Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Before I became a parent, I always envisioned how the holidays would be once we had children. We'd decorate the Christmas tree together, bake cookies, sing carols, curl up under a blanket and read Santa stories...All the things I always wanted to do when I was a kid. Once I had kids of my own, I would finally be able to do all of this, and more, with them. It would be like all of the Christmas songs on the radio; merry, bright, jolly, beautiful.

We would be a family.

Only the holidays haven't been that way at all.

The holidays are a reminder every year to my children that they're celebrating, once again, without their family.

And that usually means we get treated like garbage.

Not all the time...but more than I expected we would.

Kids in general can be ungrateful, and unappreciative, and really just brats. All kids. (I know mine are not alone in this behavior).

But this year has been extra hard. With the boys finding out about the adoption, there's been a whole slew of regressive behaviors. And I've been blown off, laughed at, ignored, lied to, and straight-up dismissed by two littles boys that still call me, "Mom."

It doesn't scream, "Merry Christmas."

And yet Christmas is still here, around the corner, and I'm forced to reconcile our reality with all the things I love(d) about the season.

It's difficult to get into the holiday spirit when your kids are always acting up or being mean.

It's hard to find motivation to shop for kids who are pushing your boundaries and pushing you away.

It's a challenge to muster up the energy to participate in seasonal activities, like baking cookies and putting up Christmas decorations, when your kids constantly destroy things, a lot of the times on purpose.

I know the right answers. I know the psychobabble. I know that they're struggling to carry the weight of never. I know I should be a living example of grace and mercy and charity, especially towards my children, who are victims in so many ways.

But part of me just feels disappointed that this is our family experience.

That this might always be how it is around the holidays.

That once October rolls around, what used to be my favorite time of year is now just a trigger for my sons. A glaring reminder in a season of hope of their very own hope lost. And a little bit of my old hopes lost, too.

I'm having to find a new way to celebrate the season. I'm having to readjust my expectations of what Christmas will feel like every year. I'm having to catch myself from becoming resentful. I'm having to remind myself what the season is truly about: Rescue for the weary.

And aren't we all just that? Weary.

I'm tired.

So tired.

And my kids are tired, too. I know they are. Outright exhausted from the truth.

And so our Christmases may not be like the songs on the radio. We may not have a holly, jolly Christmas. Halfway through they might be going through the motions of opening gifts while holding back tears. When they're done they might ask to call their mom. And of course we'll oblige.

Whatever they need.

But it's hard to not be what they need. To not be enough.

It's hard to want to give them so much of the things I wanted as a child, to always be partially rejected. Half-empty. Not quite what they asked for. A gift they would return in an instant if it were possible.

I don't know that that will ever get easier.

And yet I know that their mom would trade places with me in the blink of an eye.

Because I get their every days. I get their mornings and their evenings, their laughs and their tears, their hugs and their kisses. I get more of them, in so many ways, then she does. And those ways will never overlap as long as they're children. She will always have their hearts; and I will always have their bodies. And that will have to be enough for me right now.

As we celebrate our third Christmas together, we will bake the cookies, and string the lights, and read the stories and watch the movies and sing the songs, and we will be a family. But we will be fractured, too. We might be hurting. It may be sad. They may turn away, for the hundredth time.

But at the end of the day, in this season of advent, we will continue to hope. Hope in a future that feels a little bit easier, a but more fair, more kind, for our children, and for ourselves.

What is Christmas without hope, anyway?

Sticks and Stones

I've always been the kind of person who appreciated knowing exactly where I stood. I never liked guessing about the level of my friendships or how I was viewed by others. The gray area always made me uncomfortable.

Did you like me or not? Are we acquaintances? Casual friends? Good friends? Besties? Boyfriend-girlfriend? Partners?

Being a foster parent was easy for the first 6 months. Not because it was easy, but because I knew my place. I was the foster mom. The stand-in until the boys could go home. I would love them, and comfort them, and pray with them and tell them how very special they were while I advocated for reunification. I prayed for their parents' healing. I wished, and hoped, and crossed my fingers that the boys could one day go home.

But then in April 2013, that dream was dashed. The goal changed from reunification to termination of parental rights, and I was thrust into a world where I no longer knew my place.

I was still a foster mom.

I was still a stand-in.

But I was also now a pre-adoptive mom.

A future permanent mom.

Only, their mom didn't go away.

She was still around.

We shared this title: Mom.

And it became painful, and hard, and awkward, and sad, and hurtful, and confusing.

This past week we sat down with the boys and their therapist to tell them that their parents' rights had been terminated, their appeals lost, and that we would be adopting them. They would be ours forever. They would be Stones.

And emotional chaos ensued.

Anger. Sadness. Denial. A host of "it's not fair"s.

Rejection.

Defeat.

Disbelief.

Our kids were crushed. Not because they don't love us, but because forever and never are big words. Final words.

They would never live with their mom.

They would forever live with us.

Imagine being 6 and 8 (and emotionally, quite a bit younger than that) and being told that you will never again share a home with your mother and siblings. The realization was made harder by the fact that there is still a real possibility that 4 of their siblings may return home at some point if mom continues to make good progress. She may in fact get half of her children back. But the other half? My boys and their little sisters up the street? Never. She will never get them back. She will never be their only mom.

And my heart breaks for her, too. Yes, my children are complete victims and have done nothing to deserve this lot in life, but I'm confident in saying that their mom didn't have much of a chance herself. I don't know that this would have played out differently even if we weren't in the picture. And this is the best case scenario for the boys.

But best never equaled easy.

This week has been filled with poor behavior and hurtful words as the kids have struggled to carry the impossible burden of never. I have been tested, boundaries have been pushed, I have failed to show grace and compassion. I have yelled and disciplined. I have fallen short, and I have crawled back and asked forgiveness from my kids. I have held them as they cried, rocked them as they just couldn't find the words to say, held their hands as they struggled to comprehend the never.

And thus it will always be so.

I will always exist in the gray area with them.

I will never just be their mom.

I will hold a number of other titles and roles in their lives.

Adoptive mom.

Other mom.

Mom who made it impossible for their mom to "win."

Mom who took them away from their family.

It will never be easy again.

And I will have to live with my own never.

I will never be their only mom.

We will never be a family, just us.

I will never be able to take away their pain and make them complete.

Only Jesus.

Only Jesus.

Fly Away

My mom always tells me how wonderful it is that I'm a mom at a time when, more than ever, moms can say how they really feel about being a mom. All the hard, raw, ugly truth. It's safe, especially when you have a tight-knit group of mom friends to commiserate with.

I remember 15 years ago when my cousin had her first baby and she said something to the effect of, "When you're a mother you suffer in silence," which is basically saying that you might be miserable but it's not about you anymore so shut your mouth, put on a happy face, and make your child's life worthwhile. And I thought, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

How wrong was I?!

Do you know what would happen if we suffered in silence? Pretty much all the things that happened to so many mothers in the 50s and 60s. Depression. Addiction. Abandonment. Suicide.

Being a mother is absolutely amazing. But it is not all bliss. There are some very real, very deep valleys, and when you're in one, the last thing you want to do is remain silent. Instinctually, if you were alone in a deep, dark place, would you not call out for help? Would you not seek a higher vantage point?

I read a blog post today from a funny mommy blogger (which is a thing now, another outlet for moms to vent and laugh at all the nuances of being a parent), and she wrote, "Mothers have a deeper need for emotional and physical space than anyone else, and yet we are the ones who are least likely to manage to make that happen for ourselves." Did you see that? We have the greatest need, yet we are least likely to have that need met.

