We aren't heroes. I have to start there. I've thought about this for awhile now, and although I'm still not exactly sure how I want to present this information, I know for sure that I don't want to be called a hero.
Adoption teaches us things we can't know if we have only biological children. It teaches us hard things about ourselves and makes us take a long look in the mirror. If we're honest with ourselves, we keep looking in that mirror and we let it show us that we are, in many ways, inadequate. I'm not the "best thing that happened" to these children. I'm not "an answer to a prayer." I'm just a person who is trying to make the best of a hard situation each and every day.
When people talk about adoption, you often hear the phrase "gotcha day." This is the day the children come home to live with their new family. Our family will not be celebrating that day. Although there were some wonderful moments associated with that time, I cannot celebrate such loss for my children. They lost their home, their culture, their people, and the only sense of security they've ever known. The magnitude of that is not lost on me, and I will forever carry a certain amount of guilt for taking them from that. When I say that, I find that people are quick to respond with, "but think about all the wonderful things you're giving them that they never would have had!" Honestly, this response makes my stomach turn. This implies that the good part of their lives starts now. And if we are to assume that, then we are erasing the importance and the beauty of what makes them who they are. And I cannot accept that. I won't accept that.
I know that everyone means well, and that you can't know the depths of adoption unless you're living it. For us, know that we are not doing everything "right". We are not saints. We are not heroes. We are frustrated and tired, often confused and always uncertain. We are also experiencing things that are beautiful beyond comprehension. Also know that although you may know our part of the story, there are two more little lives involved, and their story is not mine to tell.
This was not a rescue mission. It was not "meant to be" or "orchestrated by God". I know that's difficult for some, but I will never be comfortable telling my girls that God wanted them to go through so much loss, uncertainty, and pain in order to come to live with me. We are just a family, supporting one another in all of the ways we can, and navigating this life together.
We love our girls, as we love all of our children. And like all parents, we will make plenty of mistakes. We will learn as we go, and hopefully we will experience the love and peace that each of us needs.
Sunday, November 10, 2019
Sunday, June 9, 2019
My Noodle, My Girl
I've also mentioned my twins recently because they are new to our family and the moments we have experienced with them are more easily processed through writing. But now I want to talk about a very special young woman in my life....my Noodle.
On April 11, 2005 at 8:28am, Jeff and I heard the first cries (let's face it, screams) of our second child and first baby girl. Addison Rae screamed her way into existence, and to be honest, she hasn't stopped since.
I remember thinking in the early years of Addison's life that she couldn't have come from the same two people as her big brother, Logan. He'd been so quiet, so observant. He processed everything before speaking, even at a very young age. And somehow we now had this spitfire of a little girl, ready to pounce on any situation put before her.
She hasn't changed in that way. But, her focus has changed over the years as she has grown and become a young woman. I love watching her navigate life. I know I'm simply a lucky spectator, and that her successes and failures have very little to do with me, and everything to do with her soul path. But, still, I'm honored. I'm honored by her grace and beauty. I'm honored by her passion and fire. I'm honored by her presence in my life.
Addi girl is a worker. and not being the most gifted player on any of her sports teams never stops her. She is driven and determined and earns every minute she plays. She shows such character and maturity in the sports arena. When her teams lose to one more deserving of a win, she acknowledges that with grace and humility. She even congratulates them! I'm not sure I had that kind of selfless attitude at the age of 14.
She is fiercely protective of the rights of others, whether she knows you or not. Jeff recently explained to someone that when presented with a controversial situation, Logan would likely consider the topic, decide for himself where he falls, and quietly leave the conversation, knowing that he is completely comfortable in his own understanding. But...hell hath no fury like our girl when presented with anything she deems a social injustice. I've never seen a more passionate teenager in my life. Luckily, with age has come beautiful compassion as well. She is not quiet, but she will hold your hand while she screams :)
Recently Addison was presented with a new role. She is big sister to two people who don't look like her, don't speak the way she does, and certainly don't share her world views. But the grace and poise and unconditional love with which this young woman has embraced these two girls is awe-inspiring. She has fervently learned as much Haitian creole as possible in the last two weeks, and her immediate grasp of the language makes me jealous!! Now I'm able to actually send her a message when I'm not with them and she can translate what I'm needing to say to them. But you know what makes me the most proud? It's not her ability to learn the language. It's that she didn't ask them to learn hers. She didn't assume that "because they're here they should speak her language." She encourages them and is their biggest cheerleader when they learn something new in English, but she embraces their culture, their language as her own as well.
