murphy’s law and 911 calls

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I flew home from Arkansas last night – I had an incredible time at the Idea Camp.  It was an amazing and comprehensive look at orphan care, and there were so many inspiring speakers, most of whom are running NGO’s that are doing amazing things to keep children from becoming orphaned in the first place, and then to serve the children who have been abandoned or who have lost their families.  A sobering statistics: less than 2% of orphaned children will be adopted. I am still unpacking everything I learned and will write about it soon.

Even though I was only in Arkansas for 42 hours, I still missed my kids like crazy.  They managed to have quite the dramatic weekend.  Why does this stuff always happen when I am gone?  Last time I left, our glass slider shattered on Jafta, leaving a gaping hole in the living room during the rainiest week of the year.

Karis managed to top that Friday night by putting two coins in her mouth that got lodged in her throat.  Her airway wasn’t completely blocked but they were stuck and she was gagging – so Mark was doing trying the Heimlich with no success and ended up calling 911.  She coughed out the coins while he was on the line, but they had already put out the call, so in a few minutes an ambulance, a police car, and a fire truck all showed up at the house.  Of course, the bigger kids were thrilled to have so many “community service professionals” show up at the door.

Apparently earlier in the day Karis found a glue stick and applied it to her entire face like a sunblock stick.  She also put it in her hair.  So Mark had fun washing that off.

I think they are conspiring against me so that I never leave town.

Mark did tell me that he was tempted to take a picture of the kids getting stickers from the firemen, but that he thought maybe it was inappropriate to do during a 911 response.  I told him he was right, and that he should have done it anyway.

He did managed to get this cute shot of them:

They went geocaching.  A lot.  They managed to find their biggest treasure yet: a box with a batman toy and a shark.  The boys were thrilled. 

I think we’ve found our thing.

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what I want you to know: how my baby healed me from myself

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.


Today’s post is from my friend Bonnie Lewis, who blogs at Bonnie the Baker.
What I want you to know is that I like my new curves. I used to like being stick thin. I liked being muscular and working out as much as I could. I haven't become lazy, I've just turned a new leaf.
I had a baby.  And he has healed me.
It's true, what everyone says- you gain weight. Your body changes.  I sense you looking at me and wondering if I know that my hips are bigger, my waist is curvier, and my legs and arms look, well bigger.  Believe me, I know.  But my goal is not to get back to my original size. My goal is to wear my new size proudly, because a miracle grew inside of me.
What I want you to know is that our baby has healed me from myself, from thinking that my image was the most important thing.  I have gone from being too thin, to being normal and I love it.  I wear my new curves with pride, a mark that I gave birth, and I am a mom. 
My new waist is a reminder that God used my body to grow a new life.  My new hips are a reminder that my baby was healthy, born full term and a full 8 lbs and 9 oz.  And my new workout plan is a reminder that I would rather watch my son smile than I would spending more than 30 minutes working out.

I am healthy and I am happy.  Our baby has taught me to love myself.  What I want you to know is that I am healed.  And I like it this way.

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what I want you to know: losing a child

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. 

Today’s post is from the McHugh family.  It is a powerful story about the life and loss of their daughter – beauty and terror intertwined.  Grab some tissues before you watch.

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some out-of-the-box advocates

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This video is a great example of how someone can play a part in helping children find families – without adopting.  International adoption is expensive.  Stupid expensive. Not everyone is in the position to do it, and not everyone should do it.  But a couple from my church decided that they would play a role in another couple’s adoption.  They are getting married, and instead of registering, they are asking for donations for my friends Steve and Sarah Carters’ adoption. 

Wedding Gifts from Nick Benoit on Vimeo.

I had a chance to read the new book In On It: What Adoptive Parents Would Like You To Know About Adoption. A Guide for Relatives and Friends.  I love it.  The author Elizabeth O’Toole describes it better than I can:

One thing I hadn't realized before becoming a parent through adoption: so much of the adoption process happens on your own. The workshops, the home studies, the hours of paperwork, the difficult decisions to be made: besides my husband, all of these happened almost wholly independent of those to whom I am closest. And I wanted a way to share my adoption with those who cared about me and my family, just as I had so many other important episodes in my life.  I wanted a way to bring my friends and relatives in on my adoption. 

In On It is the book I wanted to be able to give to my own relatives, friends and colleagues when I was adopting. I knew they would have an important and ongoing role in my life as an adoptive parent and in the lives of my children. I wanted them to have an opportunity to receive some preparation and education around adoption, too. I wanted a resource that I could offer them to have some of their own questions answered and concerns addressed.

