Torn

There are no manuals telling us how to do this right.

How to live in the already, but not yet.

I’m not talking about Jesus (although this does involve him). I’m talking about our kids. Our sons.

They are already ours, but not yet.

How do we navigate the muddy water that is reconciliation without reunification? How do we include their mom and birth family in their lives while also trying to establish normalcy and permanency?

Last Tuesday our six-year old graduated from Kindergarten with the biggest smile on his face I have ever seen. After he walked across that stage and picked up his “diploma,” we gathered him up with all of his precious school belongings- memories and treasures from the past year- and waved goodbye to a school he will not be attending next year.

In his backpack was a notebook filled with drawings, and journalings and actual printed photographs of him from the school year. It was such a joyful surprise for us to be able to glimpse his life in the classroom. Pictures with friends, on field trips, doing school work. Pouring over those pages made me tear up at how much our boy has grown, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, intellectually and spiritually. He is a completely different child than he was eight months ago.

Two days later was a visitation day, and our boy was so excited to see his mom and tell her all about graduation. He asked if he could bring the notebook to show her. I knew there was a chance it would not make it back home. I sat him down and I told him that of course he could bring the notebook, but that it was very important for him to bring it back home so that he could show his kids someday when he’s a daddy. The thought of that made him giggle with excitement. He couldn’t wait to show his kids!

Off he went to visitation.

When it came time for pickup it was discovered that he had given the notebook to his mom.

“She asked if she could keep it,” he said.

And I was livid.

Like seeing red livid.

How could she ask him for that, knowing he would not be able to tell her, “no?” How could he let go of that book after I told him specifically that it was to come back home with him? That was his book. Our book. Documented proof of triumphs and victories in a year marred by hurt and fear and pain. Those colored pages and smiling pictures show the boy we know; the one who lives in our home and runs to us for hugs and still asks to be tucked in every night. The boy who loves to draw and ride his skateboard and play catch. This book belongs to him.

I made Rocky get it back from her.

He said she looked hurt.

I didn’t even feel bad. At first.

But that was my pride. That was my “I-told-you-very-clearly-you-had-to-bring-it-back-home-and-do-as-I-ask” pride.

I missed it.

I missed my boy’s heart.

He wanted his mama to see what she’s missed all year.

He wanted her to validate how smart he was, how handsome, how important.

I don’t know if she did that, although I would assume she did. She loves him.

He got in the car sullen because he knew he was in trouble. He gave away something precious after he was told not to, and he was going to have a consequence.

My heart broke.

We told him he was not in trouble. That we know how much he loves his mom and that we understand that he would want to give his notebook to her. We told him that it’s good that he loves her so much and wants to share, and that we know she wanted the book because she loves and misses him so much.

I told him I would make a copy of the notebook to give to his mom.

That made him very happy, because keeping the original would allow him to show his kids someday. (His words)

These babies. They’re ours day-in and day-out. For 24 hours a day, everyday, except for 4 hours a month when they’re not. And those four hours mean so much.

They remind us all that they’re ours, but not really.

She will always be there. She will always be their mom. I will always be waiting in the wings of their hearts for them to come home.

It will always be this way; it will just get different with time. They will always be split in two.

Milestones. Birthdays. Holidays.

We are stuck with the decision every time: do we include their mom, and in what capacity?

Graduation came and went without his mom there. A few days later he asked, “Nicole, how come my mom didn’t come to my graduation?”

With his words my heart fell out of my chest and shattered. As I gathered the pieces back together I told him the truth. His school had only given two tickets to each family to attend. We requested a third ticket multiple times so that we could invite his mom. The school said no. That was the truth.

It didn't soften the blow, even though his six-year old mind understood.

They will always be split in two.

As we near adoption, it is completely up to us whether or not we will continue a relationship with the boys and their birth family (including siblings). We, of course, plan on continuing as if nothing has changed.

But how do you decide how much? How much more of your life to give up, sacrifice, put on the altar so that your kids get as much love and connection as possible? How do you decide if you’ll celebrate the holidays somewhere else, knowing they won’t get to see their mom (and she won’t get to see them)? How do you choose where to have birthdays, and who to invite to important events, and how to integrate them with our families while maintaining their connection to their first family?

We fumble sometimes.

Other times we give it all. We place ourselves last so that they (and she) can be first.

We get it wrong a lot.

But I look at these boys, and I gather my tape and my glue and my needle and thread and I think, they don’t have to be split in two. At least not completely. We can hold them together. We can mend them enough to weather the separation caused by wear and tear and time.

We can live happily in the already, but not yet.

We have Jesus here.

And He is our strength.

And He will carry us on wings like eagles.