If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew, To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you, Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

 

Oh sweet baby. Mothers Day is Sunday, and to say that I'm not taking it well is an understatement.

 

Part of me wants to scream.  I want to scream out to the world to get them to understand that this isn't right. How they can keep on moving when my world has been shattered so much? I want to scream until there isn't a single breath left in my lungs, until they sting with the energy I've expended and my words hang in the air for all to hear. I should be a Mom by now. It was my turn. It's been my turn so many times....and yet here I am, at this junction again- a childless Mother on Most Definitely Not a Mothers Day.

The part of me that doesn't want to scream wants to curl up into a ball and pretend this isn't happening. I was supposed to have not one, but two bouncing babies on my lap this year. This year was supposed to be different, it was supposed to be my first mothers day.

 

And to be honest, this holiday is not just full of sadness this year- but it's also full of fear.

The fear that I will never be a mother hangs over my head like a storm cloud following me around. It's the little voice whispering in my ear when I'm searching the greeting card aisle, taunting me, "will you ever get one of these cards?" It's the lump in my throat that chokes on the tears whenever I hear another pregnancy announcement or adoption match announcement, not because I'm not happy for them or excited, but because I wonder- again- if I will ever get to be in their shoes. Will I ever get to be a mother? Will I ever find you?

It's the disdain for every greeting card, every TV commercial, every restaurant promotion, every radio ad, every magazine cover... all of these reminders that I am not, in fact, not a mother. That I failed. That what has come so easy to so many others is still an every day battle for me. That I don't have my precious baby to spend this holiday with, that I am once again knocked down, because I let my hopes get so incredibly high.

 

It's the reminder that another year has passed without you here.

That hurts most of all.

 

I know that it will all be worth it. You mean more to me than any holiday, any time table and every heartache we've endured. I know that this is just part of the journey to get to that elusive finish line, that even if I cannot see it, I feel that it's there somewhere in the distance.

 

The other day I reread one of my most favorite poems, If by Rudyard Kipling. A lot of the words spoke to me now more than ever:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

 

Right now, there is nothing in me but the will to be your Mother. That is my will telling me to hold on, to not get caught up in the loss and get tired of waiting. I refuse to sink, because sinking means not getting to you- not being your mother. I refuse.

So I've been thinking of my own If's for this Mothers Day.

If I can wade through the greeting card aisle, and focus on the positives, like having my own mother and mother in law who support and love us every step of the way.  If I can hold my head up, and count my blessings. If I can believe, really believe that you'll be here soon. If I can pick myself up ten times after getting knocked down nine. If I can tie a knot and hold on with everything that is in me. If I can keep preparing, keeping moving in the direction of our dreams. If I can let myself feel that deep down, this waiting and heartache will end.  If I can let myself let go of the pain, let go of what was supposed to be and what isn't and prepare myself body and soul for the goodness that is coming down the road if I just keep on walking.

If I don't give up.

 

Then mine is the earth and everything that's in it,

And- which is true - that is you, my daughter or son! 

 

And if you're not here next year, I will just keep trying. I will never give up on you, on us being a family. I will push through all the hurt and pain and glaring reminders. I will silence that little voice of doubt in the back of my head, and replace the if's of doubt with the if's of reassurance.

 

I will be a mother. I will find you, sweet baby.

No if's, ands or buts.

 

Waiting for the earth and everything that's in it, 

With love and unwavering hope this Not Yet a Mothers Day,

Love,

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

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

Every day, in every way it's getting better and better, Lo! I love the song Beautiful Boy by John Lennon, and I've been listening to it on repeat lately. Whether you're a boy or a girl, it doesn't matter- you are already beautiful in our eyes.

Music helps your Dad and I a lot through this journey. We've been listening to a lot of the Beatles (In My Life has been another favorite) and I've also been obsessed with  the Michael Buble song Just Haven't Met You Yet. I know it's a song about romantic love, but the lyrics are so perfect right now. It's full of hope and faith: the love is there, we're just waiting for the right moment.

And when it happens, it's going to be amazing and life changing in a way I don't think we can even understand until it happens.

Do you know that moment, Little One? That moment where you can feel something big coming on and your heart beats heavy and leaps into your throat? That moment when you know you're standing on the edge of greatness? I've had this moment only a few times in my life, but lately I have this overwhelming feeling that something big is about to happen. I had this moment when I graduated from high school, and again from college. I've gotten this feeling after a great interview when I've gotten a really good job. I got this feeling when we bought our first home. I had this feeling when I married your Dad.

It's this indescribable feeling, and I'm not doing it justice with words.

