The real person smiles in trouble, gathers strength from distress, and grows brave by reflection.

Little one, the past few weeks have been a huge mix of emotions. The highest of highs and the lowest of lows. I'm not going to get into it right now, but this journey has been a rollercoaster.

Going through the past week has prompted me to reflect quite a bit. I went back and read some of our old entries, the very first ones in January and February. I have to say, it was a bit painful to read and tears were shed- but it helped.

I realize when reading those words that were written only ten and eleven months ago, it feels like a lifetime has passed. And it has. A lifetime of experience, anyway. Reading back I can see the hope we had in the beginning that everything would work out like clockwork, the images in our head that we'd have a baby born in June and that we'd get the storybook ending. I see the trust I had in this before. I see how crazy naive we were back then.

But that is not an entirely bad thing, Lo. Being naive and not knowing the outcome gave us the strength to even pursue this, and now that we're in it- we're in it until you are here. Besides, a storybook ending really is not our style.

And when I look back and read all of that, how we were taking baby steps and thinking it was all going to work out great, it makes me both happy and sad. Happy, because with reflection comes knowledge and perspective. We've come so very, very far in this journey. We've gone through things we'd never dream we'd have to go through, and we're still fighting. We thought we'd have a bouncing six month old on our laps for Christmas this year, and that life would just go on like nothing happened. But as you know, that is not how this story panned out. Oddly though, that part doesn't make me sad.

What makes me sad is the amount of hope and trust we had when this all started. I feel like with the experiences we've had as of late with failed matches, with scams, with hurt...it feels like the hope and trust we once had a mountain of in our hands is now slipping through our fingertips like sand. I'm clenching my fingers tight to keep any semblance I have left, but it just keeps pouring out.

That is the saddest part of all.

We're not losing hope or faith in you, sweet baby. We're not losing our sense of you being in our family. That we will never lose. We're losing our trust. Every connection we make, I have to guard my heart. If I let myself feel attached and get invested, I ultimately end up getting hurt as I have every time. So to guard myself, I try to look at it objectively, logically, without emotions.

But I'm not a robot, baby. I cannot help but fall and let myself feel every ounce of hope, trust, faith...and then it all comes crashing down on my head again. It's like filling a balloon with your entire self: your love, your hope, your faith, and someone just keeps popping it with a pin and letting all the air out. I've repaired it so many times, and I promise myself I won't let it get filled up again, but it does. I can't help it.

I can't help it because it's so personal, so close to my chest. It's you in that balloon, sweet baby, because it's you in my heart.

When I think back to the person I was earlier this year, I barely recognize that person. She was excited about this, she was learning new things every day about adoption and taking each day as it comes. When I put that person that I was next to the person I am now, it's easy to spot the difference. Now I am tired. I am running myself ragged. I am hurt. I am healing. I am trying to take each day as it comes- but it's harder than it has ever been.

I knew this journey would be hard, but I don't think my head or my heart were prepared for it being this hard. This doesn't change anything with us wanting to adopt, with us fighting for you as hard as we possibly can. It just means that your Dad and I are far stronger than we ever knew, far braver than we'd ever realized, and so in love and in this together than anyone could ever imagine.

I love the saying that it is always darkest before the dawn. We didn't know this journey would get this dark, we didn't know it would take this much out of us. But we're strong, and so are you sweet baby. Your soul will find a way to get to us, no matter what. You are meant to be with us.

That is what this is all about, and all it's ever been about, Lo. It's about you. It's not about our desire to be parents, our wants or needs. It's about you, your life, your future.

I wish I had all the answers. I wish I knew why things happened when they happen. I wish for a lot of unfathomable things, especially lately. I just hope you're not unfathomable. I hope that someone can open up their trust to us as we will to them. We're ready. We've been ready for months now. Our hearts are still hurting from all the pain we've experienced lately, but we're not broken. We're ready with our arms wide open, but we need the other side. We need someone who is going to open their arms up and trust us just as we will trust them, and clasp our hands tight to form a circle of love around you.

Because this is all about you, sweet baby.

It's always darkest before the dawn. I'm hoping to see that sunrise soon, Little Darling.

With love, reflection, and a renewed sense of trust and hope,

Never ever ever ever ever ever giving up.

Love,

Mom

A man only learns in two ways, one by reading, and the other by association with smarter people.

Little One, we must learn from others. Others experiences, others journeys- they will teach us more than any textbook in this world.

So when the opportunity arose to participate in an interview project with fellow adoption bloggers, I jumped at the chance. I never knew I would be so lucky as to be paired with Lori Lavender Luz from Write Mind, Open Heart. Lori is a  soon to be published author (check out her book debuting in March 2013 and preorder here),  a mother through adoption and an open adoption advocate. She knows far more than I do about the open adoption journey, and I learned so much from my interview with her.

Please read the following interview with Lori, and learn as much as I did about this amazing beacon in the adoption community:

STBH: What motivates you to write? Have you ever faced writers block, and if so, how have you overcame it?

Lori: I've always been a wonderer. I've always liked to see the same thing from different angles to understand it better. I find, when I'm writing a post, that in trying to be clear with my reader, I'm also finding clarity for myself. This is why some consider writing as therapy -- it requires focus to take an idea or issue or emotion and reduce it to words. It's the yoga equivalent of finding my core, of honing inward. Writing is introspective and causes me to be more honest with myself, with my motivations. I also like to write because it makes me more observant, more present as I move through my day.
As for writer's block, I do get it every once in awhile. Sometimes I just take a short break from my blog (usually not more than a week). Sometimes I just sit down with a blank page and commit to be there for an hour. If it flows, great. If not, so what. Guess what...? Usually it flows when I commit to showing up.

STBH: If there were one misconception you could clear up about open adoption, what would it be?

That open adoption is super-hard, that only exceptional people can "do" it. True, parenting in open adoption can be more complicated than parenting in a biologically-built family, but with complexity often come unexpected gifts that you don't get from simplicity.

Know what's hard? Relationships! In them we don't always feel we have the power we want. We don't always know how to get our needs met. We fear someone else being a "wild card" that makes things be beyond our control.This isn't unique to open adoption relationships, though the feelings may be heightened in OA because of strong swirling emotions -- guilt, fear, debt, regret, anger, sadness, envy.

May I address two misconceptions? The other is that love can ameliorate all possible adoption-related issues for the adopted child. Some people are probably wired to be relatively issue-less, and others not so much. Parents (biological and adoptive) don't know which they are getting. I remember thinking that my children would come to me as blank slates whom I could fully influence with my love and guidance (and my husband's). I forgot that they come to me with 23 pairs of other people's chromosomes, which -- surprise -- pack a punch! These babies already had personalities by the time I met them as newborns -- shocker!

So, because your child may have issues with identity formation as s/he grows up (and really, who doesn't?) you might as well provide what you can to them about their birth parents. Maybe that's contact, maybe it's open-hearted conversations, maybe it's just you not being threatened by their wondering and processing.

STBH: How do you feel about PAL (positive adoption language)? Do you think it affects the way your children view their family structure? 

I'm all for being mindful, for choosing one's words deliberately. But if we're too careful, if we tiptoe around the realities of adoption, we indicate that there is something to hide and that there is shame around adoption.For example, I don't say to my daughter, "Crystal put you up for adoption." It sounds so careless and impersonal, like you're talking about a discarded toy. In reality, Crystal's decision was anything but careless and impersonal. Instead, I would say, "Crystal couldn't parent a baby at that time in a safe way, so she decided we would be your parents and she placed you with us." I try to understand how the words would feel to my child.

I wrote about this topic once regarding whether it matters if I say "we adopted my son" (which indicates it's something we did -- or "my son is adopted" (which indicates it's something he is). He seemed to pick up on this distinction, as I found out one morning at Take-Your-Parents-to-School Day. But does it really matter? Some adult adoptees have said that being adopted IS who they are. Or at least a part of who they are.

As for language affecting how our children feel about our family structure, yes, I believe it matters. The more secure and issue-less I can be about the way we became a family, the better the soil from which my emotions and words grow, and the more secure and issue-less our kids will have the opportunity to be. For then they can be left to deal with only their issues and not mine.

STBH: What has been the hardest part of your adoption journey so far?