Being a mother is not a burden, but it is burdensome. It is something I chose with my whole heart and I have never once regretted. I love so much about it. But the hard stuff? I don't think anyone can say they enjoy the hard stuff. Calls from your kid's school because they got in trouble...again. Sitting in yet another parent-teacher meeting because your kid just can't keep up and needs a revised IEP. Cleaning up bodily fluids from surfaces they most definitely should not be on. Calling your husband in tears because your children have flooded the kitchen. Spending hard-earned money to replace one broken thing after another. Worrying about your kids' futures, the choices they will make, the people they will be.

Why would I want to be silent about any of this?

And also, it's clear why moms need a break.

Regularly, we are all together and yet the kids still defer to me for everything. I can be in another room, with Rocky right next to them, and they will still call out for me to help them, get them something, answer a question...Mommy is the word.

I am not one of those people who loves to be needed.

Before I had kids I was a big believer in personal space. Alone time. Hardcore introverting.

These things are unheard of once you have kids.

And I would not trade my kids- hear me! Not for one second does my desire for personal space trump my desire to be a mom, but...

Sometimes we need a break, man!

Sometimes the incessant, "Mommy?" and never-ending laundry and mountains of dishes and constantly pickup up everyone. else's. crap. warrants a break.

Even people in solitary confinement get an hour outside each day.

Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, I asked Rocky if I could go to Target alone. I needed a break. I ended up having (choosing) to take the baby because he had to work from home, but I was alone enough, I guess. I took my time, browsed the aisles, spent wayyyyy more than I had planned, but I came to the (re)realization that I needed this break at least once a week. I came home and declared that Thursday nights would be mine. After dinner, I would take a few hours to myself, outside of the house, to be alone doing something that didn't involve (1) shopping for needed household items like toilet paper or (2) anything related to the kids, unless I so chose.

That was two weeks ago.

I haven't have alone time since.

Sometimes even just the thought of a long, uninterrupted shower is enough to make me swoon.

You know what the most ridiculous thing is, though? It's even hard for me to enjoy this mythical alone time, because I'm constantly thinking about, or missing, Owen.

That baby.

Gah.

I just hate being away from him for long periods of time. He might be my only baby (another way my mommy-mind manipulates me from taking care of me) and so I don't want to miss out on him. And then I worry that he's not being played with and engaged if I leave him (mommy guilt and daddy blame). And then I stress that he might be hungry (breast is best, after all...right?)

You see? Not only can I not get away, but the thought of getting away from Owen gives me anxiety.

So what does that mean?

W(h)ine and cheese nights with other moms?

Strolling through Target, baby in tow, just for a change of scenery? ($$$$$)

Short, infrequent, one-hour breaks because that time amount limits all the guilt and anxiety listed above?

What would I even do with myself if I could take a break once a week? I'm pretty sure I don't have any hobbies...

What do moms do when they're not momming?

You'll have to ask me months from now, when I've finally put Owen down and stopped kissing him a million times a day. Otherwise, I'm pretty certain my "breaks" will include him.

Pale September

My body didn't "bounce back" the way they made it sound like it would if you chose to breastfeed. I also wasn't one of the lucky ones who got a reprieve from a period while breastfeeding. My old jeans don't fit. It's not so much the remaining baby weight I'm still carrying, but my body has changed. Things have shifted, widened, sagged. It's a difficult thing to look at a beautiful 6 month old baby and then look down and wonder when you will be back to normal.

Today I put my maternity jeans back on.

I haven't been this comfortable in months.

I remember all those months we tried to conceive, with no success, and being so disappointed in my body. Even now, with my miracle staring back at me, I am still disappointed in my body because it didn't shrink back up the way I thought it would; The way I wanted it to.

But this body is amazing.

This body nurtured and carried my son as he grew, healthy, in my womb. It still does that.

This body labored for hours to bring him into this world, and then labored again through months of recovery from the trauma of childbirth.

This body feeds him all the nutrients he needs to thrive, carries him up and down stairs, bathes him, plays with him, takes him for walks, holds him up in the air while he giggles and squeals.

This body has been faithful and strong and reliable.

This body still makes my husband do a double-take, even with all the new lumps and divets and stretched skin. He still loves him and tells me I'm beautiful.

It's hard to see that myself. It's hard to look at what my body has done, created, and judge it so harshly. I would like to just put on something warm and comfortable, light a pumpkin-scented candle, sip hot tea and drown in the wonder of my baby all day without feeling self-conscious about my belly. I don't want to miss anything about this time by being too focussed on a number on the scale.

It's autumn here. The beginning of my favorite time of year. Today Owen and I are in matching gray and white sweaters. The leaves have started to change colors and the breeze that blows is no longer refreshing, but crisp and cool and makes you wish a warm beverage was permaglued to your hand. If Spring is new life then Fall is the last burst of energy before inevitable death, before the long hibernation of winter. Every time the cool breeze blows I want to close my eyes, breathe it in, feeling the warm sun on my face as I savor the last hurrah of life, of color.

I'm thankful for this time of year more than any other, I think, because I'm reminded of all that has happened in such a short amount of time. Every time the seasons change, and winter looms, I'm reminded of all the life that has been lived when it was warm enough to open the windows. This is the time of year that family gathers, celebrations and thanks are offered, new friendships are forged and old friendships are deepened. I find myself seeking out Jesus more in the quiet of this season than any other during the year.

In a season where it's dangerous to want more things, spend more money, do more activities, I want to want more grace, spend more time, do more praying. I want to love my neighbors, serve my family, give thanks to God. I want to be grateful.

I want to look at myself in the mirror and not see the baby weight, but the weight of the baby and everything he's brought to this family. I want to believe in miracles because I've experienced one. I want to love this body no matter what shape, size, or condition.

And so I will wear these maternity jeans without shame until I can find a pair that make me feel comfortable, and I will light that candle, and share my Jesus with Owen while we sit by the window and watch the cool breeze blow the leaves off the trees. And at the end of the day, what's better than that anyway?

ABC

It's that time of year again. Time to "fall back." Time for sharpened pencils and clean uniforms and quietly contained hopes and dreams for the new year. Time for it to be a little harder to get out of bed in the morning because it's still so dark outside and the covers are still so enticing. (Snuggling next to a sweet baby does not help in the motivation department.)

I loved back-to-school time when I was a kid. The new clothes, the fresh school supplies, and colorful backpacks and trapper keepers and folders. I had missed my friends all summer long because we didn't have instant communication allowed by cell phones and social media to keep in touch day in and day out. I eagerly anticipated finding out who my teacher would be and who would be in my class. And, let's be honest, I loved school. I was a "good kid" and school was easy for me. I enjoyed learning and words of affirmation from my teachers and parents kept my love tank full.

One of the hardest parts about parenting my boys is how different they are from me (which has nothing to do with biology, or lack thereof) and also how hard learning is for them (which has a lot to do with their circumstances, and perhaps biology.) While many parents around the country are thrilled to have their children back in school (hello, freedom!), for our household, the school year can be a stressful time.

One of our kids does pretty well with transition. He can be thrown into a new environment and make friends quickly. He has a sweet, helpful disposition, and despite his limitations, can function well in a brand new classroom with a new teacher. If it wasn't for some of his delays, you would never know he came from a neglectful environment. He can blend in and make do.

Our other kid, though, struggles with "new." He still refers often to his kindergarten teacher (who was horrible, by the way) and tells me he misses his first-grade teacher. He says he is excited to go back to school, but I also know he's worried about the new teacher, new classroom, new kids, new routine. You see, it takes this kid months, if not years to warm up to you and trust you. When he's in a new environment, and he's feeling insecure or out of control, his default behavior is to act out, disobey, defy, or shut down. Sometimes this kid gets sent to the principal's office. These behaviors happened a handful of times last year (which was a HUGE improvement over the year before), and so I'm always on pins and needles when the new school year begins. I can feel his anxiety.