The girls are so comfortable with her, and in fact, for the first time in their 11 years of life, they separated for about 2 hours. One went home with me while the other stayed with Addison. I don't know that she could ever possibly comprehend what that meant as far as their ability to trust her in that moment. She squashed years of uncertainty for them with her gentle, kind spirit.
I'm so fortunate to get to watch this baby girl grow. I'll never take that for granted. She may very well do big things with her life. But for me, she already has. So, keep screaming, Noodle! I, for one, am certain that you will give us something worth hearing.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Love and Peace
All of the emotions. That's where I am currently. All of them. All of the time. I'm tired and exhilarated, broken and whole. The "birth" of our twin daughters this week has brought more joy, more chaos, and more love than we could have imagined. Just as you cannot prepare yourself for the birth of a biological child, you cannot begin to know what it will be like when your internationally adopted, foreign language speaking, children arrive.
I've been constantly amazed at the similarities between pregnancy/birth and the adoption process. Because I have been blessed enough to experience both, I feel like I can speak to the uncanny likeness. When I found out that we were matched with the girls, I walked around the house saying "oh my god. oh my god. oh my god" into the phone. This is exactly what I did each time I saw those two pink lines appear. From that moment on, I have experienced the same emotions I had with my pregnancies. The long wait seemed excruciating at times (although for a Haitian adoption, we were VERY fortunate, and had one of the shortest wait times I've seen), and that felt like being 41 weeks pregnant with Logan when I was just SURE this kid was never coming. But, like my pregnancies, the day came to finally bring them home and my brain put the brakes on like I'd seen a state trooper while doing 70 in a 30! "Wait! What was I thinking?! I can't do this!" Ready or not, here they come...
Jeff and I traveled to that land we've come to love, and waited impatiently as our driver took us through the familiar paths to the orphanage. This time would be different. This time they would come with us. We arrived late to Port Au Prince, and so we left rather abruptly after getting there. The girls hugged us, and seemed happy to see us, but reluctant to leave without knowing that they were going to be coming back soon. I reassured them that we would return the following day for their "Bon Voyage" party. They seemed satisfied with that answer and climbed into the van.
The guesthouse is 5 minutes from their orphanage and they'd never been there. At first, they seemed to think they needed to follow me everywhere, as if they weren't allowed to go places without me. Eventually they realized that we were ok with them exploring the house a little. They ate well there, of course, because they are used to their native Haitian cuisine. Little by little we learned more about these girls who would soon be coming home to live with us forever. Katia is hesitant with people, but brave with most experiences. Djouna is more trusting with people, but lets her sister take the wheel when it comes to things they haven't seen before.
The Bon Voyage party with their friends and nannies at the orphanage was a wonderful experience. Some children danced, while others watched, patiently waiting for their turn for juice and cake. Everyone hugged our girls and said goodbye. We could tell that they needed that closure, but I was happy to know they were ready to go when Djouna asked if we could go home now. I'll always be grateful that we took the time to experience that moment with them.
My friend Michaelle accompanied us to the guesthouse, the party, and eventually onto the hotel. The girls bonded with her immediately and found comfort in her ability to converse with them in their native kreyol. I was so grateful to her for being such a good friend to them. They continue to call her daily to tell her aobut their new life in America.
