There is power in numbers and there is power in unity.

 

 

Well Little One, this post is not really to you (though it is about you).

Nope, this post is to you.Yes, you read that correctly, its to you, our loyal readers. This post is to everyone out there: we need your help.

Our Little One needs your help.

I hate to be this person. I hate asking for help, for guidance, and above all else: I hate asking for money. But we need help  to get to Little One. We can't do this on our own. We're only two people, trying to become three. 

So far, this blog has had almost 2,000 views. Thats 2,000 people that could help us find our missing family puzzle pieces. Thats 2,000 people that could pass the word along. Thats 2,000 people that if they only found one friend to help us get the word out would make 4,000 people helping us find Lo. Ask them to find one other friend, and we're up to 8.000 people. Asking them and we're nearing in on 16,000, and well - you get the drift.There is power in numbers, and power in unity.

Wednesday I returned home from a business trip , and I turned on the TV and the first thing that came on was an episode of Anderson Cooper. The subject of the episode was how social networking can change lives. On the show they had a couple who found their adopted son through facebook. They put up a flyer, and within three weeks a woman contacted them about making an adoption plan for her unborn baby.

And it got me thinking.

You might think you don't make a difference in the world, reader. But I can tell you, whether its about this or something else: you matter. You make a difference, and if anything we're happy you're on this planet. We love you for you, just because you're reading these very words right now. You might think this world is so big and vast that some days you are lost in it, but I can gaurantee you, you're not. Just the fact that you're here, you make a difference in someones life.

Please help make a difference in ours.

I have a call to action to anyone that reads this blog. Please, in any way you can, help us. Support us. Be there for us.

For those who cannot be here physically, pass this blog around (or our website: www.rickandbeckywanttoadopt.com, or our facebook page: www.facebook.com/rickandbeckywanttoadopt).

 If you have financial means, please purchase something from one of our fundraising stores ( https://justlovecoffee.com/about/beneficiary/rickandbeckywanttoadopt/, and we're in the process of setting up a T-Shirt shop through adoption bug which will go live next week). If you don't have financial means, please pass our link along to someone who might have a few extra dollars to buy some cofffee or tea.

The point here is: you can make a difference. If you're reading this, you can help us. And we need the help. We need voices like yours to speak for us in places we can't. We need you to share our information with people- friends, family, coworkers. We need your ears to be open to possibilities. We need you to bring us up in conversation. We need you to share out links on facebook, twitter, tumblr, stumbleupon, your own blogs.

We need you so much right now.

 

I know you might think that you don't know anyone trying to make an adoption plan. You don't know any pregnant women or women who are considering adoption for their children. And that might be true, but someone you know might know someone. Or maybe they know someone that knows someone.

It's like the six degrees of Kevin Bacon at play here. It's six degrees to our Little One. Be the first in the chain, be the catalyst in making our dreams come true. It's so easy, just spread the word for us. Be one of our soldiers of adoption love. Our whole family will have you to thank when it's all said and done.

Again, I hate being that person. But I want nothing more than a family, so I will be that person right now. I will fight as hard as I can to get to our Little One. I will keep putting this in the public eye and spreading the word around until we find our family. But I only know so many people.

But you 2,000 amazing people? Chances are you know tens of thousands of people.

And somewhere out there, our little one is waiting. Somewhere out there in that circle of people is a woman looking for a family to be on the other end of her adoption. We want to be that family, with your help.

 

A few weeks ago I wrote about chaos theory, and this is a beautiful example. Be the butterfly flapping the wings in Africa, be the change that helps us realize our dream. Just like the song, I ain't too proud to beg. I am down on my knees pleading that you help us, and find other people willing to share our story and get our pages out there.

You have so much power, and you don't even realize it most of the time. You have more power in your ten fingers than you can even fathom! Use that power. Help us get the word out. Send emails to family and friends with these links, put them up on facebook, share them with everyone you know.

You make a difference in this world. You can help us, and we love you for it. Be the angel that helps guide us. Be the miracle we didn't see coming. Be the butterfly.

Help us find Little One.