I read a blog post today written by an adoptive mom. She talked about her kids' attachment issues and how they can translate into problem at school. She shared how she often "briefs" her kids' teachers in the beginning of the year so that they can be aware of her sons' special needs. (You can read the post here: http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2015/09/how-to-talk-to-teachers-about-adoption.html) One of the commenters on this post mentioned an article related to classroom instruction for traumatized kids. In particular, how traumatized kids respond to traditional discipline (to correct behavior), and what they need instead: relationship. The author wrote,

"When the teacher says to a non-traumatized child, 'Andy, can you please settle down and quietly have a seat?' Andy has the internal regulatory ability to respond appropriately to his teacher because trauma has not interrupted his developmental maturation of developing self-regulation tools and feeling like he is safe in the world. However, when Billy (the traumatized child) is asked the same question, his response is much different. He takes the long way around the classroom to his seat, he continues to not only talk but projects his voice across the room as if he is still out in the playground, and once seated continues to squirm and wiggle. (Yes, I have actually witnessed this behavior. It has also been reported to me by my sons' teachers.)

Traditionally, we have interpreted Billy as a disruptive child, pasted the label ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) onto him, and reprimanded him for his “naughty” behavior. What we have failed to see is that Billy cannot settle down on his own. His internal system has not experienced the appropriate patterning to know how to be well behaved like his classmate Andy and Billy does not know he is safe in this world, even if he is now in a safe environment." (We are learning a lot about this from our son's therapist.)

The author goes on to state, "The most effective way to change these patterns comes through safe, nurturing, attuned, and strong human connection. For the student in the classroom, it comes through the teacher-student relationship. The reality is, for our traumatized children to learn and achieve academically, science is showing that they must be engaged at the relational level prior to any academic learning." (I have found this to be 100% true for our oldest child. He simply will not be able to learn effectively, and manage his behavior without feeling like he can trust his teacher and believe that he/she truly cares for him.)

All this to say, I am struggling with the same thing the original blogger wrote about. Should I share some of his background with his new teacher in advance (at the risk of causing him or her to "notice" things they might not have), or do I wait until a situation occurs (because it will) to have this conversation? (I don't carry the same fears for my middle son because he will be getting his older brother's teacher from last year whom we adore and who "gets it" when it comes to our boys.) 

I'm torn between wanting to see how my kid will do on his own in the new environment, a little older, a little more secure in himself, a little more trusting in the good intentions of people, and wanting to protect him from unfair judgments and labels. I'm caught between wanting to acknowledge his growth and success in controlling his body and making good choices, and still admit that he struggles with making friends, fitting in, respecting others and following directions.

Sometimes it's hard to separate normal kid behavior from trauma-related responses. I would imagine it's even harder for adults (like their teachers) who don't know them or where they're coming from.

Which brings me back to my original dilemma. Should I share some things in advance with his teacher or not? (Teacher friends, your input here would be extremely appreciated!)

I know that no matter what, for the first year since we've had them, the kids are both genuinely happy to be going back to school. They're starting to love all the things about it that I did when I was their age. We've got all our supplies organized, backpacks stuffed, uniforms washed and folded...All we need now are a good night's sleep and prayers.

I know they will learn. I know they will grow. I know they will make mistakes and get back up and try again. I know that everyday is a new day and they know that, too. I know that my mama fears are echoed throughout the world and that we all just want the very best for our kiddos. I know that when Tuesday morning rolls around, and I become the parent of a 2nd grader, 1st grader, and almost 6 month old I will be the luckiest mama in the world and that everything will be just fine.

I also know I will probably have to mop my floor because, inevitably, someone would've spilled their drink at breakfast.

C'est la vie.

 

Just Breathe

It's always stressful to me when I know my kids are going to be asked (privately) who they want to live with.

For starters, no matter what they say, it isn't really up to them and so it's almost like a cruel line of questioning. Then there's the "mood" factor. What kind of mood are my kids in? Did they get in trouble that day? Are they generally in a happy state of mind? And then there's the question of whether or not they've seen their mom recently and what that interaction was like. What did she say to them? How did they feel when they were with her? All of this matters when a caseworker or attorney is going to corner them and ask them where they want to live for the rest of their lives.

It's a terrifying few minutes for me when I'm not in the room and someone is asking the kids I've raised for the last 21 months if they like living with us and if they want to stay.

It doesn't scare Rocky. For him it doesn't matter what the kids say because they will end up where a judge deems is the best place for them. And he is confident that the judge will decide they should stay with us.

But for me, at such a crucial point in the case, it matters to me deeply what the kids say.

I want them to want to be with us.

For me, that means they know they're loved, and safe, and cared for, and tended to, and accepted.

It means they feel like a part of our family; like they've been here all along.

We aren't allowed to be present when they're being asked these questions, and so the whole time I feel anxious, and sick, and sweaty.

What if it's one of those off weeks where they say they want to live with their mom? Or someone else?

What if they say we're mean and they don't like us and that we hurt them?

What if they lie? What if they cry? What if they don't understand the gravity of what they're being asked? (of course they don't)

I am on pins and needles when the caseworker returns from talking to them.

She doesn't offer any information....which I just cannot take.

So I half-jokingly ask, "So did they kids say they want to move in with you?"

Take the bait. 

Take away my stress.

And then, relief washes over me.

The kids love us.

They want to stay.

And I can breathe again.

Down in the Valley

Monday was my brother's birthday.

It was also the day that Rocky and I finally got to testify in our boys' termination case.

The night before was wrought with emotions. For me, I was overcome with anxiety and fear, and confused by an overwhelming resentment and irritation I felt towards Rocky (for absolutely no reason at all). After confessing this to my best friend, she encouraged me to talk to Rocky. I told him how I was feeling, and broke down in tears as he prayed over me, us, our home and the looming trial.

It's a beautiful thing when your spouse loves you in your most vulnerable moments; when they're able to recognize spiritual attack for what it is.

The moment he finished praying a weight was lifted and I felt better. I was ready for court. Ready to get it over with after waiting 6 long months for our turn to testify.

When we arrived at court we were briefed by the State's attorney and GAL (the kids' attorney). They ran through the questions we would be asked, and tried to prepare us for questions the parents' attorneys might ask. That was my biggest worry, really. What would mom's attorney ask me? How would she attack me, or try to poke holes in our case for adoption?

The attorney let me know that he would be calling me first to testify. Rocky would have to wait outside. I would have no friendly face, no support system. I would be sworn in, seated in the box next to the judge, and in front of my boys' parents I would be asked about our life together.

First, the State's attorney.

What do the boys call you? 

Have they met your extended family? What do they call your family members?

Do they have friends? Who? Where?

How are they doing in school?

Tell me about their special needs.

Are they meeting with a therapist? Are you? How is that going?

Have the boys been given a mental health diagnosis? How does that manifest itself?

Do you go on vacation together?

Who do the boys say they want to live with?

Do you want to adopt the boys? Why?

Then the mom's attorney.

You've stated the boys call you "mom." Do you also acknowledge that she [pointing] is their mom?

You've stated that you organize extra visits with their mother. How often does that happen? Is it true that your husband does most of the arranging, transporting and supervising of these visits?

Have you talked to the boys about how they might face discrimination when they get older? How did you do that? How do you plan on addressing this in the future?

