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

 

 

You are not the momentary whim of a careless creator experimenting in the laboratory of life. . . You were made with a purpose.

 

 

Little One, we're only given this one life. Just one... and if there is one thing I want to teach you in this world, it's to find your purpose and appreciate everything in this beautiful journey we've been given. 

 

Appreciate the quiet calm of a sunset. Appreciate the purity of the air that fills your lungs and sends oxygen to your beautiful brain. Appreciate that brain of yours- marvel at the intricate, mysterious way it works without us even knowing how or why. Appreciate your sense of wonderment and your talents.

Appreciate waking up in the morning- even on the days when you've woken up on the wrong side of the bed, even on days you don't want to get out of bed...appreciate waking up. It's a luxury many see come to an end far too soon. 

 

Appreciate the bad time, for they are the shading on the bright focus of a picture. Without the bad, we wouldn't see the beauty in the good. I want you to believe that there is good in everyone, as hard as it is some days. I want you to see beauty in the darkest of places, because that is often where the beauty of life is hiding.

 

I want you to live. Really live. I want you to take the long way home, driving with the windows down as you feel the wind tickle your hair around your scalp, sending shivers down your spine.  I want you to see and do everything on your bucket list. I want you to try new things, even if they are scary or foreign. I want you to never stop learning, to want to know more always, to seek out the truth and meaning behind everything.

 

I want so very much for you, Lo.

 

I want you to have the best life possible. 

I want you to find your purpose, because once you do- you are really living.

 

My purpose is to be your Mom. 

My distinct feeling throughout this whole process has been just that... I was put on this earth to find you, to be your Momma. My purpose is to give you these things, to show you the beauty of this world and teach you everything I possible can....

And above all, my purpose is to love you. Sweet baby, I am going to love you in a way only a parent can- that fierce kind of love, the kind of love that would stop a freight train. That is my purpose in life. My purpose is to be a mother. 

 

But I know I am more than that. My purpose to be a mother was not accidental. My purpose to be a mother was set apart from the rest, because I  will be a mother through this miracle that is adoption. It's a purpose I don't take lightly, baby. It's a purpose I appreciate and try to learn from every day.

 

I will not know motherhood the way most women do. I will not know what it's like to feel the cold jelly of a sonogram machine on my stomach to find out your gender. I will not know what it's like to feel your kicks from the inside, or to hear your heartbeat for the first time. 

I will know motherhood in a completely different way. In what is possibly the coolest way. My motherhood will be so instant, and at the same time so gestational. I get to experience what most other Moms don't. I will get a call to know your gender. I will be able to hold you, this tiny person already formed,  whose soul I've been connected to for so very long, and get to know you in a way most mothers can't understand.

 

My purpose is to advocate for that amazing miracle. Once you're in our arms, adoption will still be ever present. It will be in our lives every day, in one way or another. It won't always be front and center but it will be part of the background scenery forever. My purpose is to be there for new adoptive mothers, to be a sounding board and help them through this scary process. I am so thankful for the brave women put in my journey so far to help guide me, that I want to give that back as much as possible. 

Once you've found your purpose in life, there is a fire lit from under you that cannot be extinguished until it's fulfilled. It's a drive that takes over you, body and soul, and consumes you. It's a beautiful energy that comes from nowhere. It's the will that tells you not to give up when you're exhausted from trying. It's the whisper in your ear telling you to keep on hoping after another failure. 

 

I appreciate the purpose. 

 

I don't know what your purpose will be, sweet baby. That is for you to find out... but just know your Dad and I will support you in the journey to find out, and we'll always be here patiently waiting to see what you find. We'll do everything we can to support you following your dreams. Maybe in thirty years when you look back and read this you'll think, "Really Mom? I was your purpose in life? Dream a little bigger next time.... I mean, I am going to be President*, and all you wanted to be was a Mom and adoption advocate?" (* or doctor, or lawyer, or sanitation specialist---again, that part is up to you!)