 

On my knees begging please,

Rebecca

www.scaredtobehappyhappytobescared.wordpress.com

www.RickAndBeckyWantToAdopt.com

www.facebook.com/RickAndBeckyWantToAdopt

https://justlovecoffee.com/about/beneficiary/rickandbeckywanttoadopt/

So lying under the stormy skies she said, "Oh I know the sun must set to rise."

Little One, last night, RB and I were watching a show called How I Met Your Mother (which is kind of ironic, considering this blog is how we met you- and your biological mother when that happens!). The plot-line in last nights episode was about how three of the characters got together every three years and watched the Star Wars trilogy while imagining where they'd be three years from then. Every year the main character Ted had the same aspiration for three years down the road- to be married and have a family. And now in 2012, everyone around him is realizing that dream but him, even people who didn't want that for their lives originally.

I am Ted. For the past few years, I keep telling myself, "next year this time, maybe we'll have a baby. Maybe this will be the Christmas we'll be chopping down a tree for three, or buying little gifts from Santa." But every year like clockwork my time-line keeps going without my dreams on it. Every holiday passes with no children, every birthday I get older is one year gone from my life that I'm not a mother yet. And with Mothers Day just around the corner, I feel the ache the hardest. Will I be a mother next year? Every year for the past four years I thought, "OK, not this year. But next year- that's the year I'll finally celebrate being a Mom."

But not yet.

That doesn't mean all hope is lost, Lo. In Ted's defense, in 2015 he was watching Star Wars holding his newborn baby girl. It made me wonder- in three years, where will we be? Will I be holding you as an infant? Will you be three years old, if you are in fact born to the expectant Mom due in June? Or, worst case scenario:will we still be waiting for you?

I don't know what the future holds, Little One. I wish I did. And honestly, a lot of what the future holds is far beyond my realm of control, and to be honest that kills me deep down inside. It hurts to know that I can't say this is the year we'll have a family and then boom, it magically happens. It works that way for a lot of other people, but not our family. It's a curse and a blessing. We appreciate the time without you, because we know we won't waste a single second when you're finally here.

I have hope that in three years I'll either hear the sweet pitter patterof your tiny toddler feet throughout the house, or be rocking a squirming you to sleep. I have hope that in three years I won't be writing on this blog to a nameless you, a hope out there in the ether - but instead I will be writing to a very real you, a person made of flesh and bone and kissable cheeks. I have hope that even though I'm the one who has been saying next year, it'll happen for the past four years, that next year it really will happen. I have hope that this will, in fact, be my last mothers day not being a mother.

I have hope for you, Lo.

I know the storm must come on strong to make a beautiful rainbow. I know the sun must set on a bad day in order for the sun to rise beautifully to a new day full of hope. I know you've got to hit the very worst before you can get to the very best.I don't know if we've hit the worst part yet, Lo. I know that we've been waiting out this storm for a long time, and we're just now learning how to dance in the rain.

I can imagine that the best feeling in the world will come when the sun peeks from the skies again, because we'll appreciate sunlight more than anyone else who hasn't been stuck in the storm for four years.

Waiting on a sunset in a storm,

Love,

Mom

Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life!

 

Yesterday was Easter, Little One.

We went camping over the weekend in Lancaster. On Saturday RB and I went to an Amish farmers market, went shopping at the outlets and played a round of mini golf. It was our first time ever playing mini golf together, even after being with each other for over six years! RB beat me by two points (that was after I lost my golf ball in the creepy blue-dyed water that every mini golf place has, and then again in a nearby bush). It is nice that even after six years we still have firsts. But of course, when you come along there will be a ton of firsts for us to encounter together.

Sunday my Mom and I returned to the outlets together, and despite most things being closed we did find an open childrens clothing store. The above picture is what your Grandparents got you for Easter. You're already getting showered with things, Little One. But there is no way that picture could reflect the amount of love everyone already feels for you.

When we got back to the car from shopping at the childrens store, my mom broke out into tears. I asked her what the waterworks were all about, and she says, "I am just so incredibly excited for you. It's so good to finally see you happy and excited and full of hope." And she was absolutely right: last year, Easter was depressing. I couldn't go anywhere near, let alone into, a childrens clothing store without an overwhelming feeling of anxiety, pain and loss. It has since been replaced with a feeling of excitement and joy. It's such a beautiful thing to witness, that darkness coming into the light. It's like seeing the first bloom of spring after a really harsh winter. After months of a cold raw environment, this little tiny bloom coming up out of the hardest of places makes your entire heart hopeful for new life.