Once we set out on the adoption journey, back in 2000, most everything seemed to fall into place relatively easily. It was the infertility process that brought me to my knees. Once I learned how to relax the grip I had on controlling my life, I was in a better position to yin-yang my way through the adoption process and now the parenting process. I was always good at the yang part -- making things happen; I had to get comfortable with the yin part -- letting things happen.

STBH: What do you like to do to relax?

I enjoy practicing yoga. For an hour I try to bring my awareness to the confines of my mat. It's a practice of focusing attention, of taming the wild-child that is my mind. It yokes my mind to my body and helps me remember to be more present even off my mat. Through yoga, I'm beginning to "get" that life is a journey and not a destination and shed the "I'll be happy whens." It's still a process. In yoga, everything is a process and no pose is ever perfected.I also love to read  and write and do cool things with my kids like paint pottery. My daughter, 11, plays volleyball and my son plays whatever sport it's the season for, so Husband and I spend a lot of time cheering them from the sidelines.

STBH: Being a self proclaimed new age libertarian, how do you feel about the upcoming election? 

I wish we could break free from our two-party system. The way it is, a candidate doesn't have to get you to vote FOR him (or her); he only has to get you to vote AGAINST the other guy (or gal). So campaigns are based on smear and fear and that makes everyone feel dirty.My family lives in a purple state (and a purple home!) and are thus bombarded with ads and robocalls and fliers that indicate only jerks, idiots and crooks want my vote. My kids have been told by the campaigns that no matter who wins, we're all doomed -- DOOMED I tell you! Husband and I have been doing some damage control surrounding these ubiquitous messages

STBH: Tell about your upcoming book on open adoption.

I was thrilled to announce that my project had a heartbeat last December and that I was going to give birth, metaphorically speaking. I spent the next several months gestating The Open-Hearted Way to Open Adoption: Helping Your Child Grow Up Whole with the help of a lot of midwives (and their male equivalent; midhusbands?). My daughter's birth mom, Crystal, is a contributor to the book, as are a host of other adoptive parents, first parents, adult adoptees and adoption therapists and advocates who shared their insights, viewpoints and wisdom with me -- many who are part of this Open Adoption Bloggers Interview Project!The book will be published by Rowman & Littlefield in April of 2013, and if you'd like to be notified when the book is available, you can get on the contact list. Thanks for asking :-)

Lori Lavender Luz

Again, thank you to Lori for the amazing interview. I cannot wait to read your book when it comes out!

We can learn so much when we just open our eyes and ears to others experiences, Lo.

With my eyes and ears wide open,

Love Always,

Mom

This post is a part of the Adoption Blogger Interview Project. To read more about the project or to read other bloggers interviews, please visit the projects page . To read my interview with Lori, please visit her post.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma - which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.

Little One, the quote above is from the late Steve Jobs, a fellow adoptee who undeniably changed the landscape of technology forever. How did he accomplish so much? He followed his heart with a level head.

If there is one thing I want you to learn in this world, the most important lesson that I am relearning everyday, it would be this: follow your heart, and trust your intuition. 

I'll say it again.

Let the words sink in.

Follow your heart.

Trust your intuition.

We have been presented with a few situations where it was a tough call so far in this journey. At times, we've had to make really, really tough decisions.Hard things to face. We've had to say no to some things, some people- and it's been incredibly difficult to make those decisions. But when something doesn't feel right - you need to trust your intuition. And when something feels so right that no matter how much thinking you do about it, you can't get rid of that indescribable, airy feeling of hope- trust your heart.

It's been a lesson we've learned a lot recently, and it can be applied to almost everything in life. It's tough to balance the logic of your brain and the flood of your emotions. It takes some fine tuning and finesse to be able to detect which one is leading you where at what times. But there will be two very distinct feelings you can never ignore.

The first of which is that feeling in your gut. The one that gnaws and tears at you, no matter how good you may think you feel about something. It's the voice in the back of the theater screaming fire while you're blissfully watching the movie play out in your head. It's the friends advice your ears won't let you hear. It's that outside perspective. It's that fight or flight feeling. It's your intuition, your sensory point of danger. Trust it. Put your life in it. You won't want to hear it a lot of the time. You'll want to drown it out with positives, put a new spin on it, get your emotions involved. It's incredibly hard to ignore, and at the same time, incredibly hard to listen to. In my life so far, my intuition has been a beacon, a lighthouse that brings me back home in the darkest of storms and roughest of seas. It's the keeper of the logic, the neutral safe place in your head that gives you another perspective- not for any reason other than to keep you safe. It's the cold armor of truth round your warm heart.

And then, sweet baby, there is your heart.

Trust in your heart. Follow your heart. When someone says something is impossible, trust in your heart to guide you. Your heart is not the booming voice of intuition, it's the tiny whisper that you have to slow down to understand. It's that little voice inside of your head that when you're so down on life, it softly tells you to try again. It's your soft side, the ship that will take you to the lighthouse. It's that gnawing feeling that you need to stop thinking and make the leap in the zero hour. Sometimes it's the illogical decision that no one understands but you. Sometimes it's going against the grain.

Don't follow trends, Lo. Follow your heart instead.

And they need each other, these two. Intuition needs heart, heart needs intuition. There may be times where it hurts so much to take this advice. Where it feels like the world is crashing down because you are following one or both of these feelings. But know that it's not.

Following your heart is following hope.

We have been burned so far. A lot. But we follow our hearts. Our hearts are telling us to not give up, to keep going, that maybe we've already made the contact we need to make. Our hearts are telling us that this is not a matter of if, but when. That when may not be this month, next month or the following month, but when is when it's meant to be. Our intuition guards our hearts from the people who could potentially hurt us, but lets its guard down when something is safe.

Together, trusting these two feelings will help us find you. And once you learn to trust in them (which is something we're still learning every single day) they will help you find peace, acceptance and where you're meant to be.

And you're meant to be here with us, sweet baby.

With trust, love, and a gut feeling about this going right, 

Love always,

Mom

Remember, the storm is a good opportunity for the pine and the cypress to show their strength and their stability.

 

Little One, we weathered the storm. This Monday hurricane Sandy hit, locking your Dad and me in the house until this morning. Monday night was one of the hardest we've been through together. The eye of the storm passed right over our house. We slept in shifts on the couch, one of us asleep lulled by the sound of our hand cranked operated weather radio, the other holding a flashlight, vigilant to any noise of creak that could signal a tree about to crash onto our home. We huddled on the couch as a family, your Dad and I and all the pets. We protected each other.

In the quiet hours before the storm hit, but after the electricity had gone out your Dad and I made the best of it- we played pictionary, did crossword puzzles as a team and made hand shadows on the wall. We attached glow in the dark neon wristbands to doorways and the staircase to be able to navigate our own house. It's such a weird thing when there is no light- you're in a place so very familiar and yet it all looks so different, so alien. It's like meeting someone you forgot you met the first time- so familiar, yet so distant.

When the light of morning hit, we braced ourselves to open our front door and assess the damage. Walking hand in hand out the door, we were at the ready to call insurance agents and discuss deductables. Miraculously, nothing was damaged. There were branches, leaves, even garbage cans littering our front yard- but no damage.

We weathered the storm.

The most eerie part of it all was when our home was directly in the eye of the storm. It was one of my shifts to be awake, and as I stood looking out into our front yard, the hum of the generators making the air feel electric, everything suddenly fell quiet. No gusts of wind that howled like freight trains as there had been all night, no rain drops pelting the sidewalk with force- nothing. Just calm. Eerie, scary calm. It's that calm that comes right before an accident. It's that calm you remember last before you've forgotten everything else. It's the calm where all you can hear is yourself.

And I realized while looking out that window pane, that it's the calm we're in right now.

We're in the eye of the adoption storm.

The homestudy was hustle and bustle, the fall through and the scam were a mixture of hurt and picking ourselves back up and dusting ourselves off. We've stood strong in the wind and rain, and lately it's been calm. Quiet. Waiting.

But I know that soon, the winds will pick up again. The rain will soak through to our bones, we'll have to stand strong like we always have. But after that, it's over. The storm is gone, and the sun shines again.

We can't wait for your sunrise, LO.