 

But then I'll look into the eyes of the beautiful child that I worked for five (or more) long years to bring into our lives, the one who appreciates life and learning and the pursuit of their own happiness... and I will smile and tell you how very worth it it was. 

 

I will always appreciate you. You are my purpose in life, and I will appreciate every breath that fills your lungs, and every thought in your amazing brain. 

 

Being your Mom is going to be the most amazing journey I've ever embarked on. 

 

I can't wait to fulfill my purpose.

 

With love and wind in my hair,

Love always and forever, sweet baby, 

 

Mom 

Confusion never stops, closing walls and ticking clocks. Gonna come back and take you home, I could not stop that you now know. Come out upon my seas, cursed missed opportunities....Am I a part of the cure? Or am I part of the disease?

Little one, it's been too long. I'm sorry about being MIA. I have not been MIA from this journey, just from writing to you. In fact, this journey taking so many twists and turns is the reason I haven't been writing to you.

Let me try to explain. 

Today marks one year since we've been on this journey. One year since that car ride with my mother, where I learned about the situation in New Jersey. One year since I frantically busted through the door when I got home, eager to tell your Dad about our new life plans. That night your Dad and I made the decision to adopt while our friends were waiting outside our house in their car for us to go bowling on a freezing January Friday night. One year since we couldn't stop smiling while continually bowling gutter balls because our mind was on you- and our friends asked us what was up with our game. 

One year since our lives changed forever.

But I'm not the same person, at all.

I'm not the same person I was one year and one day ago, either. That version of me was sad. Sullen. Heartbroken. Lost. Hurt. Confused. That person was overtaken by the grief of infertility with seemingly no way out. That person was bitter. She loathed going to happy bubbly baby showers. She would dig her heels in when going to family gatherings with children. Her heart sunk when she walked past a baby aisle in a store. 

I'm definitely not her anymore. 

But I'm also not who I was this time last year. I cannot be, because I've been through too much. I've seen too much, felt too much, talked to too many people and learned too much. I am not that hopeful person that looks at each new day as an exciting opportunity. I'm not that nervous girl frantically cleaning every crevice of her kitchen counter before her first homestudy visit. I'm not that woman who wished on stars and imagined that they could actually come true. 

 

I'm now the woman who has had five fall throughs in one year. I'm the person with all the failed matches. I'm the one who has spent countless nights this past year lying awake, wondering what went wrong. I'm no longer bitter about baby showers- I'm bitter about other peoples fast matches. I'm hurt, and a little broken. I've seen the dark, painful underbelly of adoption. 

 

One year to date and still, I'm the childless mother. I'm the one who has had so many women tell me I'm the one- only for them to drop off the face of the planet, or send an email mere hours later telling me they've gone a different way. I'm the one on the other end of the phone while a mother in crisis screams at me because I legally cannot pay her living expenses, and then threatens me with physical harm. I'm the one answering heavy breathing phone calls from sex offenders calling our adoption phone line in the middle of the night. I'm the one losing faith in humanity, in how much strength I once had, in myself. 

 

And yet sweet baby, I'm still your Mom.

 

I'm still the woman who has hope. 

A glimmer of unwavering faith.

Endless love and determination for you. 

 

I'm not going to say this past year has been easy. It just plain hasn't. There have been endless sobbing tears into a soaked pillow at three in the morning. Sleepless nights, lying awake wondering and hoping and wishing and praying for an answer, if you added them up I'm sure it would be a full two months of those nights.

And it's difficult, because with each fall through and scam we've experienced, a part of it feels like a miscarriage. Only it's not at all. Those babies are in homes, they are loved. But they have no idea about me- about the other way their life could have gone. They have no idea that before they were born, at one point in their lives they had a stranger who loved them. A mother who knew nothing of the features of their face, but held them in her heart and loved and cared about them mercilessly. 

And it's difficult to mourn these children who will still go on to have what I'm sure will be beautiful lives. In doing so, my grief is selfish- I'm only sad for myself. That isn't fair to them.