Is it true that [the older child]  (20 months ago) said inappropriate, sexually explicit things at school? Is it true that he also said his foster dad had done something to him?

You've stated you take the kids to church every Sunday. Did you ever talk to their mom about her family's religious beliefs?

[The youngest] acted out violently towards babies when his last biologic sibling was born. Has he reacted similarly since you've had your baby?

She questioned me aggressively, trying to defeat me, pound me down to remind me that I'm not their mom. I pushed back. I told the ugly truth. I corrected her "facts."

And then I was dismissed, and it was Rocky's turn.

He was questioned for half the amount of time.

And he was relieved and glad it was over.

And I was disappointed.

They didn't ask me the most important questions. Questions like,

What is their favorite thing to do?

What makes them laugh?

What do they say they want to be when they grow up?

How do you comfort them when they're sad and miss their family?

When they have a victory, how do you celebrate with them?

When they have a setback, how do they overcome it?

What does your day-to-day life look like?

What's your greatest desire for their future?

You see, I wanted them to see my kids for who they are, not what they are. A statistic. Two kids out of eight who have been removed. Little black boys living with a white family, who just had a biological child of their own.

They didn't see them as individuals. As little boys who have overcome tremendous adversity, and who will have to continue to do so for the rest of their lives. They didn't see a 6 and 7 year old who love playing all kinds of sports, and watching movies and playing Legos and drawing. They didn't see sweet future men who love to help mom clean, and cook, and fold laundry. They didn't see two capable, kind, big brothers, who cater to their baby brother when he cries and who are already trying to teach him how to play basketball.

They didn't see them.

They didn't see us.

Court is there to decide where the boys will be a family.

But we already are one.

Every day for the last 638 days we have very much been a family and I have very much been their mom.

We have met every need, comforted every worry, encouraged every doubt, bandaged every wound, cured every belly ache, attended every school meeting, been available for every therapy session and family visitation, advocated every right, championed every success, grieved every failure...

We are a family.

We don't need a court to tell us that.

What we do need is for them to decide to allow us to remain a family.

And for that, all I can do is wait. And pray. And ask the God of the universe to go before us and make a way for these boys, whom He has loved far longer than I have.

I have to believe He will make a way...

"Even when I walk through the darkest valley, 

I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. 

Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me."

(Psalm 23:4)

Amazing Grace (How Sweet the Sound)

I didn't want little boys.

When we were filling out all the paperwork to become foster parents I knew I didn't want little boys.

I wanted siblings, sure. I envisioned a boy and a girl, probably because I grew up with a little brother. It's not the gender that I was opposed to, specifically. It was the "little." I wanted older, hard-to-place kids. Kids that weren't "cute" anymore, who maybe were misunderstood or hard to reach. (What I really wanted was a baby, but I knew we were not equipped for that yet and I was determined to try for one on my own). I knew myself. I wanted babies or older kids. No in-betweeners.

When we got that call that Monday morning from our foster agency and the voice on the other end of the phone said, "We have four siblings; two little girls and two little boys. Can you take either pair?" all I could feel was adrenaline, and sadness for these kids, but mostly adrenaline. It was happening. They had called us. These kids needed a home. But how should we decide between the boys or the girls?

Age.

We chose the older kids. The boys.

They were older by a small margin that made becoming instant parents to two kids seem more manageable.

They were still little and we were ill-prepared to care for them.

But we moved, and breathed, and slept little those first few days and weeks. We found a jagged rhythm that mostly worked. There was one step forward and two steps back. Some days there were leaps back. Days where Rocky and I would look at each other with sheer exhaustion, and sometimes even regret.

They were so little. So traumatized. They needed so much. And we were spent.

And sometimes they hated us, and sometimes, we didn't like them very much either.

And it's taken me almost two years to admit that.

To admit that to myself, and to others. Maybe even to God.

You know what has finally allowed me to say that?

Having Owen.

Having Owen has made me realize that it's completely normal to sometimes not like your children (and it's not because I've felt that way with Owen...yet). I wasn't sure, initially, if I had so much trouble with feeling the way I did because it was accompanied by guilt (They were foster kids, after all. How could I judge them for acting out and saying hurtful things?) or because it just didn't seem likely that a mother could love her children in one moment and then not be able to stand the sight of them in the next.

Some days with the boys felt like I was trapped in a prison that I had built for myself. How could I ask to be freed of the thing I had pursued unabashedly?

Having Owen opened my eyes, and heart, to the complexity and depth of a mother's love for her child(ren). It made it okay for me to trudge through the muddiness of my feelings for the boys. It made me realize, now 4 months postpartum, how much I really do love them.

It has been such a relief for that love to be confirmed.

It sounds silly, I know. Clearly I love them. I've always loved them on some level (it ebbs and flows and favors one over the other on any given day or moment, as most parents can attest to). But this time, now, I knew it was real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit. My love for them has been proven to be real.

The love I have for Owen shined a light on the depth of my love for the boys.

Yes, it's a different kind of love.

At first, I was convinced it was different in a lesser way, a horrible way. I was ashamed and disturbed by how much I loved Owen compared to the boys. Frustrated that all the things people had warned me about ("Just wait until you have your own. You'll see that you can't/won't/don't love them the same.") was true.

I was horrified.

But then, something happened. Somewhere over the last month, as I struggled, and talked to Rocky and friends, and prayed, and watched from the sidelines, I have fallen in love with my boys all over again.

It's like what was once lost has been found.

Was it the pregnancy hormones finally leaving my system?

Was it the newness of Owen, and the overwhelming, intoxicating love I felt for him wearing off?

Was it the self-reflection and prayers offered up, confessions and pleadings to God for the feelings to go away?

Was it the unending support offered by my husband and friends, who assured me that I wasn't wrong, or evil, or crazy, or abnormal?

Was it the amazing grace given by a Holy and Blameless Creator, who brought me into the light after walking for a time through a dark valley?

My soul tells me it's all of those things.

It's truth, and forgiveness, and understanding and grace; for my kids, for myself, for our unique family dynamic.

Some days it's still really hard to parent little kids. Some days it's excruciation to be a foster parent, a stand-in who is unappreciated and resented. Some days the lack of progress after nearly two years seems overwhelming and I want to throw my hands up in the air and give up. Some days, I don't like my kids.

But when I lay my head down at night, and I think about God and I think about our day and regret the kind of parent I was (or wasn't), I pray for more.

More time.

More patience.

More grace.

More kids.

They're still so little, but they're growing up so fast. They may not be on par with their peers (just yet), and they may need to be reminded and scolded and guided and molded, but they're my kids. And I love them. And I miss them when they're gone, and I walk by their bedroom door at night and see them sleeping softly in their beds and I can't believe how big they are. So big, and yet so little.

These boys of mine....

I never did want little boys.

But God knows what we need, doesn't He?

And I am so, so thankful that He does.

Sweet Child O' Mine

(Drafted in April and somehow never published)

I always though I was good at giving gifts. Friends birthdays, Christmas, "just because" gifts.

Since moving to Chicago and being a part of our new church, I've realized that I'm not that great at giving gifts. It's not my strong point. Not the way I show love to others. Which makes it hard when it seems like everyone is constantly showering me with gifts. Baby clothes and toys, pampering stuff for new moms, unlimited time and help and support as our family transitioned from 4 to 5. I, we, have been blessed beyond measure. Our community has taken care of us, their own. We have wanted for nothing.

And life has been good. Full. Whole. Entirely consuming.