The girls repeatedly said no when I asked if they were scared...that is until we boarded the first plane. Djouna decided that yes, she was most definitely scared. She quickly switched seats with Katia, who'd originally been sitting in the middle and was now all but climbing out the window trying to see all of Haiti from that small square opening. The engine started and they both looked at me in fear. I tried to reassure them as best I could, and surprisingly, take off and flight went quite well. It wasn't until we landed, spent way too much time in immigration, and missed our connecting flight that we started to see some fatigue from them. We ate a meal together at an airport restaurant, had some ice cream, and walked the halls of the airport. At this point, I was pretty sure they thought America was just an endless stream of airport nonsense. Highlights of the airport experiences were escalators and moving sidewalks. Their faces were hilarious as they tried to imitate my movements through these foreign concepts.
We got home incredibly late, but were welcomed by our bio kids and my mom with a sign saying "Welcome Home" in both english and kreyol. The girls were ushered into their new home with hugs and giggles. They took in their surroundings as best they could with 13+ hours of travel fatigue setting in, and I could tell that sleep would not come as soon as they'd like due to their fear of the unknown. So, although we showed them their room, they were elated when I suggested that they have a sister sleepover in the family room. Addison and Morgan were more than willing to accommodate and the first night at home went rather well! Although...to bed at 2:30am, and they woke me at 6...yep!...I have newborns!!
Food has been an interesting and at times, frustrating piece of the new puzzle. I try to ease them into our American diet with foods that are similar to theirs. Thanks to a group of adoptive mothers, I've gotten some tips that help a lot! Never leave the house without hot sauce....and hard boiled eggs and peanut butter are our friends. Today we discovered that they don't like pancakes, and Jeff is pretty sure that's not allowed. But we're learning likes and dislikes, things in which they take comfort and those they don't.
Poor Morgan has been dubbed the new bestie, and scapegoat for all their jokes. They follow here everywhere and she is getting a healthy taste of what it means to have pesky little sisters!! The first day home was filled with lots of outside play. All four girls went on a walk together, played volleyball, softball, and soccer together. Since that day they've met all immediate family members, and although relationships are not exactly comfortable yet, they seem to know they are loved. We've also experienced our first sibling ballgame. Anyone who knows us, knows that this will be a common theme in their lives. They did well there despite being surrounded by strangers, all eager to meet them. I can tell sometimes they are overwhelmed though and I'm grateful to those who give us space. They need it right now.
While it has been challenging at times, it has also been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I'm incredibly grateful to the woman who gave birth to my beautiful daughters. And today, on this Haitian Mother's Day, I honor her and vow to hold her babies close while she holds mine, until we are able to meet again on the other side. I'm trying very hard to be "mom" to all, and that isn't always an easy task, but I think we're getting closer to hitting a groove of our own.
"Love and peace" is something I say often after losing Easton. I try not to qualify emotions anymore, or say things like "stay strong", or "stay positive". I think it's incredibly important to allow yourself to feel all emotions, and I think telling someone to stay positive implies that breaking isn't allowed. But breaking is important, and it's real. And real is liberating. Love and peace allows people to feel the only thing I can offer. I can send love and wish for peaceful moments for them. I cannot guarantee that things will get "better" or be fixed. And this phrase has served me well over the last 6.5 years. Now in this new chapter in our lives, between new foods, new hair, and new hugs, I can say with certainty that these Haitian/American beauties have brought a whole new level of love and peace...
I've been constantly amazed at the similarities between pregnancy/birth and the adoption process. Because I have been blessed enough to experience both, I feel like I can speak to the uncanny likeness. When I found out that we were matched with the girls, I walked around the house saying "oh my god. oh my god. oh my god" into the phone. This is exactly what I did each time I saw those two pink lines appear. From that moment on, I have experienced the same emotions I had with my pregnancies. The long wait seemed excruciating at times (although for a Haitian adoption, we were VERY fortunate, and had one of the shortest wait times I've seen), and that felt like being 41 weeks pregnant with Logan when I was just SURE this kid was never coming. But, like my pregnancies, the day came to finally bring them home and my brain put the brakes on like I'd seen a state trooper while doing 70 in a 30! "Wait! What was I thinking?! I can't do this!" Ready or not, here they come...