Adoption is not for the faint of heart, and I knew that going into this- but I also had no idea the year that would lie ahead. Despite this, it has been one of the best years of my life- because it's leading me to you. 

I think it's been so hard to write to you because unbeknownst to you, the idea of you just keeps changing. Throughout this year we've had so many names for you, so many names for your first mother. It feels endless. I feel like I'm failing you by not getting to the finish line. 

 

It takes a lot of strength for me to come back to the place where I need to be. I know that those babies weren't you. Those babies aren't our babies. Those little faces I've loved so much that I'll never see- they aren't the faces we were meant to love forever. 

And I can tell you this, sweet baby- it will be worth every. single. second. Every molecule of every single tear that has streaked my face for the past three hundred and sixty five days are worth all that you are and all that you'll be. You are so worth every heartache, every wrong turn, every misstep. You are worth a million days of walking through the desert without a drop of water. And sometimes, that is what this journey feels like. 

I have to keep reminding myself that one day- it won't feel like that anymore. 

One sweet, beautiful, incredible day- you will be placed in my arms. I will physically hold you. I will see your tiny nose and your soul through your eyes. I will rock you,sweep the whisps of hair from your forehead and cry a thousand tears of a joy so deep and meaningful- and you will forever be a part of who I am in a way that I can't even picture yet because it seems so far away. But I know one day, it won't be far away. One day, it will be THE day. 

And I'm not letting my heartache be the roadblock to that amazing day. 

I wish I could adequately put into words how much I love you, how much you mean to me. I wish I could explain the feeling in my heart when I think about being your mother- and the soul crushing fear that overcomes me when I fear that it will never happen. But I don't think there are enough words in the English dictionary to cover those emotions. They are far too deep. Just know this sweet little one- I am never, ever giving up. 

I am blessed by this journey. Though the road has been broken, it is the right road for us. It is the road we will keep traveling down until we reach you. No matter the pitfalls, the detours or the wrecks along the way- we won't stop until we reach you. But for that, I am thankful. I am grateful that I will never for one millisecond take for granted the gift it is to be your mother. I will study your amazing personality, I will stand in awe of your existence. Because I have seen what it takes to get a miracle, and the hard work that goes in behind the scenes. I will be a better mother because of everything we've been through. 

And it hasn't been all bad, either. This year has brought me some amazing gifts in the form of women I've talked to who are going to make (or already are) great mothers who've decided to parent. I've bet first mothers who have placed, who I've connected with in the kind of grief only those in the adoption triad understand. I'm leaving this year with great friends by my side walking the same path as me- some who already have adopted their little ones, others who are in the trenches like us. 

I'm definitely coming out of this year with lessons learned, friends made and support. 

 

And sweet baby- let me just say this- your Dad is so very amazing. We have been in this together, every single step of the way. He is taking each and every painful experience to heart just as much as I am- only he's also being the one to hold me and tell me it's going to be okay. He's the rock that keeps me grounded when I feel like it's never going to happen. He is the cheerleader by my side, whispering to never give up. He's downright amazing, and he's going to be an amazing Dad to you. 

 

No matter how hard this road gets, we're not giving up. We've made it through the first year alive, and nothing can stop us now. 

 

I keep listening to this song by Jason Mraz every time I feel down: 

And just like them old stars
I see that you've come so far
To be right where you are
How old is your soul?
I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up

We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in
I had to learn what I've got, and what I'm not, and who I am

I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up, still looking up.

I won't give up on us (no I'm not giving up)
God knows I'm tough enough (I am tough, I am loved)
We've got a lot to learn (we're alive, we are loved)
God knows we're worth it (and we're worth it)

I won't give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I'm giving you all my love
I'm still looking up

 

I can't wait to sing you to sleep with that song. 

 

After a year on this road, I'm not giving up. God knows I'm tough enough.  

 

And God certainly knows your worth it. 

 

Not giving up, even for a second

With unwavering love forever and ever, and still looking 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.

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

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

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

Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can't go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.