I think it’s a great way to help friends and family better support and understand the adoption process.  If you have someone in your life who is adopting, you should read it.

And finally, Meesun and I have a mutual friend, and he sent me her video last week.  She is an adult adoptee who is petitioning Oprah to get a show on the OWN network. She would like to use the platform to bring awareness to the world’s orphans.  I love that she is drawing from her own experience and advocating for the "unadopted".  She has my vote!

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the fly in the eye (how orphan care isn’t sexy)

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Last night I had a phone conference with several other bloggers (Kristen, Amber, Elora, Dan, and Lindsey) for a panel I will be a part of at the Idea Camp.  We are talking about how to use social media for orphan advocacy. 

I am going to give up some of my secrets right now.  But this is the honest truth: in any given week, I wonder how many funny stories I need to tell before I can talk about orphans again.  A huge part of my vision for having a blog – beyond a space where I can permanently embarrass my children – is that I want to inspire other people to care about abandoned children.  My “rage against the minivan” is a play on the invisibility of the soccer mom, to be sure.  But it’s also a rage against the materialistic, egocentric, self-centeredness that permeates our culture. 

And yes, I live in Orange County.  But I know it is not just here.

I have a hidden agenda, you know.  How can I hook people in with funny stories, and then sneak-attack them into caring about social justice?  This is my mission.  I do realize this makes my writing a little schizophrenic . . . but I’m okay with that.  And so am I.

Ba-dum-dum.

(Did you see?  That was me trying to lesson the blow a serious subject with humor.  It’s what I do.)

I know that sometimes my blog makes people uncomfortable.  I see the number of subscribers dip each time I do a post about orphans or poverty or social justice.  It’s predictable.  I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.  In fact, I attended a session on compassion fatigue at Blissdom, and that was echoed by several of the people in attendance.  The session was led by thoughtful bloggers who wanted to figure out how to combat compassion fatigue, but there was also a sense that some in attendance were looking for permission to feel it.  One woman mentioned that she didn’t want to see the “fly in the eye” pictures anymore.  I cringed . . . because that’s how some children live, but because I have felt that way, too.  It’s hard to think that we can be so caught up in our privilege that seeing a photo or a video montage of poverty is uncomfortable for us. Because some people – millions of people – are living that reality every day.  At the end of the session, another women expressed her relief that we “didn’t talk about Haiti or India the whole time.”  At least I think that’s what she said.  It was hard to hear with the smoke coming out of my ears, because seriously?  What if we had talked about Haiti FOR A WHOLE HOUR before we went back to tweeting about our swag and eating corporate-sponsored food?

The take-away from that Blissdom session is that people like to see stories of hope.  And I get it.  I shed a tear or two watching Oprah pass out shoes in South Africa as the kids erupted in applause.  I love seeing videos of joyful children, chasing after a bus and waving with exuberance.

But is that what we need to have compassion?  Do we need to see orphans singing and dancing to be able to care about them?  Because WE need to feel hopeful?  In our warm homes sitting at our laptops – WE need to feel hope, so we don’t become too overwhelmed or depressed by it all?  Before we flip the channel or browse another blog or take a trip to Starbucks?

This is the truth about orphans: not all of them are playing hopscotch in an idyllic orphanage all day.  Some of them are being regularly abused by the older children in the orphanage, because traumatized children act out on each other.  Some orphans are huffing paint and sleeping on sidewalks.  Some are sitting in full diapers or being moved from foster home to foster home with their belongings in trashbags.  Those winsome smiles and the superficial charm that make us feel hopeful may be genuine to the moment, or it may be because winning over a visitor with a camera means that they might get more of some of the stuff they are starving for.  And that stuff might be food, or it might be attention.  It might be both.

I want to bring awareness to the life of the orphan, and I want to do it in ways that are honest.  It may not always be pretty.  Child abandonment is ugly.  Sometimes it might look like two kids to a crib with propped bottles, or forty kids under the care of two nannies, or a child so swollen with malnutrition that her skin cracks. Because that is real, and that is what we need to have compassion for.  Even if it’s uncomfortable and not wrapped in a pretty, hopeful package.

I desperately want people to get this.  But at the same time, I don’t want to become an “orphan care blogger” or an “adoption blogger”.  People who read blogs in that niche are generally already passionate about those issues.   And I don’t want to be the Debbie Downer at the party – the one who only talks about sad stories so you avoid her like the plague.

I’m trying to be an orphan advocate disguised as a regular ole’ mommy blogger.  I am your orphan-care stealth agent.  (Now watch me blog about poop stories for the next week).