Jeff and I traveled to that land we've come to love, and waited impatiently as our driver took us through the familiar paths to the orphanage. This time would be different. This time they would come with us. We arrived late to Port Au Prince, and so we left rather abruptly after getting there. The girls hugged us, and seemed happy to see us, but reluctant to leave without knowing that they were going to be coming back soon. I reassured them that we would return the following day for their "Bon Voyage" party. They seemed satisfied with that answer and climbed into the van.
The guesthouse is 5 minutes from their orphanage and they'd never been there. At first, they seemed to think they needed to follow me everywhere, as if they weren't allowed to go places without me. Eventually they realized that we were ok with them exploring the house a little. They ate well there, of course, because they are used to their native Haitian cuisine. Little by little we learned more about these girls who would soon be coming home to live with us forever. Katia is hesitant with people, but brave with most experiences. Djouna is more trusting with people, but lets her sister take the wheel when it comes to things they haven't seen before.
The Bon Voyage party with their friends and nannies at the orphanage was a wonderful experience. Some children danced, while others watched, patiently waiting for their turn for juice and cake. Everyone hugged our girls and said goodbye. We could tell that they needed that closure, but I was happy to know they were ready to go when Djouna asked if we could go home now. I'll always be grateful that we took the time to experience that moment with them.
My friend Michaelle accompanied us to the guesthouse, the party, and eventually onto the hotel. The girls bonded with her immediately and found comfort in her ability to converse with them in their native kreyol. I was so grateful to her for being such a good friend to them. They continue to call her daily to tell her aobut their new life in America.
The girls repeatedly said no when I asked if they were scared...that is until we boarded the first plane. Djouna decided that yes, she was most definitely scared. She quickly switched seats with Katia, who'd originally been sitting in the middle and was now all but climbing out the window trying to see all of Haiti from that small square opening. The engine started and they both looked at me in fear. I tried to reassure them as best I could, and surprisingly, take off and flight went quite well. It wasn't until we landed, spent way too much time in immigration, and missed our connecting flight that we started to see some fatigue from them. We ate a meal together at an airport restaurant, had some ice cream, and walked the halls of the airport. At this point, I was pretty sure they thought America was just an endless stream of airport nonsense. Highlights of the airport experiences were escalators and moving sidewalks. Their faces were hilarious as they tried to imitate my movements through these foreign concepts.
We got home incredibly late, but were welcomed by our bio kids and my mom with a sign saying "Welcome Home" in both english and kreyol. The girls were ushered into their new home with hugs and giggles. They took in their surroundings as best they could with 13+ hours of travel fatigue setting in, and I could tell that sleep would not come as soon as they'd like due to their fear of the unknown. So, although we showed them their room, they were elated when I suggested that they have a sister sleepover in the family room. Addison and Morgan were more than willing to accommodate and the first night at home went rather well! Although...to bed at 2:30am, and they woke me at 6...yep!...I have newborns!!
Food has been an interesting and at times, frustrating piece of the new puzzle. I try to ease them into our American diet with foods that are similar to theirs. Thanks to a group of adoptive mothers, I've gotten some tips that help a lot! Never leave the house without hot sauce....and hard boiled eggs and peanut butter are our friends. Today we discovered that they don't like pancakes, and Jeff is pretty sure that's not allowed. But we're learning likes and dislikes, things in which they take comfort and those they don't.
Poor Morgan has been dubbed the new bestie, and scapegoat for all their jokes. They follow here everywhere and she is getting a healthy taste of what it means to have pesky little sisters!! The first day home was filled with lots of outside play. All four girls went on a walk together, played volleyball, softball, and soccer together. Since that day they've met all immediate family members, and although relationships are not exactly comfortable yet, they seem to know they are loved. We've also experienced our first sibling ballgame. Anyone who knows us, knows that this will be a common theme in their lives. They did well there despite being surrounded by strangers, all eager to meet them. I can tell sometimes they are overwhelmed though and I'm grateful to those who give us space. They need it right now.