Little one, I'm having difficulty lately. I'm trying so hard to be patient, but patience is still alluding me and I can't seem to pinpoint the cause. We've only just begun this journey in January, we've only started the homestudy process in March, but I'm feeling incredibly antsy lately.This is not good, considering we could have months or years of road beyond us until we reach you.

Mothers Day was actually really nice this year. I even received pre-Mothers Day gifts from my Mom and Sister, and they are gorgeous and made me bawl. Here is what they look like:

Grandma made you a binky blanket with owls that is so soft that you Dad and I want to cuddle up in it and nap until you get here. Your Aunt made you a sign we're going to hang in your room that says, "Little One, You Grew in Our Hearts." It couldn't be more true.

It was the first Mothers Day in five years that I wasn't depressed. I have hope now, Lo. It's amazing.

 

Other than Mothers Day, I've been incredibly busy with work lately, so I've had little time to write. That doesn't mean that you don't weigh heavy on my mind every moment of every day. I'm in a coffee shop and the barista is pregnant. I want so badly to ask her if she knows anyone who is looking to make an adoption plan, but I know it could end up coming off as rude and hurtful so I bite my tongue and order my coffee, sans small talk. But she's pregnant, so she must know other pregnant mothers...what if this was our one shot, and my Miss Manners mindset blew it?

Sometimes, I feel like I want to be your mother so badly that my skin crawls with anticipation. I get so jittery at the very thought if it that I want to leap out of my body and find a way to fast forward time like some magical plot in a sci-fi movie.

Unfortunately, life doesn't work like that, and I need to practice patience.

I'm not good with patience, Lo. I hate to admit that, and I hope you don't get that quality from me. I wish I were patient, and I try my best, but some days are a lot harder than others. Lately I'm having more hard days than easy. Who knows how long this process will take? Some couples take years, others weeks. We have no crystal ball, no way of knowing what the future will hold for us or how long it will take. In a way, that is a beautiful thing. How often does life get to surprise you with something amazing, something out of left field? It's a rare time in our lives that we should be treasuring, not frittering away with worries and tapping our feet while staring down the clock.

 

Of course, that is much easier said than done.

To be completely candid with you Lo, I've always been impatient with exciting things. I remember one year my sister tested this theory. It was my eleventh birthday, and she got me a Will Smith CD (yes, I can already imagine your eyes rolling. At the time, it was an awesome CD. Big Willie Style defined my eleventh year on this planet. Oh my goodness, just writing that sentence made me cringe.I promise not to hold your pre-teen music choices accountable when you're an adult...because I'm sure there will be some winners there too). So it was in a CD case (which, considering the way technology is going- I will reference for you since I doubt they'll be around much longer in the future. A CD case is 5.5 inches by 5.75 inches- thanks to Google for that answer. I'm sure Google will still be kicking in the future, so I won't explain that one)... back to the story, she put the CD case inside of about ten boxes, all larger in size- all stuffed into a giant box leftover from a newly purchase recliner.

It took me a solid hour and a half to get to Big Willie Style, and she thought it was hysterical. Looking back, it was- but at the time, I just wanted to hear Mr. Smith serenade me about biting on cigars but not lighting them.

I never let your Dad surprise me. Every anniversary, birthday and Christmas he tries so hard to keep presents a secret, but I always figure them out. I'm probably the worst person to surprise, because when I hear there is something exciting coming I turn into a private investigator so skilled that the FBI could recruit me to learn my tactics.

So you can see how this process would be the ultimate test of patience for me. You are no CD or Christmas present. You're no birthday surprise party or hidden wedding shower. You're the greatest thing that will ever happen to us, and I've never been this anxious about anything in my entire life.

We keep hearing about situations from those around us, and yet none have resulted in you being here. It's difficult to hear, "Well I might know someone..." and getting nowhere with a promising lead. It's going to happen though, and it's a good thing that it is happening because it shows that the word is getting out and we will eventually make the match that leads us to you. But it makes it incredibly hard to remain hopeful and patient, and unfortunately the closer June gets the harder it's becoming for me. I'm trying to not let it, I'm working extremely hard to stay positive, hopeful and faithful. But it's the hardest thing I've ever done, Little One.