Today is Halloween. It doesn't even feel like halloween, because your Dad is working late to make up lost time from the storm and we have barely any trick or treaters. And yet, I'm still lonely from it. I miss the children dressed head to toe in costumes, holding out bags asking for those sugar packed candies with bright eyes. I remember the days of my youth, going out with my parents in gorgeous homemade costumes my mother had spent months stitching together. Then, as a teenager- opting for the pop culture references that adorned the party store walls. I'm ready to be on the other side. I'm ready to cross over, to be the holder of the little hand across the street, the pusher of the stroller, the impromptu coat rack when costumes get too tiresome to wear at the end of the night.

I hope that next year, we'll have our little sunshine to dress up. I hope next year, I can cross over.

I hope that we're out of the eye soon, because we're well rested now.

We're ready for the wind now.

Waiting for you sunshine, 

Love always,

Mom

Though the wait is long, my dream of you does not end.

Little One, this blank page is haunting me. I've been trying to write to you for weeks, and the words just aren't coming. I'm not really sure why, but I think I have an idea.

 

It might sound insane, but a fraction of me feels like with every passing week that goes by that you're not here, I'm failing you. I'm doing something wrong. I'm not doing enough, I'm doing too much, I'm looking but not finding. Every day that goes without you here, I feel like I'm not living up to my full mother potential.

 

I know that sounds insane. I know, logically, that I cannot control a lot of the aspects of this journey. But for some reason, I can't help feeling like a failure when people ask if we've adopted yet, and I tell them no. Or when I open up the door to your nursery, and I can almost physically feel the emptiness of the room hanging in the air. Or when anniversaries pass-- which seem to be happening more and more often. We thought we'd have you in June, but no. Then we thought you'd come into our lives in October, and we would get to buy your first Halloween outfit. But no. Then we thought, okay- by Thanksgiving- this match should come through.

But no.

 

Week after week after week.

Holiday after holiday.

Ridiculous date after ridiculous date.

 

And the craziest part about all of this is that we're making up these insane deadlines in our head. Yes, we've talked to potential matches in every one of those scenarios that haven't worked out for one reason or another (fall throughs, scams, lost contacts). But it's not the other person that is putting these ideas of a timeline in our head- it's us. We're the ones who are putting this pressure on ourselves.

And it has to stop.

 

You're going to come into our lives when you do. If a situation doesn't work out, then it just wasn't the one that was meant to be. Then it wasn't you. It's so hard to remember that, but we have to in order to keep a level head. When I think of these dissapointments, I try to remember the red thread.

I've talked about the red thread in here before: but basically it is the idea that an invisible red thread connects us all in the adoption tried- us, you, and your biological family. We're all connected by this invisible thread, and it will come together when it's meant to be, because that thread is unbreakable.

And yes, I obviously wish I had a blacklight that would light up this invisible thread and we could follow it to you. But it doesn't work like that. I am a firm believer in things happening for a reason, and though the wait is hard I'm not giving up that idea. When we have hurt, setbacks, pain and heartache- they are all for a greater good. We might not be able to see that good in the present, but in the future we can look back and realize how much we learned and grew in this time.

 

Just the other day I heard a song on the radio that took me back to my college days. More specifically, this was a song I listened to on repeat after a particularly bad breakup. And it made me think (the way music often does), that if time wasn't so linear I wish I could jump back to that time, to face that young college kid and explain to her that her tears are for nothing- because in just a few short months, she would meet the man she's going to marry- her true soulmate. That very quickly in the scheme of things, she'd be married and own a house with this wonderful man. That her life is going to be more amazing than she could ever imagine. That she is crying tears over something she doesn't even understand yet- because when she meets this man she'll finally understand what head over heels, earth shattering, life changing love feels like. That she'll be happy, very soon- for a long time.

And it made me wonder- in years down the road, will I want to travel back to this time to tell the present me that I'm worrying for nothing? To not waste the tears? That this is going to happen, soon, and that this whole waiting process will feel like a blink of an eye?

 

I sure hope so, LO. And that is one reason why I want to push myself to continue writing to you, no matter how hard it might be for me. I want you to be able to read these words and have your history with us, even before it begins.

 

Because though you're not here yet, you are here in so many ways.

 

And this way, you'll be able to look back and read and understand just how much we loved you before you ever came to be in our lives.

 

Though the wait is long, my dream of you does not end.

 

And it never will.

 

 

With love and hope,

Love,

Mom

For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year's end.

 

Little One, people like to make comparisons. It's the best way to help view this world we live in, and I above all am guilty of doing so (as you know from reading this so far). 

But there is one comparison that is continually being thrown in my face that I'm not incredibly fond of these days. It's ironic, because I have even made this comparison in the past. But now, getting further down the road, I realize it's not an equal or proper comparison at all. It's apples to oranges, really.

"The wait is your labor. This time spent is your pregnancy." 

 

I used to think it was true. But now, nine months in to this journey. I am still without you. I continually sit and wait.

And Lo, it's not like pregnancy at all. 

 

If I were pregnant with you, I'd be able to feel you. With a slight movement of your tiny foot or hand, I would feel it in my bones that you rested safe within me. Every twinge would be a perfect little sign from your soul to mine that your physical body is okay, that I am doing what is right as your mother. 

There would be finality to this part of our relationship. I would be able to count down the weeks until we meet: a date would grace my calendar for a reunion: the only type of reunion you can have to someone that you've already known so very intimately for nine months prior. 

 

People would know by looking at me. They would see my watermelon swollen stomach and smile with that knowing smile. They would ask questions, wonder about genders and want to feel that special kick- just because, though they are strangers, they also like that feeling of physical closeness. 

I don't have that. 

 

It's not your fault, and it's not really anything to be faulted anyway. It's just not a comparison that makes sense. 

 

I have no idea when you'll be here, and that reality is hitting me now more than ever. There is no date of finality gracing my calendar. There is no such thing as counting down the days until we meet. 

The worst part however, is that there are no tiny kicks to let me know you're there. And I feel my faith slipping lately, as hard as I try to not let it. With every week that goes by without any progress, I feel that ache of not knowing if you're out there or not- of not having you safely in my arms or my body. I am jealous that other women get this luxury, to know exactly where their children are from the moment they came into the world. 

There are so many positives to adoption, sweet baby. I don't want you to ever think that these negatives make you not worth it. You are worth it, one hundred percent. 

 

I know I am being selfish for wanting these things that I cannot have. But it's not about the big belly, it's not about missing the feeling of you growing inside of me- it's a motherly instinct to want you here, now. It's the pain of not knowing how or when that will happen. It's a primal need to know where you are and that you are safe and coming home to me soon. 

And I don't have it. I never will, not until you are tucked safely into my arms with papers signed that legally make it the truth. 

 

As much as I wish it didn't, it bothers me. I wish I had finality. I wish I had a date, time and place for your arrival. 

But more than anything, I wish I knew you were okay, and that I'm doing the right thing. 

 

Should I be posting places I'm not posting? Should I be driving cross country putting up flyers? Should I be signed up with agencies? Am I missing the opportunity to meet your first family with every misstep, every place I don't make a move? I wish I could know in my heart I'm doing this right. 

 

But it's our first time in this journey, and I know I'm a novice. But I don't want to mess this up. I want to do everything right by you. I want to be the best mother I can be, from the very start.

 

And when I feel myself slipping and feel my faith dissipating, writing to you here helps. Sitting in your nursery helps. 

 

And when I get upset about the lack of certainty in this journey, I remember what it feels like to write to you and to sit in your nursery. I think back to the past nine months, and I realize again how far we've come. It may seem like we're running in place, but really we're running a marathon. I can only hope that we're nearing the finish line soon. 

 

Until the date is on the calendar, I'll be searching for you Lo. 

 

With faith and love forever, 

 

Love,

Mom 

Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. It's what sunflowers do.

Little One, when I was little I had trouble sleeping. I attribute it to having multiple surgeries at a very young age- I would go in to the hospital, and wake up unable to move. I was terrified to go to sleep for fear that I'd wake up in the hospital. So when my Mom worked nights as a nurse, my Dad struggled to get me to drift off to sleep. He'd kneel down next to my bed, stroke my hair and try to get me to relax. One of our nightly rituals was him talking me to sleep, and often times he used (what I didn't know at the time what it was, but with adult eyes I now know) meditation.