It's downright amazing, Lo.

I can't wait to be the Easter Bunny for you, to take you on these camping trips, to shop for you in those stores. There are so many memories ahead that RB and I are so very excited for, and hopefully next year or soon after we'll be able to see them be fulfilled.

In other news, this morning we passed our inspection from the Fire Marshall. Next week we have our physicals, the vet appointment for the pets, and the inspection from the health department. After that we just need to get our finger prints, and submit all the paperwork. Then its three more visits from the social worker. If all goes as planned, we should be "paper pregnant" by May!

It's all becoming a lot more real, Lo. I can't wait until you're here.

 

With a joyful heart of anticipation,

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

Perhaps all pleasure is only relief...

Little One, at around 8 PM on Thursday the elephant that's been sitting on my chest for the past three months got up and sauntered out of the room.

It was glorious.

Our first home study appointment went wonderfully. Our social worker is extremely nice, helpful, insightful and very approachable (and she likes pinterest! She asked if one of my home decorating ideas was a pinterest idea! Brownie points for sure.). She said our house was lovely, had no problems with our pets, was impressed by the fact that we've already baby proofed and that all of our cleaners/medicines are put up and locked and that we have more than enough smoke detectors. It felt non intrusive, and more like a natural conversation. When she left, we took the biggest sight of relief of our lives. Relief is one of the best feelings in the entire world.

Now we get down to the nitty gritty. We have to submit all of our paperwork before going on to the next three visits, so we're getting down to the wire now. Lots of things to schedule, appointments to make and papers to fill out. But we're getting there, closer and closer one step at a time.

Last night someone that lives less than thirty miles away from us won the mega millions lottery. In one night they gained six hundred and forty million dollars. I cannot even picture that much money. But I hope, even though I know its crazy, that luck is like radiation: maybe that person had so much luck there is a thirty mile radius of good luck surrounding them. If someone one county away could hit a lottery that is more than a one in a million chance, that over forty four states were participating in, that was, in all ways, a shot in hell: then we have a chance. We have hope to adopt. Because one day, we'll hit the lottery in our own way. One day, we'll have you.

Until then, we're working as hard as our bodies will allow us to get the parts we can control finished.

Holding my lottery ticket close to my heart with love,

Mom

The stars are the street lights of eternity...

 

 

Tomorrow is the big day, Little One.

Well, technically today is the big day, considering it's almost one AM and I haven't event entertained the notion of sleep yet.

Tomorrow is our first home study visit.

Earlier tonight, I took a step outside in between cleaning to get something left behind in the car. While I was walking outside, I took a minute to look up, and the view of the night sky took my breath away. You would think after all the years I've been on this planet that the sky would lose its luster, but it never does.  Tonight is a beautifully clear night, the spring air is warm with a slight chill that makes you feel ultimately alive when you breathe it in. The sky tonight is such a deep hue it almost looks purple, and the stars poke through and shine like tiny diamonds that spilled all over the night. Tonight is the kind of night dreams are made of, and my dreams are made of you.

In this moment I realized with  great clarity, these stars that  illuminate the sky are actually millions of miles away. They are an unfathomable distance away from us on earth, and yet we can physically see them.

You are my star, Lo. The thought of you being in my arms seems millions of miles away right now, but I can see it. You are the star that gives me hope. In the darkest of night skies, you shine on like a diamond.

In our essence, we are all star dust. As Dr. Carl Sagan said, we're nothing but the same elements of the stars- we are ourselves "star stuff". At our core we're a beautiful blend of nitrogen and oxygen, atoms waiting to be released into the world to start our journey. It is such a hopeful and beautiful thing to think that millions of miles away, your atoms might be out there. The stars might be aligning to get you home to us. And that is just the beginning of life, Little One. Atoms exploding into action is only the start of this amazing journey.

I never want you to forget that, what a beautiful miracle it is that you're a part of this world. It's a miracle to be alive every single day, to be that atom that makes it to the earth and sparks life where there was none before. Whenever you have a rough day, take a step back and look at the sky. Remember that we're all lucky stars in this vast universe.