But it will be so incredibly worth it. And I promise I will never expose you to Will Smith's attempt at music. That's a promise. 

 

Patiently Gettin' Jiggy With It,

Love,

Mom

 

When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.

Little One, it's been a crazy long week! I've been in Philadelphia for most of the week for work, and Rick has been home. It's been tough being away, but it was a good distraction from the impending black cloud of Mothers Day this weekend.

That was until tonight, when your Dad and I made the pilgrimage to look at Mothers Day cards at Target. Pouring through pink envelopes filled with sappy sentiments, cheap jokes and childish poems we found an odd card among the mounds of Mothers Day greetings. A card about waiting. The label actually said it was an adoption card. It even included the phrase, "you can finally bring your little one home."

And it hit me, Lo. This card was in the Mothers Day section, because I am amother. I'm just a childless mother.

 

It's a weird predicament not many would understand.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about motherhood. What does motherhood mean? How do you define it? When in adoption do you actually become a mother? Am I a mother because this is our decision? Am I a mother when you're placed in my arms? Am I a mother when the home study is complete? Am I a mother when the final adoption paperwork is signed?

 

I believe it's all of the above and none of the above. I am your mother now. I put your needs before my own, I think about you night and day, I live and breathe and would take a bullet for you. My every breath is only an effort for me to live to move one step closer to you. For the shot to hold you in my arms. For the chance to be your mother. I'm going through hell in my own head and heart in order to just have a glimmer of hope to be your parent. I love you more than life itself.  

My God, if that isn't a parent then I don't know what the hell is.

 

I am a mother. I am expecting you, I just don't know when. I have to say, maybe selfishly, that takes a bit of the sting off of mothers day. In the past, I didn't feel like a mother on mothers day, I felt like a woman who was bitter over infertility. There is still that woman inside of me, fighting to come out and hem and haw at mothers day cards and hallmark commercials. But then the adoptive Mother bear in me comes alive and fights that bitter woman down. and roars in her protective voice, "I AM a mother, whether society sees it or not."

It doesn't matter that you're not here yet. Motherhood to me means love, protection, fighting for your children tooth and nail for them to have the best life possible, nurturing, caring, placing the needs of your kid before your own. I do all of that and more already, I am Mom.

It might not be traditional parenting yet. I'm not yet changing your diapers, feeding you a bottle, watching you drift peacefully to sleep in your car seat on a long ride home. But I'm placing fliers up, handing out our business card, cleaning up for social workers, going to adoption seminars. I'm laying the groundwork for the diapers and bottles and car seat naps of the future.

My love for you surpasses everything right now. I love you beyond what a greeting card encompasses.

 

And Hallmark doesn't make a card for that.

 

Waiting for the Mothers Day card aisle of next year,

Love,

Mom

Don't Ignore Adoptive Parents this National Infertility Awareness Week

Little One, this is an important week. Not only because of our good fortune the past two days, but also because it's National Infertility Awareness Week.

I think it would be remiss for me not to mention our infertility to you, Lo. After all, it does play a part in how you're going to be in our lives.

The other day, the TV reporter asked me a question that I've been asked several times, and it's always a difficult one to answer: What were your first thoughts when you were diagnosed with infertility? I stared at her, unable to speak. I stammered over my words, and blurted out some rote response.

It's a difficult question for me to answer not because it was some life altering moment, but because it wasn't. I didn't have my stomach drop to the floor, my head didn't spin, I didn't cry or have any reaction.

I was only sixteen.

My mindset at that time was, "Okay, deal with it later. What am I doing this Friday night?" There was never really an earth shattering emotional breakdown, just the truth. And I've realized something important Lo: that wasn't my defining infertility moment. My defining moment would come years later: my legs spread open on a doctors table, my loving husband grasping my hand, a trans-vaginal ultrasound wand in places trans-vaginal ultrasound wands are built to go but should never go, the white coat straight faced reproductive endocrinologist saying softly, "I'm sorry Mrs. Miller. It looks like that round didn't work either."