Many things have kept me away from writing here. Exhaustion. Lack of time. Wanting to snuggle my newborn instead of hanging out online. But I think the thing that's prevented me from writing more than anything is the lack of words. The writer's block. How on earth do I put down in writing what my heart and soul cannot even grasp? The gift we have been given from the greatest Giver of all.

Our boy, Owen Samuel Stone, came quietly into the world on his due date, March 17, 2015, at 4:48 p.m. and we all instantly fell head-over-heels in love. He was (is) absolutely perfect in every way. Strong, healthy, impossibly gorgeous. Our baby was finally here!

I have struggled to process my overwhelming, all-consuming love for this child. The way his body curls up into a ball in my chest after he's nursed. The way he breathes softly and warmly on my neck when I hold him and pat his back. The way he smiles and laughs in his sleep. The way he is comforted out of tears by my voice, or my scent, or my touch. I am daily in awe, and tears, at this beautiful boy.

How do you put into words the way you feel about the greatest gift you've ever received?

How do you write a blog post about the deepest love you've ever felt?

There just aren't words.

So I will simply say that we are so happy. We are over-the-moon, swimming in baby giggles and milk comas, oohing and ahhing at every new thing Owen does, staring at him while he sleeps as our eyes fill with tears.

We are so, so happy.

Sitting, Wishing, Waiting

Well, I'm two days away from my due date and still no sign of baby. I know labor can start at any minute, but it feels like he will never come out. I guess I have made him too comfortable a home in the safety of my belly.

I've had two glorious weeks off work to prepare for his arrival. Two weeks of nesting, naps and daydreaming about what he will look like, how he will feel in my arms, how different our lives will be once he's here. It still feels like a fantasy...

A week and a half ago I experienced symptoms that made me think he would be here early. So mom and sister hopped in the car and headed out here, making sure to not miss his birth. While I feel bad that they rushed out here with an urgency that apparently was unfounded, I've been thankful for their company, their help and just to have them here with me during this time. There's nothing like the support and camaraderie of your people.

The boys, especially our little one, has become impatient with the baby (as we all have). Everyday he talks to my belly multiple times, imploring his brother to "Come out!" He has all kinds of ideas as to why he hasn't come out yet. "Is he sleeping mom?" "Maybe he's putting he clothes on." "Is he going to stay in there forever?" "Mom, when the baby comes out I'm going to watch him play, and sleep and eat."

We are all eagerly awaiting his arrival...

As for me, my feet are unrecognizable. I can barely squeeze them into flip flops anymore and shoelaces have to be opened far and wide in order to get my foot into my tennis shoes. I've never had rolls on the tops of my feet before; it's a feeling I will be happy to not have anymore once baby arrives. I'm still doing more than maybe I should (and certainly more than Rocky wants me to do), but I can't just sit around all day. There's still laundry to be washed, meals to be made, cleaning to get done. Plus, it keeps my mind off the longing of wishing this labor thing would commence already.

Rocky has been amazing, as usual. Working around the clock at his normal 9 to 5, coming home and helping with dinner and homework, then working on the house so that things are in better condition for when baby gets here. I think these are also the way he distracts himself from the waiting game. He wants to hold his son so bad. For 10 months I've been holding him in my own way; Rocky has been ready, and is pining to hold his baby in his arms.

We all continue along, in our own ways, to kill the time between now and a new day.

I'm trying to take the advice of my mama friends. "Enjoy this time!" "Sleep! Eat! Rest! Watch TV!" "Everything is going to change; it's going to get harder. Savor these last few days." I'll admit it's hard to do. I feel ready. I've felt ready. We've wanted this for years. Plus, my body is just done. Between the swelling and the carpal tunnel I've developed in my right hand, things are getting fairly uncomfortable.

I know he's worth every ache, pain and discomfort. I know that he's the answer to so many prayers. I know that this time won't last forever; he's coming soon.

And we wait, with hopeful expectation, with arms outstretched to hold him.

We wait for our little prince to make his entrance, to make even more whole a family who has wanted him since before time.

Come, sweet baby. The whole world is waiting for you.

Winter

It's been two weeks since the last post, the news that our day in court had been postponed for another three months. We've had time to grieve, be angry and move on to everyday normal life. Things have been quiet, uneventful even. Everything feels normal; nothing lurking under the surface, no shoe waiting to be dropped, no chaos about to ensue. It's been nice.

We've been cooped up for weeks now due to inclement weather and freezing temperatures. We've seen more snow and ice in the last few weeks than we have for the entire winter. Temperatures have recently begun to dip into the negative, making it painful to even walk to and from the garage to get into the car. Sometimes even our eyeballs and teeth hurt.

It's hard to have little boys full of energy in a city where winter is a good 6 months long. It's hard on moms and dads who have to entertain, mediate, engage and discipline because their kids are so bored that they pick fights with one another. Though it's been a great two weeks, it's also been exhausting. I'm sure my third-trimester fatigue makes matters worse.

Our due date is quickly approaching, and yet it feels like forever away, just out of reach. Rocky has been working relentlessly on nights and weekends to get the nursery ready, build us a laundry room upstairs, and repair drywall and paint in areas that were long overdue for such attention. He is truly my rock and my hero; He loves our family well, and serves me in a way that makes me feel loved and cherished way down in my very soul. In every way that a husband should be, he is Jesus to me.

The boys have been doing tremendously well in school. Our big boy is reading more and more words everyday and was overcome with joy the other night when he was able to read his own homework instructions. It made my heart swell with joy that he was proud of himself instead of feeling embarrassed or inadequate by his delays. His new-found confidence is every parent's dream. Our little one is counting and learning math and can now write his own name without a sample and spell it out-loud without help. We're still working on identifying all letters of the alphabet and struggling to write some numbers, but I see improvements everyday and I'm so proud to be their mom.

As for me, well I'm trying to enjoy the last few weeks of being pregnant. It's hard to do so when I'm stuck at work sitting in a very uncomfortable chair, staring at a computer screen for 7 hours a day. I'm very much counting down the days until I can rest and nest at home in preparation for baby boy's arrival. Only 6 more work days to go! (This countdown has been what's getting me through...)

This has all been such an amazing experience that I feel simultaneously excited and anxious to hold onto it as long as I can. We never expected this baby, and I'm definitely treating it as if it will be my only pregnancy, so I am savoring even the unpleasant parts knowing that this is such an honor and a privilege. Though I am so looking forward to holding my sweet baby in my arms (and truly hoping he comes a little early!), I'm also clinging to his last few weeks in the womb; protected, sheltered, safe. All the things I cannot provide once he's here. All the things I will have to pray to God to provide for him instead.

It's very scary to be a parent, you know. You believe the lie that no one loves your kids more than you do, and that you know best. But the reality is that God loves my children more than I can ever imagine, and His way is the best way. Even when I can't see it. Even when I don't understand. Even when I don't agree. I have to believe that this is true. It is my only comfort when my children suffer an injustice. Knowing that God loves them more, and has a plan for their life that I cannot see, brings me a peace that I otherwise would not have.

Recently, several of our friends have been faced with some tremendous struggles, health-wise. Things that make you lift your eyes up to the heavens and ask, "Why, God? Why did this have to happen to this person?" It's a pointless question, I know, but when we're faced with such tragedy and uncertainty and fear, it's the only question we can think to ask, as if having an answer would bring comfort. We've been stretched as a church, and having our faith grown and deepen in ways that would not have occurred had it not been for the hardships we've encountered, both in our own lives and in our congregation. We're becoming a church that prays for one another, that expects healing, that seeks God in everything. With this, we are being transformed. Our homes, our marriages, our communities are feeling the ripple effect from this tiny pocket of praying immigrant believers in this city. 