While it has been challenging at times, it has also been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I'm incredibly grateful to the woman who gave birth to my beautiful daughters. And today, on this Haitian Mother's Day, I honor her and vow to hold her babies close while she holds mine, until we are able to meet again on the other side. I'm trying very hard to be "mom" to all, and that isn't always an easy task, but I think we're getting closer to hitting a groove of our own.
"Love and peace" is something I say often after losing Easton. I try not to qualify emotions anymore, or say things like "stay strong", or "stay positive". I think it's incredibly important to allow yourself to feel all emotions, and I think telling someone to stay positive implies that breaking isn't allowed. But breaking is important, and it's real. And real is liberating. Love and peace allows people to feel the only thing I can offer. I can send love and wish for peaceful moments for them. I cannot guarantee that things will get "better" or be fixed. And this phrase has served me well over the last 6.5 years. Now in this new chapter in our lives, between new foods, new hair, and new hugs, I can say with certainty that these Haitian/American beauties have brought a whole new level of love and peace...
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
Even the Sun
Sometimes the sun that I've been begging to see, just hurts my eyes. Sometimes a simple conversation flips some kind of switch and transports me back to a place with less air to breathe. Sometimes the amount of "living" I seem to be doing feels like someone else's dream, and I'm just hearing about it from a distance. Sometimes the noise of the silence is so deafening that the sound of my own heartbeat feels like a betrayal.
Grief.
I lost my child. My son. Not a disease, not an illness, not a seizure. A little boy. One who spent a few hours one day, racing cars around a living room and making "vroom vroom" noises. I remember so many moments like that where I just stopped what I was doing and tried to capture every single second in my brain. I didn't use a camera. I didn't try to record the sounds. I just sat there in silence, witnessing every piece of the atmosphere, somehow knowing in some hidden recesses of my brain that this was one of those sacred moments. This was one I wouldn't want to forget, because it would be one of the few...
A wave is hitting now. It's crashing in like it does sometimes. The pain is always there, always digging. But sometimes it's so overwhelming, and so crushing that I actually hate myself for continuing to breathe through it. Then I remember that I don't get to choose that. Not really anyway. Because if I did, in any given moment, get to choose living with this kind of pain, I wouldn't do it. And that's not a cry for help. It's not something to be pitied or to cause worry about my mental health. It's always funny to me that people seem surprised by my desire to no longer be here. I happen to know that you'd want the same thing if your child weren't here.
I'm tired. I'm so tired sometimes that I have to remind myself to move. I have to actually think through getting myself out of the bed and putting my feet on the floor. Sometimes even breathing is no longer involuntary. It's as if even my brain knows it's too much to ask. It isn't bravery or the motivation to be a good wife/parent that gets me to move. I know that would probably seem more glamorous, or would at least make a better story. But the truth is, the fact that I move at all some days doesn't make any sense to me. And sometimes the fact that I can move, hurts me even more.
I'll never know why his last heartbeat didn't also signify my last. I'll never know why our time together was so brief. I have theories, and sometimes they even help with the crashing waves and moments of immense guilt. But in reality, no one knows. And theorizing about why he isn't here, just isn't helpful for me. It isn't better. It doesn't make me happy to know he's in a better place. It doesn't feel good to know someday we'll be together again...not all the time anyway. Sometimes I just want him here. Sometimes I want desperately to complain about a day full of almost-nine-year-old antics. Sometimes I NEED to hear him, smell him, feel him, and nothing eases that need. Nothing.