That was my moment. Not when I was sixteen.

But I'm very lucky that I had that moment when I did. Sixteen year old minds aren't meant to comprehend such news, and neither are twenty-something to fifty-something minds. What gave me a leg up when coming to my diagnosis realization wasn't my age, it was my years of experience. I was not blind sided. I didn't get married with hopes this would happen right away, I didn't always picture a bouncing baby with Dads eyes and my nose on my lap. Because I had years to marinade in my diagnosis, take it in during small windows of my life, a bit at a time. Your Dad and I had plenty of time to discuss our options before we even walked down the aisle and said a single I do. My diagnosis didn't hit me like a freight train- so it didn't derail any image I had of a future family. I knew it was coming, I had time to prepare.

That is one of the reasons I'm such an advocate for infertility. It is not because I feel like I've been through so much, or I want pity or attention for my disease. Instead, I want people to have the experience I had. My infertility has been painful, it's had moments where it's hard to go on, there have been weeks of depression. But despite the hard moments I had a clear and concise early diagnosis. That is such a beautiful gift in the world of infertility that very few get the chance to experience.

I want to change that.

I want every woman and man who has to face this terrible disease to have a warning. I want young women and men to get tested for diseases that cause infertility early. I want there to be awareness. One in eight couples will face infertility. One in eight! So many women and men are walking around in this world, blissfully unaware of the freight train coming their way. I want to jump in front of them, knock them off the tracks and give them their due time to soak up the information, support and resources needed to overcome infertility before it really hits home.

There is this stigma around those with infertility. I'm not really sure why it exists, but I want to break the stigma. I'm not ashamed that I was born the way I am. My poly cystic ovarian syndrome is something that is a part of me, completely. I embrace it, I respect it, and I treat it as best I can. It has made me who I am, it has given me the grief of infertility, yes, but it's also given me so many gifts. I am a strong courageous fighter because of my infertility. I have a voice that I'm not afraid to use because of it. It's something I hope you never have to face, Little One, but if you ever do or know someone that does: I want them to know by the time you're a twenty-something what to do about it. How to treat other people who face it. I want you to see the compassion and heartache the way your Dad and I do, and not run from it like so many people. Instead I want you and everyone else to be brave, look into the eyes of someone facing infertility and say the only words that need to be said, "That's awful. I'm sorry. I recognize this is difficult because it's out of your control, and it's not your fault. I'm here for you, you're not alone."

Break the stigma.

 

If the stigma is broken, then the realness of infertility as a disease can heal and rebuild anew. Doctors will recognize the disease, as will insurance companies. They will begin to cover it, and people won't have to stare down their bank accounts to see if having a family is even a feasible option. It will be treated as it should be: as a disease that should not be ignored.

I don't want you to take any of this the wrong way, Lo. I advocate for infertility just as I do for many diseases and causes, not because I feel like you'll be a second best, or a second option. Never, ever mistake it: you are the first choice. Your Dad and I have no qualms about adopting. There will never be not for an instance of your existence a doubt that you're our child. Genetics be damned, you're our baby, Lo. Already, and we haven't met you yet: you're our family. You're a part of us in such a beautiful way.

And just for that fact alone: adoption advocates for infertility, and the multitude of ways to build a family.

There are so many wonderful ways to build a family, sweet one. Our way is the way we've chosen. It's what is in our hearts, what we feel is best for all of us. Other people turn to IVF, IUI, clomid, injectables, surrogates, donor eggs, FET, donor sperm, donor embryo's, gestational carriers. That is their decision, and it should be honored and respected.

People take their families for granted every single day, and not all give a passing thought that there are others out there that don't have that luxury. We can change things in this word, Lo. Don't ever forget the amazing power you possess as an American and human being on this earth. We have to band together for each other, and fight for what is right for all American families.

Genetics, whose uterus you were carried in, how many rounds of medicines it took- that isn't what matters. In the end, a family is a family is a family.