He would push my hair out of my face, and whisper to me, "Imagine you're in a sunflower field. All the bright sunny flowers are everywhere - as far as the eye can see. The breeze gently sweeps through the field and the sunflowers wiggle, and the wind blows your hair. The sky is big and blue, the clouds are fluffy enough to sleep on."  It would go on for hours and hours. Eventually, my mind would be fully immersed in that sunflower field, and I would feel relaxed enough to give in to sleep.

I cherish that memory, Lo.

This week was a rough one, sweet baby.

 

We thought we were so much closer. We had a lead. We met her in person. It all seemed so perfect..until her name glared on one of the scam boards.

An emotional scammer- not looking for money, just craving attention- had us sucked in and made us more hopeful than we'd been in a long time. We were all excited at the possibility of having you here by October, the due date she gave us. She sent us sonogram pictures. She told us we were chosen. And then it all came crashing down.

And I feel like ever since that fateful email that it was all a sham- that all our dreams were false- I feel a bit numb. I feel like I can't even cry. I feel like it's going to take a lot for me to trust that this will work, to trust another contact or lead. We've had our hearts broken twice now, once with a fall through and once with a scam. The scam hurt far, far worse. The fall through was meant to be, it was fate. The scam was all smoke and mirrors (we don't even believe she was actually pregnant) and for no purpose other than someone elses selfishness. How could anyone do that? How could someone be so mean and hurtful? And she was not only scamming us, but at least six other hopefuly adoptive couples. Why would someone do that?

Because they are hurting, too. Badly.

It's sad, and I feel terribly bad for this person. She needs help that we cannot provide for her. She needs to find peace.

And it hurt. A lot. Depths of your soul, how am I going to make it through this alive kind of pain. But for you sweet baby, for you I refuse to let it overcome us. I'm a fighter when it comes to you. I won't give up. Not now, not ever.

Your Dad and I went to a local sunflower field on Saturday. After this week of the highest of ups and the lowest of downs, we needed to step off the rollercoaster and plant our feet somewhere familiar. To us, the most familiar place is nature. 

Driving up the road, out of nowhere we saw it, a gold mine- a sea of yellow beauty. The kind of beauty that only comes from nature, or God, or whatever diety you believe in. It's not beauty from a photoshopped magazine. It's beauty one rarely sees with their naked eye.

It gave me hope, that beauty still exists in this world. That faith, hope, and love are alive and well and on their way back into our lives.

And as I trunched through the waist high field of sunflowers, nothing but yellow petals for what felt like miles, I finally felt free.



 

We're going to focus on the positive. It would be easy to throw our hands up and say, "Well, this is too hard. We're not good enough for this. It's just not meant to be. We've just been hurt too much already." But kid, I'm not, nor have I ever been, a fan of easy. Life is hard. Adoption is hard. But the outcome...my God, baby, the outcome is going to be worth every single heartache we've ever had. I will not give up on you. Not now, not ever.

I will not give up on everyone else either. Your first Mom is out there. I cannot be doubtful when she comes into our lives. I cannot second guess giving her my love, just because one other sick person misused it. I refuse to let that person win. I will let your first Mom win though. I will love her with everything I am,  for your benefit and your sake. And I will not lose my faith in humanity or the good in people.

Sometimes, sweet baby, people hurt. They don't know why all the time, but they will try to take it out on you. First of all, you're better than that. Don't let it get to you. Secondly, know that it's not personal. It's not about you or what you stand for- it's about their pain and suffering. People that hurt other people are in a bad place, and they need understanding and love more than anyone else in this world. That doesn't mean that responsibility rests on your shoulders- a lot of times it is outside the realm of what you can give. So my only advice when encountering someone that is in so much pain that they use it against you for no reason is this: respect yourself enough to give them space, and respect them enough to know it's not about you.

So that is what we're doing, Lo. We're letting go of the hard feelings, and looking to the sunshine, just like the sunflowers taught us to.



 

I'm no longer afraid of sleep. My parents helped me get over the fear. And though this experience has been a life lesson, we won't let it get us down. We won't be afraid of this proccess- because in the end it means having you here in our lives forever. And that is all that matters.

 



The good thing about faith, Little One, is that the sun always rises tomorrow. It hasn't let us down yet.

 

With my petals outstretched to the sun, ignoring the shadows but looking for you,

 

Love always,

Mom

 

So I'll be bold as well as strong, and use my head alongside my heart, and I will wait, I will wait for you...

 

Lo, sometimes I just sit in your room and wait.

Maybe in my mind, if I am sitting in a room that is complete, it will happen faster. I know the reality of that is wrong, but I cannot help but feel that if I physically sit there it will tell the universe somehow, "Ok, now she is really ready. Look - she's even sitting in a completed nursery. She's a real live Mom now. She deserves this now. It's her time now. It's go time."

Maybe I sit and imagine what it would be like. I let my mind wonder, finally, after having it trapped in a cage of doubt and misgivings - I let it roam free for just a moment. I imagine what it would be like, to hold you in my arms, to feel your little tiny chest heave with every breath, each breath out of your lungs the biggest gift I could ever ask for in this universe. Each tiny movement a signal from the world that it was worth all those nights in the empty room, waiting.

Maybe it is the newness of the room. The smell of the paint and fresh carpet that reminds me of a brand new house, a brand new start, a brand new chapter. The furniture fresh from its boxes assembled and everything lined up perfectly, all brand new. The crib that has never been slept in, the changing table that has never seen a baby bottom, the stuffed animals that are brand new. They are aching to be used, aching to have child spit worn into their fibers and wear and tear marring their perfectness.

Maybe I use that empty room as my sanctuary. Perhaps it is the one place in this world I can sit and feel at peace, because it is a physical reminder that one day you'll be here, come hell or high water. It's like a security blanket for my racing mind - a place I can finally feel happy and at peace. The bright walls splashed with yellow the color of a cartoon sun, the rocking chair waiting patiently to hold a new mother rocking and cooing her infant to sleep under the fake tree on the wall gives me a sense of comfort and peace I haven't had in a long time.

Maybe it's all of the above.

I feel like if I sit in there, even if only for a few moments a day, I suddenly feel centered.

I feel closer to you, in some way that seems to be slowly slipping away from me lately.

I'm trying so very hard to remain positive, to be the glue that holds this together. But lately, I'm finding myself slipping - wondering if this is real, if it's going to ever happen. Then I pull myself together, take a deep breath and remember that my job as your Mother right now is to soldier on and find you, even in the darkest of nights.

Today is your Dads birthday. I wish I could get him what he really wants, the title of Dad.

But I know its coming, slowly but surely.

 

And until then, I'll be waiting for you.

You can find me here.



 

Meet you under the owl tree soon, little one.

 

Love Always,

Mom

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans...

Little one, I can't believe it's been so long since I've last written. I am so, so sorry. Mommy and Daddy have been extremely busy. Since we got our homestudy approved, it has been as if life is stuck on the fast forward button, and we can't seem to be able to hit pause.

The past three weeks have been a whirlwind of setting up online profiles, creating and posting more fliers, and advertisements and handing out our pass along cards and getting your nursery in order. And we've only been active on the profile sites for less than a week, but I can already feel the panic start to set in.

What if we don't get the call?

What if no one likes us?

What if we never get you?

I naively thought that once we had the homestudy approved, the weight would be lifted. But it's not true. Some days I feel so hopeful that it feels like my heart might burst into a thousand pieces like confetti inside of a popped balloon.

Other days it feels like I'm staring down a dark hallway, and I can't see where I'm going and I can't see the light at the end. I don't know if this hallway is ten feet long or ten miles long, and I can't just give up and sit and wait. I have to keep moving, grasping for a solid ground, soldiering on even though I can't see the end of this journey. Even though I'm walking slow to avoid danger. Even though I have your Dad holding my hand, walking with me. Even if I have a whole arsenal of people walking behind us, pushing us ever so lightly and supporting us the entire walk, not caring if they have to stand in this hallway with us forever.

And I feel like I've already walked so far. I feel like we've been walking for months, though really it's only technically been a few weeks. But no matter how tired I get, no matter how much it hurts or how frustrated I get, I'm always going to keep walking. Even on days when I feel like I can't walk any further, I will take a few steps. I will do anything to get to you.

I will be patient.

I will be persistent.

I will never, ever give up on you.

I will wait for you.

With a heart full of courage and hope, I will walk this long hallway for as long as it takes. Even if it takes years.