I have a lot going on right now in the way of living. My kids are involved in several of their favorite sports. My husband is getting busier as the school year comes to a close. And as a friend of mine puts it, I'm also in the last trimester of a difficult twin "pregnancy". I also have that job I do several times a week. As far as my kids' activities, my "after" life gets the best of me most of the time. My daughter's volleyball team recently got 2nd in state. They were crying because of the loss of the game and then end of their season, and I couldn't get there. I may look heartless and like it doesn't matter to me, but the truth is, I really am just happy to get to watch her be with her friends. I love that she can move and play and smile and even cry with them. It's a gift. All of it. And when that sports loss happens, my brain can't be in a place of disappointment. Broken people can't fully invest in that. At least this one can't.
The twins are officially ours but in another country. Yes the wait is long and frustrating. Yes, I'm worried about how life will look when they get here. But I can GET to these children. I know very well what an ACTUAL barrier to being with your child looks like. This isn't it.
I'll eventually breathe involuntarily again. I'll move my limbs without having to tell them how to do so. I'll work, and parent, and "gestate". But for right now, in this moment...even the sun hurts.
Grief.
I lost my child. My son. Not a disease, not an illness, not a seizure. A little boy. One who spent a few hours one day, racing cars around a living room and making "vroom vroom" noises. I remember so many moments like that where I just stopped what I was doing and tried to capture every single second in my brain. I didn't use a camera. I didn't try to record the sounds. I just sat there in silence, witnessing every piece of the atmosphere, somehow knowing in some hidden recesses of my brain that this was one of those sacred moments. This was one I wouldn't want to forget, because it would be one of the few...
A wave is hitting now. It's crashing in like it does sometimes. The pain is always there, always digging. But sometimes it's so overwhelming, and so crushing that I actually hate myself for continuing to breathe through it. Then I remember that I don't get to choose that. Not really anyway. Because if I did, in any given moment, get to choose living with this kind of pain, I wouldn't do it. And that's not a cry for help. It's not something to be pitied or to cause worry about my mental health. It's always funny to me that people seem surprised by my desire to no longer be here. I happen to know that you'd want the same thing if your child weren't here.
I'm tired. I'm so tired sometimes that I have to remind myself to move. I have to actually think through getting myself out of the bed and putting my feet on the floor. Sometimes even breathing is no longer involuntary. It's as if even my brain knows it's too much to ask. It isn't bravery or the motivation to be a good wife/parent that gets me to move. I know that would probably seem more glamorous, or would at least make a better story. But the truth is, the fact that I move at all some days doesn't make any sense to me. And sometimes the fact that I can move, hurts me even more.
I'll never know why his last heartbeat didn't also signify my last. I'll never know why our time together was so brief. I have theories, and sometimes they even help with the crashing waves and moments of immense guilt. But in reality, no one knows. And theorizing about why he isn't here, just isn't helpful for me. It isn't better. It doesn't make me happy to know he's in a better place. It doesn't feel good to know someday we'll be together again...not all the time anyway. Sometimes I just want him here. Sometimes I want desperately to complain about a day full of almost-nine-year-old antics. Sometimes I NEED to hear him, smell him, feel him, and nothing eases that need. Nothing.
I have a lot going on right now in the way of living. My kids are involved in several of their favorite sports. My husband is getting busier as the school year comes to a close. And as a friend of mine puts it, I'm also in the last trimester of a difficult twin "pregnancy". I also have that job I do several times a week. As far as my kids' activities, my "after" life gets the best of me most of the time. My daughter's volleyball team recently got 2nd in state. They were crying because of the loss of the game and then end of their season, and I couldn't get there. I may look heartless and like it doesn't matter to me, but the truth is, I really am just happy to get to watch her be with her friends. I love that she can move and play and smile and even cry with them. It's a gift. All of it. And when that sports loss happens, my brain can't be in a place of disappointment. Broken people can't fully invest in that. At least this one can't.
The twins are officially ours but in another country. Yes the wait is long and frustrating. Yes, I'm worried about how life will look when they get here. But I can GET to these children. I know very well what an ACTUAL barrier to being with your child looks like. This isn't it.
I'll eventually breathe involuntarily again. I'll move my limbs without having to tell them how to do so. I'll work, and parent, and "gestate". But for right now, in this moment...even the sun hurts.
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