Our family is strong because of infertility. We have love in our hearts because of it.

And the best gift we'll ever get out of this will be you, Lo.

Never giving up the fight,

Love,

Mom

This week, don't ignore adoptive parents. Learn about the different ways to build a family, and educate others. To learn more about infertility and National Infertility Awareness Week, please visit:

• http://www.resolve.org/infertility101  (Basic understanding of the disease of infertility.)


• http://www.resolve.org/national-infertility-awareness-week/about.html (About NIAW)

I have learned, that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

Little One, today is full of life. I'm trying to make a conscious effort to make everyday full of life, as it should be. This life we're given is a short one, and we need to live it, soaking up every single second possible.

This morning felt light and dreamy. The rain came in yesterday, but today is so full of spring and sunshine that it makes my soul ache for the beauty of the plush green trees and striking blue sky (which unfortunately my tiny cubicle does not afford).

Despite the rain, yesterday was very productive. Our health department home inspection was tedious, but we passed. Our physicals went great, they were passed. We're just a few steps away, over three quarters of the way done at the least. We're getting so close to the finish line. It's such an exciting time in our lives. This morning I booked a hotel and pre-registered for a private adoption workshop in a month. RB is excited about it too. We're taking in as much information as we can: eating, sleeping, breathing adoption.

I have to make a note about this adorable thing your Dad does. It's such a trivial thing, most people would not even notice it. But knowing your Dad, I know this little thing is a testiment to his love for you. Every time we hear the phrase, "Little One" - even if its not referencing a baby (ie, a car commercial where someone says, "I'll take the little one") your Dad gets this huge grin on his face and whispers to himself, "Aw, Little One." It's downright adorable, and it makes my heart sing every time I see it happen.

I have confidence that you're out there, and that somewhere someone might be reading this and sharing out story, gettin the word out to the ears that are meant to hear it.

 I have confidence that soon, our day is coming.

I have confidence that in ten years, we won't remember the paperwork, the waiting, the hard days. We'll just be living our lives as a happy family, making memories each day.

We're living every second of these precious moments before you come in to our lives, because we know once that happens we'll be too busy pinching ourselves and being wrapped up in our love for you that we won't notice that life is still going on around us.

 

Waiting for the common hour,

Love,

Mom

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.

Sunday was one of those days where I wish you were here now, Little One.RB and I went to do some work on our camper, and the car battery ran out from me playing music a little too long with the windows down as we twiddled away at the wires. When we got back in the car, there was the tell-tale sign: the unimpressive drrrnnnk as we turned the key.

This might have bothered some people, but RB and I are pretty laid back about things like this. Especially lately, things have been put into perspective a great deal. It's a beautiful thing. We took it as a sign: get out of the car and enjoy some more sunshine. It was a beautiful day.

Eventually, the car started. It seemed like magic, "I'll try it just one more time," I thought, and with a burst of power the lights flickered on and the engine purred sweetly. As RB finished with the camper wires, I drove in circles in the storage parking lot, each time passing him and shrugging my shoulders, "I guess I just have that magic touch!" I yelled to him from the open window.

To save the battery, we decided to take a drive to nowhere. This is something we used to do a lot when we were dating. We'd drive around, especially at night, talking, listening to music loudly with the windows down, enjoying the open stretch of road that seemed as never ending as our possibilities in life. The starry night sky and the headlights outlining our path were the only illumination, and we'd just relax and enjoy the journey to no real destination. Some of our best conversations were in the car on nights like that, and we fell deeper in love in those long rides at night with nothing but us, the roar of the engine and the stars above.

Nowadays, to take a drive with no purpose is a luxury. The price of gas is so astronomically high we have to conserve every drop, but Sunday was different. We drove to an off-beaten path, saw the water and stopped the car to watch some galloping horses in a field right off the road. We took a minute to just enjoy the journey with no destination: to suck the marrow out of the bone of life.

And I remember on days like Sunday what it felt like to be a child. What it felt like to have no worries, to be carefree and feel secure and to just enjoy the ride.