With that being said, I humbly ask that you pray alongside us for the following:

-That the boys' court date would stand and that a resolution in their favor would be reached that day

-Healing for our friends suffering from chronic and dangerous health issues

-Provision for our friends who are suffering with finances and unemployment

-A smooth delivery and a healthy baby for us

-And finally, that God would continue to grow and empower our church in this city, for His glory

We cannot do this without the prayers and support of other believers. We are one church, one body, one tribe. May God keep us united, even in our separation. Amen.

Release Me

Yesterday was supposed to be a day of closure.

It was supposed to be the closing of one door and the opening of another.

Instead, it was a day filled with waiting, anxiousness, confusion and more delay.

The door remains ajar.

We got to court at 10:00 a.m. to meet with the State's attorney. She wanted to brief us on the questions that she would be asking us when we took the stand. Questions like, "What were the boys like when they first got placed with you?" and "What are some things you do together as a family?" and "Why do you want to adopt the boys?"

Simple questions, really.

We had been told the case was a slam dunk.

The day before, the State had brought their case against mom and dad. The judge sided with the State.

We were told on Tuesday that mom had been devastated (dad was a no-show), but had held together her emotions.

I do not think I would've been so strong.

When they called court into session at 11:30 a.m., we piled into the small court room along with two other foster parents involved in our case, mom, our caseworker and her supervisor, our kids' therapist, our kids' attorney, mom's attorney and the State attorney. All non-parties and witnesses (us) were quickly dismissed and relegated to the courtroom waiting area, as we are not privy to trial testimony outside of our own.

The first witness they called was the therapist. She was in there for an hour and came out looking battered and worn down. All she could say, and was allowed to say, really, was "It's a lot."

Then the court dismissed for lunch. After only one witness.

We went to lunch with the other foster parents, whom we've grown close to over the last 15 months. They have been raising our boys' little sisters and are in the same boat as us. It was nice to chat about things other than the case, knowing we'd have to testify later that day.

We returned from lunch and the next witness to be called was the foster agency case supervisor. She was our direct caseworker from April-September of 2014, so she had to testify about that period. Witnesses are not allowed to discuss their testimony with other witnesses, but we know that she was asked about the kids' visitation with their mom, their relationship with us, their health and well-being, mom's progress on service plans, etc. She was also in there for an hour, coming out looking exhausted. Apparently there were a lot of power plays and objections from both sides of the fence.

I wasn't nervous. I was actually anxious for my turn. To tell our story and to finally have a voice after all this time.

Only is wasn't to be.

While the supervisor was testifying, other people and attorneys began filing into the waiting area for our court room.

Immediately my heart sunk.

As it turns out, some "clerical error," (according to the judge) resulted in our courtroom and our judge being double-booked that day. Effective at 2:30 p.m., our case had to take the back burner while our judge reviewed brand new, emergency cases because State law dictates that when a child is removed from their home, the court has 24 hours to review the case and assign temporary custody, whether that be with a relative or with a foster parent or group home. For some reason, there were many of these cases yesterday and our judge got stuck hearing them all.

Our case never resumed.

At 4:30 p.m. we were pulled into the courtroom and told that our case had to be continued. We were angry and frustrated. Our court date had been scheduled since September 2014, and we had taken off work and waited 7 hours to testify! How could they do this? The unfairness was too much for this pregnant lady to handle. But then the worst news....The next open day on the calendar to hear our case was May 6th. A full 3 months away.

Another devastating blow.

My mind could not fathom how this was possible or allowable.

Our kids were removed from their parents three years ago. Three years! They deserve permanence and justice and security. And we deserve to be heard.

To say we were angry is an understatement.

There were many apologies; "It's outside of our control." "We're just as frustrated as you." "We wish this wasn't the case." Blah blah blah.

I assured them that there was no way possible that they were as frustrated as us, for these are my children. This is not my job.

We left the court defeated, frustrated, angry and sad.

On the way home I tried to get Rocky to think of some positive things in life that we could focus on, to lift our spirits and give us hope; Neither one of us really wanted to be encouraged. We were too upset.

But I had to try. I couldn't pass all these negative emotions onto the baby, and I certainly did not want to go home in a horrible mood and inadvertently take it on the boys. So I began listing things, anything really, that we could think about instead. It helped a little, but not really. Though I wasn't fuming anymore by the time we got home, I was physically, emotionally and spiritually spent. I could've gone right to bed had it not been for our sons needing help with homework and wanting to tell us about their day. And it was all Rocky could do to not scoop them up and kiss them every 5 minutes, trying to heal his broken heart.

It was a hard night.

It's still hard this morning.

I have to keep reminding myself that nothing has changed. The boys are still ours, we didn't lose the case, and we have so much to look forward to. The baby is due in 6 weeks, we're healthy, employed, insured, and the boys are happy and doing well in school. Our marriage is solid and we have tremendous support from family and friends.

We know we're blessed.

But man....I wish I understood why God didn't answer our prayers.

All night I kept asking, "Who's prayer did you answer, God? Because it wasn't ours."

It's in my sinful nature to blame God; It makes sense to me because He's the one who is really in control.

Why didn't He end this yesterday?

Why is this dragging out so long?

Why? Why? Why?

I'm trying to have hope; See the good, cling to other answered prayers.

But it's hard when the waves of defeat are so heavy, and the sound of doubt and fear so loud.

What choice do I have but to keep praying, "Please, God. Let it be finished."

Sounds Like Hallelujah

Last night we had the opportunity to participate in a community meeting regarding a local zoning change that would have negatively (in our opinion) impacted our immediate neighborhood.

I'll admit...We were fired up, but skeptical that we would be able to trust our Alderman (the city elected politician presiding over our ward) to act in the best interest of his constituents. We'd never dealt with him, and to be honest, he isn't even our Alderman. (We live on a dividing line between the wards, so we really weren't familiar with him or his politics at all.)

We showed up at 6:30 p.m. with our kids and friends in tow and were pleasantly surprised to discover about 80 other residents at the meeting who had come to voice their concerns and ask questions about the zoning change and proposed project. Suffice it to say that we were impressed with the turnout, especially given the very short notice for the meeting.

I cannot tell you how neat it was to look around that elementary school cafeteria and see so many different people, men and women and children, ranging in age from in-utero to 95! And talk about diversity! Just about every nationality was represented, as well as singles, marrieds, same-sex couples, business owners, foster parents, community leaders, etc.. I immediately felt a kinship with my neighbors that I had not experienced before. We were a community, and regardless of the outcome, we were in this together.

I'll spare you the details and skip to the ending: Not one person there spoke out in favor of the proposed change and development project. The entire community was against it and vowed to fight together if it moved forward. Elderly couples and veterans who have lived in the neighborhood for more than 50 years braced themselves on their canes and walkers to say, "No! Absolutely not! We do not want this!" Pregnant women (myself included) spoke passionately about how this development would change the face of our neighborhood and negate the very reason we chose to move there. Community activists and business owners talked about how the project would not benefit the neighborhood at all, but would instead line the pockets of the large developer who was proposing it. Concern after valid concern was voiced to claps, cheers and agreements from the rest of the audience. And at the end of the evening, the Alderman stated that he had heard us loud and clear and that he would not be approving the zoning change.

We had done it.

We had stood together and we had won.

It made me feel proud, and patriotic, and warm and fuzzy about our new community.

We got to meet our neighbors afterwards and even exchanged information with another foster family whose son, as it turns out, went to summer camp with our boys! Rocky even connected with the Alderman (who will become our Alderman in February) and invited him to one of our Sunday Suppers. All in all, the night was a huge success, and we left feeling victorious and full of love for our neighborhood and all the people in it.