Not seeing how long the hallway is or if it ever ends but walking anyway is called faith, Lo. And your Dad and I will never, ever lose faith.

Lately, I've been staying up late into the night brainstorming ways to find your first Mom and you. What am I missing? There has to be some other ways to get the word out that I'm not thinking about. I wish I could just stand on the top of the highest point in the world and scream loud enough for the world to hear me that we want to adopt, that we would make great, loving parents, that we would welcome your first family with open arms and we're committed to open adoption. I want to scream that we're looking for our missing baby.

Because that is how it feels, Lo. It doesn't feel like I'm trying to find a stranger to adopt. It feels like I know you already, like your little soul is already a part of me and your Dad. I have no idea what your face looks like, what color your skin is or how your personality will be.

And yet, I know you. I can feel you. You're in my heart.

I can't give you life. That is not my part in this journey. That is your first parents part. But I can find you, I can love you forever and be your forever Mom. I don't diminish either parts, sweet baby. Without your first parents, we won't be parents. Without us, your first parents wouldn't have the opportunites they need to get ahead. We work together in this.

We need them, and they need us. And you need all of us.

But another big part of my role is to find you and first Mom. And I am trying everything.

You're out there baby. I don't know where yet, but I am going to find out. This is the biggest journey of all of our lives, but we'll come out with something so beautiful once we get to the other side.

 

Looking and searching, searching and looking,

Love always,

Mom

 

One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you cannot utter.

Little one, I apologize for not writing more. It's not because I don't care, not at all. We've been extremely busy getting everything ready since having the home study back, so that we can get our online profile up and ready.

And in doing so, I've hit a road block. I've got writers block like you wouldn't believe when it comes to one thing.

 

The "Dear Birthmother" letter.

 

It's driving me crazy. What could I possibly say to an expectant Mom trying to make the toughest decision of her life? How could I convey how much we want to be parents, or how great we'd be at being the family for the tiny baby growing inside of her body? Knowing the decision she has to make, I'm at a loss for words.

I've tried different things to get over this writers block of mine. I've tried putting myself in the shoes of an expectant Mom making an adoption plan. I think about what I'd like to see in the family that is going to be, in a weird way, so much a part of me and yet so much not. I've done research on the subject, read countless other Dear Birthmother letters, and still I'm stuck.

 

I want to stand out, but I want to be us. I want to be honest, and I dont' want sound desperate, but I still want to convey who we are and how much we want to be parents. I want to put her at ease knowing the kind of parents we'd be, but I also know that if I were in that boat, it would take an army of people to attempt to put my mind at ease. It's the hardest and one of the most important decisions she will ever make, and I want to be there for her. I want her to know that we're good people, that when we say open adoption we mean open adoption if that is what she wants, and that we won't just go running to the hills once the paperwork is signed sealed and delivered.

I want her to know so many things about us, and I want to know so many things about her. Her, this woman who will be giving us the best gift in the entire world. This woman who will change our lives forever in her decision. This woman who will place her child in our arms, and have more trust with us than most people trust those they've known forever.

 

It's a lot of pressure to write to this amazing woman.

But I have to do it. I have to try to muster up my own courage and write to her, and write to her in the way that she needs to hear. I have to show her in just a few paragraphs that we're the ones for her, that this will work, that she can trust us. It's hard.

 

It's going to be the hardest thing I've ever written.

 

But for you, Lo, it will all be worth it. Every single syllable.

 

In other news, my birthday was Tuesday. It was the perfect day. I was off of work, your Dad surprised me with a full body massage at a local spa, and then lunch out with him, your Grandma and Aunt Kelly. Then I got my hair cut and colored. It was a pretty perfect day. And when I blew out those candles, I only made one wish, for you.

Today your Dad and I worked on painting your nursery today as the storms rolled through outside. We're almost done, and I can't wait to have your room completely ready for you. I just hope I don't have to stare at it empty for long.

Last week I had to go to the eastern shore of Maryland for work, and your Dad got to come with me since he had leftover vacation time. We took a stroll in the local state park by the water after work one day, and noticed a giant, gorgeous cloud on the horizon. It was big and fluffly, and was mirrored in the sparkly water beneath. We both looked at each other at the same time and said, "...Does that look like a crawling baby to you?" As we walked, the cloud followed everywhere we went. At one point, the trail came to a clearing and growing there with nothing around it was a single dandelion, ready for a wish to be blown upon its tiny whispy seeds.

We plucked it, took a picture (the one above) then made a wish together.

 

You've gotten a lot of wishes this week, sweet baby. Hope they come true soon.

 

In the meantime, I'm going to go write my letter to put on our profile. We're going to do our part, hopefully the universe, fate, timing and faith will do the rest.

 

Waiting for the rest,

Love,

Mom

To succeed you need to find something to hold on to, something to motivate you, something to inspire you.

Little One, last night we succeeded!

This was in our email:

It was literally the best email of our entire lives.

 

Needless to say, your Dad and I were over the moon....

 

All the papers, the interviews, the worry- all worth every single millisecond.

 

Now sweet baby, the rest of this journey is in our hands. We need to find your bio Mama and Dad, and then we'll be on a roll. I hope it doesn't take too long, because I just cannot wait to be your Mom.

For the first time in my entire life, I feel like a real Mom.

It's no longer a matter of If, sweet baby, but when.

But we'll succeed- because we have you to hold on to, you to motivate us, you to inspire us.

 

It's just a matter of when.

 

 

Waiting for the when with bells on,

Love like crazy,

Mom

The enemy is fear. We think it is hate; but, it is fear.

Lo, I've been having bouts of fear lately. It's not even completely on a conscious level, but fear is staring me down and I'm trying hard to stand up to it.

Lately I've had these repetitive nightmares where we're in the hospital, ready to adopt, and something terrible happens- usually a car accident or a fire, something horrific and unavoidable. I know what these nightmares are really about, I'm terrified of something out of my control going wrong. That something will stand in our way to the end result of us being your parents.

I know it will all work out, and I try to tell my subconscious to relax but fear tries to creep in every time. It's almost like it's freezing me lately, making it hard for me to allow myself to enjoy the process. Right now, we're still waiting to wait. We're still waiting on getting our home study paperwork back, and I think once we have that back the fear will subside significantly. But the waiting to wait is what feels like an eternity.

This morning on my way out the door for work, I let myself feel hope. I stopped at the outside of your soon to be nursery, looked in and imagined it. The walls, now white and bare, were painted in my minds eye a sweet yellow and green, perfectly gender neutral, perfectly babyish. I imagined your crib and changing table and pictured which wall they would be against. I imagined the one wall we'd paint a mural on, a scene of a meadow with deer and trees with little owls curiously sticking their heads out of the trunk. I let myself feel it, and it felt amazing.

I need to tell myself that feeling like it's all going to work out, while terrifying, is okay. It's okay because it's true. The path may be long, it might not always be smooth, but we'll get to the end, together as a family.

Letting go of the fear is empowering.

Your Dad and I were glued to the TV all weekend taking in the spectacle of the Olympics. During the US women's gymnastics, the shoe-in for the all around didn't make the cut. She was the reigning world champion, but one little mistake cut her out of her Iife-long dream of taking home a gold medal. Today, three days later, they won the gold as a team. Sometimes your dreams can feel so far away and distant, but a few days, hours, even seconds- can completely change all of it. When you least expect it, life gives us amazing surprises.

Last weekend your Dad and I stopped our Olympic watching marathon and ventured out to a local park for a family reunion on his grandmothers side. It was nice meeting people from his side of the family that I've never met before, seeing his Grandmothers face light up reuniting with nieces and nephews she hasn't seen in a year.

As I sat there under the pavilion looking around at this extended family, I had quiet moment of worry. Will you feel left out at events like this? Will you feel like we're not your "real" family, because the blood lines aren't there? But then I looked around again, I saw it differently. I saw a family bound together by love, not genetics. I saw family members that had adopted children.

Then I saw the trees.

Trees, like adopted children, have deep, sometimes hidden roots. While these roots mean a lot to the trees well being, they are only half. What shows in the tree is the large solid trunk, the leaves that sway in the soft breeze, the branches that weather the tough storms. All of these elements are largely dependent on the outside environment, as much as the roots. If the sun is shining, the rain comes when it needs to, and the air is free, the trees sprout up healthy and full of life.

