heart is in Ethiopia.

I want to bring it up because these kids are just as valuable as our own.

I want to bring it up because I think it’s the right thing to do.

So, will you just do a quick tap on one of these links and look at these faces and ask yourself if you could make a difference for one?  Or three.  Or….  

Get on it. (I mean that in a gentle, loving way.)  But seriously, get on it.

http://www.hopechest.org/community/woliso/sponsor/

http://www.hopechest.org/community/burayu/sponsor/