But today it got me thinking....

Why don't we see this in our churches?

Don't get me wrong; I love my church and the people in it (well, most of them, most of the time), but I never feel what I felt last night when I'm at church on Sunday.

It doesn't feel like we're a team.

It doesn't feel like we're united for a cause.

It doesn't make me feel excited and passionate and connected to something bigger than myself.

Why is that?

Clearly I'm guilty of being a part of this problem. I bring my own baggage, put up my own walls, refuse to budge on things that matter to me that might not be that crucial to the big picture.

Why is it that as a culture we always join forces to fight a battle, but we never unite just to live life together?

Last night after the meeting we left excited to keep in touch with the neighbors we'd talked to, and vowed to get together when the weather warmed up, promising to "see each other soon." But the reality is, we all then went home and shut our doors and over time, the excitement and camaraderie we felt last night might wear off.

If we don't fan the flame.

I think that's what's missing from our churches, or at least what I perceive to be missing (and again, I take the blame for my own part in that.)

What happens when we don't even have an ember to stoke the passion we once felt? What happens to our hearts and souls and minds when we let that flame be snuffed out by division and sin and selfishness and self-interest and my-way-is-the-right-way? How do we turn the tide?

I don't have the answer, because for me, it's all about passion and unity.

But how do you unify when you're passionate about different things?

Why am I more passionate about causes than I am about Christ?

This is a real problem.

I need to get to work and figure out where that fire went and take it back.

I think, only then, can I inject my own little bit of passion back into the church and hope others catch on fire.

It sure would help if white churches were more diverse and animated...like my community meeting.

Just saying...

Can I get an "Amen?"

Boys Don't Cry

Baby boy is due exactly 7 weeks from tomorrow.

In 7 weeks (give or take) we will be caring for a newborn and juggling our boys in a new way of life.

It is overwhelming to think about everything I'm supposed to be doing in the next few weeks, knowing that really, he can come at any time, and ultimately, I can never prepare for this huge life change. How does anyone ever prepare to care for another human being so fragile, so vulnerable, so small that they literally depend on you for everything?

These last few days have been difficult at home. Our big boy has been acting out, which feels weird to say because it's not like he's throwing tantrums, or yelling, or destroying things, or even raising his voice or crying. He's just making bad choice after bad choice and then dropping the mic and walking offstage. We're trying to get to the bottom of it, but sometimes answers from a 7-year old are frustrating and no help at all.

How do you argue with the honesty of, "Because I wanted to?"

As parents, we want a logical response. "I did A because B made me upset." But with children, you just don't get that luxury very often. Logic and rationale are not strong qualities for young children.

I can always somewhat predict when a storm will start to brew. Usually, it's leading up to an event, or "trigger," as we call them. Even if our boy doesn't understand and connect the dots, we can assume (usually correctly) that he will exhibit some kind of meltdown either behaviorally or emotionally that causes him to check out, shut down, close off.

This time around, I think it's our upcoming court date.

A few weeks ago I sat him down and told him that we would be going to court soon, along with his mommy, and a judge would decide where he and his brother would live forever. I explained in age-appropriate terms what kinds of things the judge would look at, and questions we might be asked, and told him that no matter what, both mommies and daddies would always love him and that none of this was his fault. He asked a lot of questions and was emotionally calm and seemed to understand.

But then two weeks later, it's Bad Choice Boulevard.

No warning, no explanation, no remorse or regret.

Just matter-of-fact I-did-it-because-I-wanted-to.

When you're the adult in this situation, you want to say, "No, you did it because you're angry and you don't think it's ok to feel your feelings and you feel guilty about being mad at your parents so instead, you act our your anger and solidify the lie that you believe about yourself being the cause of all of this."

But that won't do.

And he would never admit it anyway.

And then some days, like yesterday, his words will start flowing like a fountain of life and I avoid eye contact, and only feign half interest because I'm afraid if I act like I'm listening too hard that he will stop talking. And I don't want that.

So I preoccupy myself, and nod, and "uh huh," and "oh really?" and let him talk, and talk, and talk, until he's ready to say how he really feels.

And that's when he says it.

"I want to stay here."

And it's too good to be true, and even though he doesn't have a say and he may just be saying what he thinks I want to hear, it's enough to make my heart break and swell at the same time.

What does it take for a 7-year old to say he'd rather live with surrogate parents that his own flesh and blood?

It's too much to think about, really.

But in that moment, in that 15-minute span of lucidity and wisdom beyond his years, he recognized where he feels safe and where he knows he's loved and where is community and future lie, and he spoke the words aloud like a prayer.

And I lifted his words up to the heavens and prayed, God, let it be so.

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

This morning while riding the train I got quite nostalgic thinking about Rocky and I's courtship, how long ago it seems and yet how my heart feels like it was yesterday that we shared our first kiss. It's odd, but every time this baby moves I think about how he was only made possible because his daddy asked me out on a date. (A date I almost didn't go on, but nevermind that...)

I am so grateful for the life God has given me.

Today I am 32 weeks pregnant with baby boy. For 32 weeks I have worried, prayed, laughed, sang, smiled and of course, rubbed my belly. I am so in love with being pregnant and even more in love with this baby in my belly. Of course I miss having a waist and being able to pivot (PIVOT!). Sure getting out of bed is harder and it's becoming impossible to tie my shoes. I've gone up a few bra sizes (bras aren't cheap!) and have become clumsy and forgetful, and yeah, severe heartburn and extreme pregnancy hormones are a thing.

But man...

Being pregnant is awesome.

I know I've said a million times that I didn't ever think it was something I would get to do, and so for that alone I am so thankful. But even outside of that, even if I took reproduction for granted (which I do not), the experience of growing a baby is just so neat. I love it so much that I allow it to break my heart for all the millions of women who might never get to do this. I remember being in that camp...and I still grieve for them. I still pray for them. I know God works miracles...I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with them hoping the miracle will be theirs.

But back to that kiss.

That first date led to many more dates and about a month later, to our first kiss.

And boy was it a doozy! (Just imagine me fanning myself and blushing.)

He was all I wanted in a man PLUS a good kisser? Was I in for it, or what?

That kiss was the beginning of so many dreams, for me and for us as a couple. Dreams about marriage, and ministry and family. About hopes too precious to say out loud, and fears that went deeper than I ever knew. That kiss both awakened me, and slayed me, because I knew I was done for. That was it. Ruined.

He had my heart.

This man, who I had so wrongly thought for so long was a non-committal goofball, had captured me and planted in me dreams that I never let myself dream before. And God has allowed so many of those dreams to come true through my marriage to Rocky. A wonderful marriage built on love, respect and teamwork, an active ministry at church and with our children through foster care, and now a baby on the way.

Blessed does not begin to cover it.

As I count down to baby's due date, I am overwhelmed with pride and love that his daddy will love him fiercely, protect and provide for him, and shepherd him to love Jesus, just like he already does for our boys. Just like he does for me.

And for that, well, as if I didn't already love him beyond words, I will love him even more.

Thank you for all the dreams your love has allowed me to dream. I love you. -N.

Push

Being a parent involves saying so. many. words.

Sometimes I wonder why God made introverts at all. It seems like the whole world is full of talkers, noise-makers, sound-causers.

It's enough to fry my senses.

And then I wonder even further, why did God make introvert mothers?

Last night, while watching the Golden Globes, a girlfriend referred to Fifty Shades of Grey as "mommy porn."

I had to disagree.

"Mommy porn" to me is a silent room where no one is calling out, "Mommy?" every 5 seconds.