You see, Little One, when I was young I was very, very sick. At two and a half years old I was diagnosed with Scleroderma, a rare autoimmune disorder. Doctors told my parents time and time again that I was going to die, to plan a funeral and detach themselves. But my parents are fighters, and they refused to listen. They did everything in their power for me to get better and flourish, and I did. Once the doctors stopped telling them I would die, they started telling them I would never be able to walk, that I'd be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life. When the insurance company refused to pay for physical therapy for me, my mother stepped in and learned what she could and did it for me at home. I still credit my parents defiance and hard work to me not only being able to walk and run and have a childhood, but also to me even being alive.

I want to be that kind of parent for you.

I want to fight for you to have the best life you can have. To flourish, to feel safe and secure even when I'm scared you're not, and to be a fighter yourself. I want to educate you with everything I can, to give you the power to be independent and strong like my parents did for me.

Never in my childhood did I feel like I was different. Never did I feel like I was the sick kid, the weird one, the one that was going to die. Even in the years I spent in a leg brace, through the countless surgeries and procedures, the times when I had to be schooled at home because I was too sick to go in: I don't look back on those memories with hurt or any type of doubt. I look back and think, my God did my parents sacrifice for me. They loved me enough to give me a childhood that this disease tried to take away. They played a tug of war with scleroderma, my childhood being the anchor in the middle, and they fought for so many years and they won.

Of course I remember the hospital stays. I remember the surgeries, the pain, the shots. I remember waking up with fevers and celebrating birthdays in braces or in bed. But they are not the keypoints of my childhood. They are the tiny dots in a timeline littered with great memories of trips, birthday parties and friendships. More than anything I remember a childhood filled with laughter, security and happiness. I can recall with great clarity summers spent on my bike, fishing in the creek, going to museums and Niagra falls and then bragging about them when I got back. Best of all, I remember being eight years old and told I was finally in remission.

I sometimes I get down, Little One, when I think of how easy it is for other people to have a family. It makes me sad at times that other people can just look at someone else and get pregnant- and not even care. They don't appreciate life, their own or their childs. And it upsets me sometimes when I think about it. When someone new announces a pregnancy on facebook and says, "Oh yeah, I guess we're just 'lucky' to have two kids in two years- yeah right!"  I look at that and think...yeah, you actually are extremely lucky. But then I put things in perspective.

You're going to have an awesome childhood.

Those other kids whose parents don't respect or value life don't understand. They've never been on the brink of death. They've never had to watch their parents fight and sacrifice to give them what they so easily had- a childhood without worry. When small insignificant things happen, their world implodes like everything is ending. Our family won't be that family.

Our family will be the pilot light, constantly on ready to ignite the passion we have for life within each other. We'll make outstanding memories at every corner. We'll try our hardest to make the hard things in life easier. We'll learn about everything we can in this world together.

We'll be on fire with life.

And you will have an amazing childhood, no matter what hurdles we face. I know this because I know the strength I have, the same strength my parents had. It won't always be easy to be "the adopted kid." I know that, because it wasn't it wasn't always easy to be "the sick kid." But I also know that RB and I love you more than anything already, and we'll fight until the bitter end to give you everything you deserve out of a childhood.

You're going to enjoy the journey to nowhere that makes childhood so great. You'll feel the security of our arms wrapped around you and the laughter and happiness in our family memories.

 My God, what a beautiful life you're going to have, I can already see it. I feel like I'm in that car with RB again as a teenager, the road stretched so far in front of us we can't see where it ends.

Even on days like Sunday: just driving around, stopping to see the beautiful world around us. I wish you could have been there, to have that memory with us. I know I've said this often in here but I'm so glad I decided to chronicle the journey getting to you. I'm so glad that even on days where you're not here yet, you can experience the emotions we felt. In my heart of hearts I know that in the near future, there will be many days spent making wonderful family memories, even if its just a Sunday drive together.

I hope that when you read this when you're older you'll realize how much we loved you, each other, and our family.

 

Waiting for Sunday with Love,

Mom