But this time the feeling is different. All of those other life events were things I controlled, completely. This is one situation where I cannot control every aspect, and I can't see the future. But I still have this feeling, and it catches me off guard some days. It's like a good surprise you didn't see coming at all.

We're almost done the homestudy. Just one more visit, and we'll be finished. Maybe that is sparking this feeling of a hopeful completion, but something in my heart tells me it's more than that. We don't have any solid leads or prospects right now, but something tells me it's going to happen. I wish I could put it into words, Lo. I wish I could articulate it to you. But it's this weird faith that I have and can physically feel in my chest and in my bones.

It feels like we're in the build up part of a story. Like when you're watching a romantic movie, and the music swells as the two protagonists kiss for the first time and it's magical. It's that moment you've waited for, and before it happens your entire body floats with anxiety and hope, and you feel weightless. It's that moment on the rollercoaster when you're at the top of the hill looking all around, and you get the feeling in your stomach that it's about to drop, even though it hasn't yet. It's standing backstage before a big show, looking at the lights and the crowd before you take a deep breath and jump out (unless you have terrible stage fright like your Dad, because while standing in the wings is exciting for me, it's dreadful for him.)

It's that moment right before the greatness.

Look, Little One- when you come onto the scene, life for us is going to change immeasurably in a great and powerful way. Life is never going to be the same. We're going to fall in love with you in a way neither of us has ever loved before, and we cannot wait. You are the greatness, and we're stuck in that moment right before the big kiss, the opening night, the adoption day.

But we know it's coming because we've got that whole faith thing down. And for now, before we get to the greatness we're enjoying the anticipation. It's going to be so life changing, so beautiful and amazing when it happens. It's going to be surreal and other wordly.

It's going to be us, as parents, and you, as our child.

Really, Lo, you're going to blow us away, just like all the dandelions we've been wishing on lately. Until then, we're holding on to the edge of greatness, and loving every moment of this feeling.

With a floating heart full of anticipation,

Love,

Mom

Hope says, "I wish my future will be bright," where faith says, "I know my future, and it is bright."

We had an inspiring weekend Little One. Your Dad and I took a trip to Virginia to attend the Families for Private Adoption Seminar. Words cannot describe how amazing it was.

We arrived Friday afternoon and stayed at a nearby hotel, so we were able to relax. We went to a movie, walked around the Tysons Corner mall and had a nice dinner out. It was wonderful to feel like we were getting away for a little while.

The next morning, we were on our way to the seminar. It was a gorgeous spring day, the sun was shining and the sky was blue as ever. We walked into the church conference room where the seminar was held, and immediately it felt like a big hug. It was such a friendly, warm environment that felt so supportive. We heard stories from all walks of adoption life- successful adoptive parents, adoption lawyers, social workers and even a birth mother. It was wonderful to get perspectives from every angle.

Looking around the room, I couldn't help but think I was surrounded by the best parents in the world. Not to pat our own back, but adoptive parents are a certain kind of special, Lo. They are the parents that fight for their children from the very start. They are the parents that want more than anything to be parents. They were just like us. We're not alone in this.

It was amazing to hear from adoptive parents who had sat where we were sitting not long before, and knew what it was like to be in the trenches. It was amazing to hear their stories of how they did it, and see their beautiful babies. It was amazing to hear from a birth mother who was still okay and proud of her decision, even though it was 28 years ago. It was amazing to hear how she was a part of her daughters life, walked her down the aisle on her wedding day with her adoptive parents. It proved that our idea of family does work, that we're not crazy and that thousands of families get there this way.

 

The last speaker of the day was a psychologist who is an adoptive father himself who gave a spirited talk about the difference between hope and faith, and it really resonated with us. Faith is knowing something is going to happen, whereas hope is, well, just hope. It's easily lost, a short fall from despair. But we have faith, now more than ever. We know this is going to happen, because we're going to make it happen.

One thing almost all of the speakers at the seminar said repeatedly was, "You only fail if you give up. If you don't give up, don't quit, you'll get your baby."

 

Well, Little One- if there is one thing your Dad and I aren't it's quitters. We're never giving up. We won't quit until we get you in our arms.

 

Tonight is session 2 out of 3 with our social worker for the homestudy. The last one is on Thursday. We're nervous, but it's a completely different feeling from the first visit. She knows us now, she's seen our home and now she's just trying to get to know us as people. It's hard to believe that soon the homestudy will be over and our focus will be solely on finding you. Hopefully the search won't last long, but we're willing to wait.

 

We're never giving up, Lo.

 

With faith,

Love,

Mom