It's a combination: roots, and environment. When they work together, nature is beautiful.

I know I'm rambling on quite a bit here Lo, and these thoughts might not even seem connected. Bottom line, I'm not afraid of giving you the right environment to thrive, I'm afraid of never having the chance. I know that once you have the solid roots of your biological family who no doubt loves you, and the environment of me and your Dad continually giving you our rays of sun you're going to grow up to be a strong, gorgeous tree, ready for any storm.

It's waiting for the forest that seems to be taking forever.

One day soon though, your Dad and I will get the gold. It's just a matter of waiting, and staring down the fear.

 

Facing down the fear,

Love,

Mom

When we suffer anguish we return to early childhood because that is the period in which we first learnt to suffer the experience of total loss. It was more than that. It was the period in which we suffered more total losses than in all the rest of our life put together.

Little One, this is difficult for me to write, but I feel like I need to tell you this. I have written this letter to you over and over again in my head, but cannot seem to find the right words to fit. Regardless, I'm going to make an attempt.

 

I've been reading a lot of adoption parenting books lately, and I want to make something abundantly clear to you: it's okay to be sad that you're adopted.

 

This is why this letter is so difficult.

 

We're ecstatic to be adopting, Lo. We're over the moon about having you in our lives. But with the excitement and joy of adoption also comes the underbelly that no one likes to discuss: loss. In the first moments or years of your life, you're going to suffer a major loss that not many people will suffer until they are much, much older. You will lose your biological family, in a sense. Hopefully not forever, since we'd like an open adoption scenario if possible- but nonetheless, you will have a loss.

And it is difficult to write this as your Mom who is excited for you to be in our family, because I am also sad for you because of this. I know that it will most likely cause some pain down the road, and being your Mom I wish you never had to experience pain, even for an instant.

But I want you to know this, sweet baby, and I will repeat it a thousand times to you: it's okay to be sad. It's okay to miss your first Mom and Dad. It's okay to ask questions to us, to tell us you want to know more about them, to tell us that you are sad that they aren't your Mom and Dad everyday like we are. This will not hurt our feelings. We will understand.

We want to be the type of parents who have a completely honest and open relationship with our children, built on a strong foundation of trust and understanding. We don't ever, even for a millisecond want you to think that you're not allowed to talk about your loss or concerns. I promise to you that we will never get angry or upset, that we'll never lash out or be disappointed.

 

What we will do is grieve with you. We are both experiencing some form of grief in this. I will always wish I had you from the very start, that I got to hold you in the depths of my body and experience giving birth to your unique and beautiful soul. I will always miss that, the same way you will always miss having a "traditional" family. That is okay. It doesn't ever mean that we don't love each other like I didn't give birth to you or you didn't come from my DNA. All it means is that we're human, and we're allowed to be sad for things that hurt us inside.

 

If on your birthday, you want to have some time to reflect, we'll honor that. If you want to talk about your first family, compare noses or personality traits, we'll encourage that. Just because we love you more than anything and know that you ARE our son or daughter, we want to be there for you in every way possible. I hope this makes our parental bond strong, and that it leads to us being a better family because of it.

I don't ever want you to feel like you cannot talk about these feelings. I don't ever want you to feel like you owe us something, that you were "lucky" to be adopted, that you should be grateful that we adopted you. I just want you to feel the love of family, our open arms embraced around you in the good times and the bad. I want you to know deep down that it's okay to be sad sometimes, that you can talk about it to us without hurting our feelings,

 

It's difficult to write this post because I'm a positive thinker to a fault. I focus on the positives in every situation, good and bad. For me, the glass is always half full- and when it's not half full, it's brimming over the top. So it's hard for me to write about something we're so excited for and so grateful for in a negative light. But that is the situation Lo, and sometimes with beautiful and amazing positves come negatives. Despite this, I think the positives of this adoption will far outweigh the negatives for all of us.

In a lot of these books, adult adoptees discuss feeling like something was always missing, or something just wasn't right. They felt that they couldn't discuss it with their families for fear of hurting their feelings or coming off as ungrateful. Know that we will never think that of your feelings. Your feelings about adoption, good and bad, are completely valid. I promise that we will never dismiss them, and we always want you to voice them if you feel like you can. And if you feel like something isn't right and you cannot put your finger on it, you can talk to us about that too. Together as a family, we will work through it.

 

Never feel alone, Lo. You're not alone at all. Your Dad and I are here, day and night, forever. If you are fifty two years old and wake up in the middle of the night needing to talk, I'm here. That is what parents are for, Lo.

I know I talk alot about how our lives will be with you. This is not to put any pressure on you at all. Always be true to who you are deep down inside, never what anyone (including us) expects you to be. I'm not planning any kind of grandiose future for you, that is up to you, sweet baby. And we'll support you no matter what you decide. The only reason I talk about how much our lives will improve with you in them is so that you know how excited we are, how loved you are already, and how much we have wanted you to be our child from the very start.

You were never for a single second unwanted or unloved. We have always wanted you to be our kid, and we have always loved you.

 

Keep in mind that everyone has their thing. For you, it might be that you're adopted. For other kids, it might be that they are being raised by a single parent, or they have an illness, or too much pressure at home. Life seems perfect from the outside for a lot of people, but looks can be decieving. Even when you feel alone for being adopted, remember that. And remember that it is okay to be upset, sad, or simply curious about your journey into our lives.

 

We as your parents will not judge.

 

Our goals in parenting you are pretty simple, sweet baby. In no order: 1. Keep you safe, 2. Keep your emotionally happy and secure, 3. Love you always. To accomplish these goals, we need you to come to us when you have feelings of sadness and talk about it with us. That is what Moms and Dads are for.

It's hard when you're young and you cannot voice the nagging feeling in your gut that tells you something is different. That is why we vow to always be one hundred percent honest with you about your adoption journey. We will never hide or conceal information from you. We will always tell you (in an age appropriate manner) how you came to be in our lives. We will always have an empty lap and long arms to comfort you when you're sad, even when you can't put your finger on why.

When you are older, we promise to let your adoption story be your story to tell or not tell. There might be times where you don't feel like explaining it or being labelled as the "adopted kid." We will always respect and honor that decision, and we'll never take it as a slight to you being embarassed or ashamed of your adoption status. Your story is your story, and who you do and do not share it with is your decision, not ours.

At a wedding last weekend, a stranger sat at the same table as us. We got to know him throughout the night, and he heard us talking about our adoption for hours (we're pretty obnoxious about it sometimes- you never know who might know of someone is our theory). Hours later, after he felt comfortable with us, he explained that he himself is an adoptee. He shared his story with us on his terms, in his timeframe. We appreciated that he gave us a viewpoint we don't often get- that of and adult adoptee. We told him about our blog, how we're writing to you to let you know of our journey and he thought it was a great idea. It made us feel a lot better that someone who has been on the same path as you will be gave us insight.

 

Our grieving together will only bring us closer together and make us stronger, Lo. And being sad about something doesn't mean you're not happy about most things. Even though there will always be a part of me that is sad that we didn't get to experience life with each other from the very start, my love for you and how you came to be in our lives will always far outweigh that grief. I hope the same goes for you, and you feel the same way.

But no matter your feelings, our ears are always open and ready. Our hearts are ready for your feelings, our minds ready for your thoughts, our bodies ready to comfort you.

 

 

No matter what, Lo, we're here for you.

 

 

Love forever in good times and bad,

Mom

The value of marriage is not that adults produce children, but that children produce adults.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="475"]                                                    Our Wedding Day [/caption]

Little One, July has always been a big month for us. Afterall, it was July 4th that we had our first conversation over the phone, July 8th that we went on our first date (and decided immediately that we wanted to be exclusive) and three years later on July 18th that we got married.

Today is our third wedding anniversary.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="282"]    Our first summer together[/caption]

When we were dating, your Dad and I would spend our July summer nights on what we dubbed Our Hill, a hill by your Dads childhood home where we'd park ourselves on the grassy knoll at night and talk for hours about our pasts, our presents and our futures. We'd wish on falling stars and cuddle in each others arms, nothing around us but the quiet of the night air and the ambient light of the stars and fireflies. We had long talks about how we envisioned our future while on that little piece of earth... and I have to say Lo, they all included children- but they never included children that shared our DNA.