Tonight is a night of hope, a night full of beautiful stars. I pray that many more nights filled with this amount of hope will follow in the months or years ahead.

As for tomorrow, I can guarantee you I will be a nutcase. But I promise whenever I feel nervous about this process, I will take a step back and look to the sky. By looking at the beauty that is nature and science and all things miraculous, I will remember that you are out there, waiting for your stardust to settle.

Always your guiding star with love,

Mom

Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.

We're jumping those hurdles, leaping those fences and knocking over those walls, Lo. This weekend has been all about you. We've been cleaning our house, organizing every cabinet, buying up every smoke detector, locking up every medicine and putting it on a high shelf, scrubbing every wall and polishing every glass. The first visit for the  homestudy is just a few days away, and we're busy as ever.

My mom came and helped us pretty much all weekend, and we were so grateful to have her there. It's a different situation, Little One, but I like it. I'm not pregnant. My Mom cannot help me pick out maternity clothes. She can't help me register at a baby store. She can't rub my belly and feel you kick. But she can come over and help us get ready for the social worker. She can calm my nerves when I'm on the brink. She can hold my hand and tell me that everything is going to be okay. She can look me right in the eyes and say, in a way only a mother can, "You can do this. I believe in you." And that is worth more than any experience I'd ever have if I were pregnant with you physically.

Something hit me last night, after we'd been cleaning for three days straight and I was exhausted. That's when strong feelings always seem to come on, at least for me- when I'm too exhausted to fight them and move on. I had my closet open and was looking for pajamas to change into, when I looked up at my closet door and staring back at me was a picture of me and my sister. It was taken at her wedding, almost five years ago. I'd stuck it on the closet door just hours before when I had found it cleaning, a safe place to keep it until I buy a new frame. But when I looked up it was just there, right in my face, and it brought on a flood of emotions.I thought nearly unconsciously: My sister is the spitting image of my mother. I am the spitting image of my father. And I realized while staring at this tiny moment captured in time, our hands clasped together as we were dancing, my sister in her beautiful white gown and both of us with big gleaming smiles- you won't have that.

You won't be the spitting image of me or your Dad. You just won't. In the off chance you look even remotely like us, it won't be like that picture of my sister and I. Her eyes and smile are like my mothers features frozen in time. My face shape and sunken eyes, the nose genetics gave me that I'm always told looks like my great Grandmothers, I am my father if he were female and thirty some years younger. But you won't be able to look at us and say, "Yep, I got Moms nose, just like my great-great Grandmas. And I have Dads voice- which is just like his Dad's, and my Uncle's. You can't even tell us all apart on the phone."

But as quickly as the thought crossed my mind, so did the resolution. You won't have that, and that is okay. You are not the result of your genetics, you will be the result of our hard work, our love, our determination, our inner desire to nurture and love and care for another human being and to put that human being above ourselves. You'll be in a class all your own: you weren't created by us to let our genetics live on (honestly my tiny nose is nothing to be that proud of, and your fathers voice, while amazing to me, is not the only great voice out there),instead, you were chosen.

People often wonder what their future children will look like, and they can gather up a pretty good guesstimation. Glossy expectant parents coo over these features: Well I'm sure he'll have my eyes, everyone in my family has my eyes. I'm sure she'll have your cheekbones, they are so prominent. For us, we honestly have no idea what you're going to look like, and Little One, that is so exciting. We walk through the mall and look at every child and wonder if you'll look like them. Every baby is an opportunity, someone you might share features with.

In a way I think this has made us better people. We're not as quick to judge others, we look at every person as if they could be our family members, that one day our son or daughter could grow up to look just like them. Part of me thinks that if everyone had this mentality the world would be a much more peaceful and happy place to reside.

 

And honestly Little One, I will teach you this over and over, time and time again: looks are not important  Your personality says far more about you than your body ever will. As long as you're healthy, your body is just a vessel for who you really are on the inside. Don't ever let anyone tell you different.

I can tell you now: no matter what you look like, whether you resemble us a little, a lot, or simply not at all: we'll think you are the most gorgeous person on planet earth.

Putting my tiny nose to the grindstone to get to you,

Love,

Mom