Parents coach their babies and hope that their first words will be "mommy" or "mama" or "dada," and when that word finally escapes your child's lips it feels like overwhelming joy. Like the Grinch must have felt when his heart grew 3 sizes. It's the best feeling, and the novelty of it lasts a while, I'll admit.

But then.

"Mommy" can start to sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Please don't misunderstand; I love my kids and I love being their mom.

But the constant "mommy" calling, never-ending stream of random questions, and non-stop chatter can be overwhelming for this loves-her-quiet-and-her-personal-space mama.

Yes, laugh now.

We all know I"m growing a tiny human who will shred every last bit of quiet in this house to smithereens.

And personal space? Ha! I may as well say adios to that now.

I guess I'm just trying to wrap my head around more noise, more mess, more imperfect, more of my sin coming to the surface.

Kids need.

Kids need a lot.

Kids need a lot all the time.

This is why so many say that becoming a parent has been the greatest sanctification process of their lives. It really does take all of you, and it will not satisfied with a mediocre offering.

The thing is, even knowing this, even feeling how I feel some days (exhausted, overwhelmed, frustrated, anxious, over-stimulated), I would still do it all over again.

That crazy, biological, innate, inexplainable love you have for your child conquers all the things that bug the hell out of you. The "Mommy?s,"the pee on the toilet seat, the mountain of laundry (of clothes that aren't even dirty but got thrown in the hamper due to laziness), the everyday spills of beverages and meals, the destruction of my once-nice things, the constant talking-sounds-noises coming from my children...I can keep going, but you get the point...I would still do it again. (I would still find all these things annoying, too).

I know that I am both called and privileged to be a mother. I know the lives He has entrusted me with are precious. I know that He has equipped me to do this job, even when I get the urge to run and hide in my room or cry because why won't they stop talking to me? I know I'm not a cookie-cutter, pinteresty mom packing bento boxes for my kids' lunches and coordinating celebrity-level birthday parties for all their friends; I'll never be that mom. I don't even have the energy to consider trying to be that mom. I certainly don't have all the words it would take.

But I am an advocate. And a defender. And a loud voice where there are too many hushed whispers.

And that's who my kids need me to be.

Sure, we still snuggle on the couch and sip hot chocolate and read story books and have tickle fights; we do all those things that mamas and sons do. And they need that, too. And I'll be that for them, too.

But sometimes, this mommy likes to remember when she wasn't one; When she and her husband would steal off to San Diego on a whim and stay in a hotel on the beach, or drive up the central coast of California and go wine tasting, or jet off on a plane to some new destination...That, my friends, is mommy porn.

And when I've had my fill of reminiscing about life B.C. (before children), I take a deep breath, pick up the laundry basket, grab a roll of toilet paper under my arm, and get back to work.

C'est la vie.

Unwritten

It's 2015.

What a weird number.

Even living in it, it seems like some sci-fi futuristic year where a machine should make my meals and a robot maid should clean my house.

And yet, life is the same as usual.

Looking back over 2014 (because isn't that what you're supposed to do at the beginning of a new year?), I feel exhausted!

Rest was not a big theme in our lives last year. We bought a house and started renovating it, began hosting more get-togethers, dinners and out-of-town guests, became landlords to two sets of tenant-friends, grew a baby, saw both kids enter school full-time, refinanced said house, and nursed about 1,000 (it seems) colds, fevers and allergy attacks.

And that's not even counting all the foster care-related stuff.

2014 was full blessing, but also full of busy.

This busyness culminated in our entire household getting sick the week of Christmas; colds that Rocky and I are still trying to kick. It was an interesting way to cap off the year...

Meanwhile, my floors need to be cleaned, the stairs haven't been vacuumed or swept in months (what's the point when there's constant drywall dust from ongoing construction?), my refrigerator and pantry are disgusting, our bathrooms are consistently covered with filth from dirty little hands and toothpaste explosions, and every room in the house has doubled as storage since we are in the full-blown stages of nesting renovations.

Today a friend asked me, "How are you keeping your sanity?"

Honestly, I'm just too tired and maybe even too lazy to lose my sanity.

The thing is, I have an awesome husband who is both my friend and my partner. I don't need to stress or nag about the things he's working on because I know he's working on them. And bonus, he's working on them for me. I don't need to get anxious about everything coming together on time or about the house not being as clean as it was pre-kids because - NEWSFLASH - it's never going to be that way again.

Sure, I can be annoyed by the fact that sweeping has become obsolete because my formerly-fabulous banana leaf dining room chairs have become so destroyed by my kids that they consistently shed fibers like they've been attacked by a wild animal. And I can get frustrated by the (seeming) fact that no one picks up after themselves in common areas, leaving me to perform a room sweep before I go to bed every night. And yes, I can fume about the fact that my kids have broken more clothes hangers and non-toy items playing with them as if they were toys that I can even count...but what's the point?

Having kids has taught me a lot about the things I value.

I wish I could say with some wisdom and humility that they've opened my eyes and made me a more patient, loving, live-in-the-moment person, but sadly, that's not where I'm going.

I still really want the clean house, and functional furniture, and not to step in toothpaste when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.

I want to sleep in (if the baby will let me), and drink coffee in bed on the weekends and go on a spontaneous date with my husband without having to entertain, or make plans for someone else to entertain, my children.

I'm selfish. I admit it.

Having kids just makes selfishness more obvious.

I don't want to be selfish, mind you.

But it's a reality.

And I know I'm in for a rude awakening once baby boy arrives and I literally have to move myself from the back burner to that nasty, greasy crevice between the back of the oven and the kitchen wall. I know that I have seen nothing yet when it comes to dying to self, humility, exhaustion, desperation.

Truthfully, I'm kind of scerred.

You should pray for me, because I know that pretty soon I will be stepping in worse things than toothpaste.

Still, new years hold so much promise, don't they?

The blank slate, the unwritten pages, the anything-is-possible air.

Who knew that in 2014 we would conceive our miracle baby?

Who knew that in 2014 we would see the tide shifting for our boys towards permanency with our family?

Who knew that in 2014 we would witness miracles in our families? Healings, reconciliations, redemption stories?

2015 will hold all of those things, too, and maybe more.

Maybe Rocky will get a new job that he loves.

Maybe we will adopt our boys.

Maybe one of our siblings will get engaged or married.

Maybe someone in our family will come to Christ.

Maybe there will be an unexpected death, or loss, or tragedy that shakes our faith to the core.

Maybe 2015 will be challenging and not nearly as positive as 2014.

But isn't that life? We just don't know what's coming next.

Which is why, all this to say, that I need to learn how to better live in the moment. To be open to anything.

Every year, bloggers in the blogosphere (that's a thing) choose a word (kind of like a resolution) that they hope will embody the year. I never participate (1) Because I'm not a "blogger," and (2) Aforementioned laziness.

This year, though, with so much changing in our lives, I feel compelled to choose a word. To have a word, like a mantra, to fall back on when I start to get anxious, or nervous, or stressed.

The word I've chosen is OPEN.

I want to be open this year. Open to new friendships, to a different lifestyle, to my family's ever-changing needs, to this city's people, to the God I serve.

I want to live freely and peacefully in a state of openness that will lead to a healthier me, for both myself and my family.

I want to believe that His yoke is easy, and His burden light, and that I don't have to carry around all this should've, would've, could've that most moms live with everyday.

I want to enjoy the people God has placed in my life without conditions and expectations.

I want to be content in every circumstance.

I'm going to start this year being open to everything and up for anything.*

Join me?

*Except skydiving and sushi, Rocky Stone.