If you had asked me three years ago on our wedding day where I'd hope we'd be by now, a lot of my visions would ring true to where our lives have ended up so far. Happy, stable, still as crazy in love as that day three years ago. We're all three of those. The only thing that is missing in our lives is children. Three years ago, I would have hoped you'd be here by now. I still hope you were here by now, but alas that is out of my control.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was hot out, but the sun was shining and the sky was as blue as I'd ever seen it.  I was calm...excited, but calm. When your Dad saw me step out of the limo, he was completely speechless and so was I, we both just stared at each other in amazement and after a few moments of silence that felt like years, we both looked at each other and said you look so amazing. I remember our first dance, all eyes on us but all we could see was each other.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="535"]                                             Our first dance[/caption]

I remember a point where my two flower girls were seated on my lap, and one of my bridesmaids said gleefully, "Maybe thats a sign of things to come! Maybe you'll have two daughters!" I smiled, and hoped in my heart it would be true- that we'd be able to have any children in our lives in the future, even with our infertility diagnosis.

I'm hoping that it will still be true one day- though it doesn't matter if it's daughters or sons. I just hope we get the opportunity, the gift, the miracle to parent.

In three years when we're celebrating our sixth wedding anniversary, I hope you're here to celebrate it with us. Our lives are so rich and beautiful together already, but the amount of amazing that our lives are going to be engrossed in when you come is immeasurable.

I hope that when you're old enough, we can take you back to our hill, have picnics and talk about what you see for your future. Then it will evolve from our hill as a couple to our hill as a family.

And on your wedding day, we'll hold your hand and be excited for you the way our parents were for us. Or if you decide to never marry, then we'll be there for whatever life event is important to you. The biggest most important thing in life is to be happy, Lo. And all we want as your parents is for you to be happy.

Because together, we're one happy family.

Waiting for more anniversaries to celebrate,

Love,

Mom

 

he brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. Because the brick walls are there to stop the people who don’t want it badly enough. They’re there to stop the other people.

We're more than knocking down those brick walls, Little One - we're taking a wrecking ball to them. We are pushing onwards and upwards, as much as humanly possible.

At this very moment, your Dad and I are sitting side by side in the lobby of a beach front condo complex, laptops in hand, doing online adoption courses required for the homestudy. We thought we had enough credits, but last minute it was discovered we had to add more in- so we've been sitting here, swapping out computers for each other to watch the presentations the other has just seen. The air smells like sea salt and we still have sand caked in our hair from our day getting to know the belly of the ocean (that kind of sand that doesn't want to leave your scalp even after two showers). And even though we've spent the entire evening and most of the night in this lobby on our vacation, it is so incredibly worth it.

We've gotten a few crazy stares, and just moments ago I actually had to stop feverishly typing to field questions from another condo goer who asked if working on vacation was my hobby (in his defense, your Dad was in the bathroom so it looked like I have two laptops at midnight alone here, which would definitely signal an unhealthy dependency on technology). Once I explained to him the situation, that we're trying to adopt, his eyes gleamed and he smiled a mile long and wished us luck. 

Life has been kind of crazy lately, sweet baby. Mainly it's craziness at work, busy time at home and feeling like there are too many things on the to-do list and not enough minutes in the day. But in the end, your Dad and I get it together every time, and we always will. 

You've been on our minds quite a bit lately -  though you never really leave our minds. You're always there at the surface, and even when we're on vacation and trying to leave all our worries behind, I worry about you. I worry about where you are, have you been conceived yet? Are you on this earth right now? Or I am I just writing to your soul, and you're waiting to hitch a ride in the right body at the right time? It's an odd place to be for a Mother, because I know I'm your Mom. I know I'm meant to be, and will be your Mom. But you're not physically here yet, at least not to my knowledge, and I worry about you like a toddler running headstrong into the surf of the beach. 

I had an in-depth conversation with my Mom a few weeks ago about how hard the unknown part of this process can be. We talked about how .when I was young and had to have a very involved surgery, my parents held me in their arms as the doctors anaesthetized my tiny body. I collapsed in a heap, and they begrudgingly handed me over to a surgeon and gave my life to his hands, my soul to a black abyss made up of half faith and half science. My parents talked my whole life of how traumatic that moment was as a parent, how much it hurt to give their precious gift over to a relative stranger. It's not the same as our situation, but it has the same nuances. We've done what we can do so far: the rest is up to a lot of strangers- social workers, lawyers, potential expectant Moms. We've handed you over, and now we're anxiously waiting for the okay from an over-the-moon portion of this equation. My parents got their okay so many years ago, and I know we'll get ours one day also.

But this is a test of patience, a test your Dad and I desperately needed. Patience is one virtue neither of us possess, but we're learning. Well, we have patience for a lot of things - each other, other people- but not situations that are out of our control. Things we can't plan for, that don't have a date in the calendar- those are the things we have difficulty with. Your Dad and I are planners, thinkers, reservists. When things are unknown, it drives both of us crazy. But we're learning that it simply cannot be that way, not just in adoption but in life. Life isn't planner friendly, and sometimes the unexpected happens for a reason and it's the most wonderful outcome possible. 

We didn't expect to spend our night in the lobby, but we've learned a lot of valuable information from these presentations and it has brought us closer together. And now that they are all completed and we feel accomplished we've decided to take a moonlight stroll on the beach just the two of us. 

We've been coming to this beach for three years in a row now, almost our entire marriage. Sitting on the beach with my sister today, I remarked how weird it was that when we were on the beach last year she had just found out she was pregnant with her second son, and now he's here, a big four month old taking a peaceful nap as the sound of the crashing waves lulls him to sleep on his mothers chest. So much can change in a year, she said, Maybe next year you'll be sitting on this beach with LO, saying isn't it crazy that this time last year we were finishing our homestudy? 

I sure do hope that is the case, Little One. Because there are so many memories that I can't wait for you to be a part of. Hopefully next year you'll be sleeping soundly on my lap, and my motherly worries about your whereabouts will be put to rest. Until then, I need to keep thinking of the waves along the shoreline- they don't stop, they just keep crashing until the tide comes in when the timing is right. 

 

Until then, I'm waiting for you.

 

With four footprints in the sand, waiting for six, 

Love,

Mom

I've learned the hard way that some poems don't rhyme and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.

Little One, life has thrown some curveballs at us recently. I'm not a big fan of change and unpredictability, but with change comes opportunity. The changes we're making right now might even lead us to you one day, and they will all be for a reason.

Last Friday a terrible storm slammed the entire east coast. It was 600 miles long, spanning across several states. Trees fell, hundreds of thousands lost power, and unfortunately, people died. We are incredibly lucky though, Little One. Even though I was mad that our power was out for three days and that we lost all of our food in the fridge and freezer, we're still lucky. We were camping over the weekend, and all we heard was the soothing pitter patter of raindrops that fell on our camper roof, lulling us to sleep. Incredibly bad things could have happened to us, but they didn't. Sometimes the curveballs that are thrown at us are for the better, even if we can't see it in the moment. 

On Saturday night, the campground pool was open late. They held a pool party with a DJ, and there on top of a mountain your father and I swam. Nothing above our heads but the clear night sky, the stars shined like diamonds. Off on the horizon fireworks went off silently- too far away to hear the noise, but close enough to see the spectacle. Your Dad and I danced, laughed and swam to the sounds of the DJ, the smell of honeysuckle tickling our noses and the summer air blowing through our hair. 

 

And on this perfect summer night, all I could think of was you. 

 

Will you like swimming? Will you be the one dancing to the music or sticking to the side of the pool wall watching? Will you think we're crazy to be your parents, or will you love our passion for fun? 

Life is so unpredictable, Lo. Right now, you're so unpredictable. In a way, that is scary for me. I'm a planner by nature. I like to know the whens and wheres of life, and if there are none I like to find them and put them into place. But over the past week, as we've been thrown things good and bad, I'm remembering a very important life lesson: it's all in perspective. Bad things are only bad if you make them that way, sweet baby. A lot of things in life are out of our control, but how we react to them and how we view them in this world is the one thing we do have control over. 

Unfortunately, as an adult, you want to control everything but you just simply can't. And sometimes no matter how hard you work or how much effort you put forth (especially if you enter the corporate workplace), someone is going to try and trample all over you. Stick up for yourself, don't let anyone ever hurt you - and take as much control as you can. What you don't have control over, have faith in. Whether you believe in a higher power or not, have faith that it will all work out in the end, and if it's not worked out yet, it's just simply not the end. 

Sometimes, it's hard to see the success you've already met. Success and opportunity are like icebergs: you only see a preview, a portion of what is to come. And when you least expect it, the larger and greater good beneath the surface will emerge. I feel like the changes we're experiencing now are just the tip of the iceberg, that what lies ahead is far greater than what we can see in the immediate future.

 

We're still in the waiting to wait phase, but it is quickly coming to an end. We should have the homestudy back in our hands in less than three weeks. I feel like now this time seems to be moving incredibly slow, but that life will move a lot quicker soon and that this time will feel like a blink of an eye in the future. 

 

But now we're prepared to get our profile up. Last weekend, your Dad and I got pictures taken in the park for our profile. It was lovely, and I love the way they turned out (here is a preview): 

And my favorite: 

 

 

I see the tip of the iceberg, sweet baby. Now comes the time to wait for the rest.

 

With delicious ambiguity and lots of love,

 

Love,

Mom 

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="470"]                                           A glimpse of our journey thus far[/caption]

Little one, time is moving so incredibly slowly lately. The minutes feel like months, the days like years and the weeks like decades. We're so close to getting word on the home study, and yet it feels so very far away.

 

Part of me feels like once we get the paperwork back is when our real search can begin. We can start putting our information up on parent profiling websites and start making more connections. But for now, it's the calm before the storm. I should be reveling in these quiet moments, enjoying this time before the greatest journey of our lives launches into the ether. But I can't, because I'm just too worked up and nervous and excited to get to you. I've waited for five years, and as much as I don't want to wait anymore I know that the second they put you in our arms that this time won't matter at all. It will melt away like a Salvador Dali clock, and all those tiny grains of sand that have been slowly pouring through this hourglass will seem more akin to a tablespoon versus the endless beach it feels like right now.

 

It's odd to miss someone that you've yet to meet, but that is how I feel about you Lo. You're the missing puzzle piece that will make our family picture complete, and we love you already. We haven't met you, we don't know what you'll look like, we don't know what color skin you'll have, what color eyes, whether you're a boy or a girl, whether you've got curly or straight hair. We don't know if you'll be into ballet, or football, or art, or none of the above. You're a stranger to us now, sweet baby, but you're so very not a stranger. You're in our hearts growing each week. I can almost feel your presence in my soul, and I can feel that red thread connecting us all.

 

It was the same when I met your Dad. On our first date, the first time we looked eye to eye, I just knew in my heart we were meant to be together. It's an other worldly feeling, a deja-vu that this is someone you've known before, or known forever. But you don't, you've just met them. Even though we know nothing about you, we know you. We know that you'll be our baby, our family, our red thread connection.It's a connection I wish I could explain but the words fail me- they just don't do it justice. I'm not sure if everyone experiences this kind of connection to other human beings, or if it is some weird super power your Dad and I have been blessed with. Either way, we don't take it for granted.

 

Tomorrow we meet with our new adoption attorney. It's a long drive to DC, but we look at it as a new adventure. We're waking up early, driving to a new place and experiencing a new day together. That is what I love about our little family, Lo. Your Dad and I look at every day as a new adventure, one that  we get the honor to experience together as a family unit. I hope you look at life the same way, sweet baby. Life is something to be savored, not wasted. The people that roam this earth looking at each morning as the same doll-drum day are not really living. Marking days off the calendar is not a life, Lo. Living every second of the day and experiencing new things- even if it is something small- that is what living means to us. I try to remind myself of that in this journey: to live every second of it, even the painful ones. These moments of anxiety and wait will just make the end result that much sweeter. I will never take a second of our lives with you for granted, because I've known pain. I've known nights where I'm lying awake until the wee hours of the morning wondering when you'll be here. When you are here, I will remember those nights, and I will look at every moment that you're in our lives as a gift, because it is. It's a great two-way street we'll have baby. We're giving each other the gift of life. My God, that is a tremendous and beautiful thing.

 

It's going to be the most beautiful thing we've ever experienced together. It will definitely be our best adventure yet.

 

I just can't wait, Lo. Unfortunately though, I have to wait.

 

 

That is the hardest part.

 

Waiting for the big adventure,

Love,

Mom

 

 

Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a Dad.

 

[caption id="attachment_2733" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Your Dad, studying[/caption]



Little One, today is Fathers Day. For some reason, I think it's hitting me harder than Mothers Day did this year. I think I know the reason (we thought you'd be here by now, and that we'd be celebrating fathers day with you) but the reason doesn't really matter.What matters today is the man who you'll one day call your Father.

Today is all about your Dad.

Let me tell you a few key things about your Dad, that you'll know as you grow up with him but I should point out:

[caption id="attachment_2735" align="aligncenter" width="300"] At our wedding[/caption]

- Your Dad is the sweetest person alive.I know all wives (well, a lot anyway) say their husband is the sweetest, but trust me. your Dad really is the sweetest. At the end of our first date I was cursed with a migraine (they happened a lot when I was in college) and your Dad offered to drive behind my car all the way home to make sure I got home safe. At that time, he lived over 40 miles away from my house, but it didn't matter to him. It didn't matter to him that it was our first date, that he had just met me, that I lived far away- he would do anything to make sure I was safe. That night I knew he was the one.

 

[caption id="attachment_2736" align="aligncenter" width="300"] On the train in Strasburg, PA[/caption]

 

- Your Dad is extremely smart. He always has been. There is an age old tale that your Dads side of the family always brings out when talking about your Dads childhood. He was young (three or four years old) and got in trouble as toddlers do. His punishment was to sit at the top of the stairs for a few minutes, and he whined to his family, "Can I get a reprieve?" What three year old says that? And now as an adult, he will try to explain computer programs or theories to me and I'm at a total loss and will usually make a joke to not look so dumb about whatever it is he's talking about.

[caption id="attachment_2737" align="aligncenter" width="232"] We Mustache you a question[/caption]

- Your Dad is silly. He's a joker, a laugher and a prankster. He can put on a silly voice and have full on conversations with me about things that don't exist, just because we think it's hysterical.

[caption id="attachment_2738" align="aligncenter" width="201"] All Smiles[/caption]

- Your Dad is romantic. Not in a traditional flowers way (though he does do that too) but what counts more is the little ways in which he shows his love for me. The everyday romantic gestures that mean so much more than big sweeping dates. The little notes left on the door, the whispers that I'm the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. I hope that one day, you either find a man as wonderful as him or become a man as wonderful as him.

[caption id="attachment_2739" align="aligncenter" width="225"] Holding our nephew[/caption]

- Your Dad is nurturing. He cares about our two dogs as if they are our kids, he cuddles with them and shows his love easily. When I'm sick or feeling down, he's right there to lend a caring hand and soothes me back to health. Every cell in his body exudes his caring, loving personality.

[caption id="attachment_2740" align="aligncenter" width="300"] In NYC[/caption]

What does this all equal out to, Little One? It all means this: your Dad is freagin' amazing. He's going to be one super Dad to you. Does that mean he won't make mistakes? Of course not. We both will. I can guarantee that there is going to be a learning curve for us since we've never experienced parenting. But I also know that now, in this moment before you're even here, he's more of a Dad than most Dads out there. He's been there every single step of the way, we've been in this journey together, one thousand percent. He cleaned the house spotless with me for the home study, he took time off of work to get things done, he talked me to sleep on tough nights when the crying wouldn't stop. He's going to be your Dad for the long haul, forever. He's always going to be there, day or night. You're going to be so incredibly lucky Little One.

I'm trying to remember how much this fathers day hurts. I know that sounds odd, but it's in a good way. My hope and prayer is that next year at fathers day, we'll be holding you, talking cavalierly about last years Fathers Day being the last painful one. I hate putting a timeline on this journey, because each time we have it's been met with hurt and pain- but I think in order to be hopeful we have to put a time on it. And if next year, we're still waiting, then we wish and hope again.

You're out there, sweet baby. It's just a matter of time.

Until then, I'm wishing your childless Dad a Happy Fathers Day regardless. He's already one of the best Dads I know.

[caption id="attachment_2741" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Your Dad and I walking on the boardwalk with our nephew[/caption]



Waiting for next June,



Love,

Mom