Tonight we talked a lot about how to hold this balance.  I don’t know if I’m holding it well.  And you are welcome to tell me . . . in fact, I’m inviting you to tell me. That’s what our panel is about.  I would love the feedback, even if you want to tell me that it makes you squirmy.  I have my big-girl panties on.  I can take it. 

I think Kristen of We Are THAT Family encapsulated this tension really well in her post called Orphan Care Isn’t Sexy:

We have cute handbags, pretty paper, and desire gorgeous houses. Our society is consumed with superficial loveliness.

. . .

But orphan care doesn’t sell. It’s not attractive or appealing.

There’s nothing desirous about poverty so devastating it chokes the very breath out of you. The stench of living without simple resources makes you want to run. I’ve touched the heads of sick children, living in the streets of Africa’s slum. I shuddered as death rattled with every breath. I only offered them silent tears that fell to the rot beneath my feet.

Poverty isn’t pretty.

It’s forgotten in our world. We pretend there aren’t thousands and thousands and thousands of children dying everyday, while we shop for an upgraded life. We ignore the forgotten because it makes us uncomfortable.

I’m excited to have this discussion on a larger scale at the Idea Camp, and I’m really looking forward to have the discussion with other people who share my passion, even when our methods or ideas are different.  I’m sure I will be sharing about what I learn this weekend . . . right after a couple obligatory pictures of my kids in funny costumes.

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my little bounty hunters

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I am working at home today – trying to catch up on assignments before I leave for Idea Camp, and trying to suppress my inner whining as I sit inside on a holiday with gorgeous weather.  Mark took the kids down to grandma and grandpa’s.  Meanwhile, I keep getting mysterious emails from the online geocache forum with random clues.  DId you look under the rock?  Did you turn at the welcome plaque? It’s there, keep looking. And I’m wondering – are these people reading my blog?  How do they know we couldn’t find anything yesterday?  Are these creepy people stalking me online?

Until I follow a link back to our online profile and see that there has been a bit of activity in my absence.

Looks like Mark and the kids have figured geocaching out.  And judging from their faces, I would say they are pretty sold on the idea.

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Finding Our Thing

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When I was writing out the story of my relationship with Mark last week, I had a wave of nostalgia for the couple we once were.  It was weird looking through old photos and remembering our life before kids. So much of our relationship, and even our initial attraction to one another, was based on a sense of adventure.  We loved to travel, to get out in the world, and to experience different things.  We were active and spontaneous.  If I’m honest, I would even say that the number of our passport stamps was a part of our shared identity.  I used to joke that if I didn’t drink a Fanta out of a glass bottle at least twice a year, that I would die a little inside. 

Once kids came along, obviously our lifestyle changed.  It’s hard to be spontaneous when your entourage requires sippy cups, booster seats, and portable cribs.  Travelling at this stage is more work than it is worth, and quite a bit pricier, too.  Mark and I don’t get to be as adventurous as we once were.  And while I wouldn’t change a thing and love my kids to pieces, I think it’s also important to recognize that we need to find new activities that bond us together, both as a couple and as a family.  We need to find a new “thing”.  Preferably a thing that is toddler-friendly.  And it’s probably not going to be international travel, huh? 

We are still hoping that kayaking can be one of our things, but it hasn’t really been kayaking weather.  Today we decided to give geo-caching a try.  It’s adventurous . . . in a lame, family-friendly sort of way.  Although I feel this would be a much more attractive activity if it had a less dorky name.  Can we change it to “rugged urban reciprocal treasure hunting” or something?  Just so we don’t sound like total geeks? 

Our first geocaching foray was not so great.  We went out armed with an iphone app on a non-GPS phone.  We could see a blinking dot where we were standing, and a blinking dot where the geocache was hidden.  We had no compass or directions to tell us which direction that elusive dot was in relation to where we were standing.  So I spent a good hour just running in circles trying to figure out how to align myself with the dot, which never happened.

 

We may have built the expectations up too high, because the kids were bent on finding all kinds of buried toys, and all that was really happening was two adults arguing over whether or not there was a way to auto-refresh our google maps while the kids whined about being bored and tried to run through mud puddles.  At some point I tweeted:

And really, that’s kind of what the day boiled down to.  Finally, we were able to find a geocache that was hidden on a bridge, so we didn’t have to rely on a blinking directionless dot.  It was full of a few real and fake coins, which Jafta loved – he called it his pirate’s booty.  The trinkets we brought to exchange wouldn’t fit into the rusted Altoid tin, so we ended up leaving the $5 bill I had in my pocket.  Mark was a bit annoyed that we basically bought fifty cents and a couple plastic coins for $5, but I reminded him that it was all about the experience.   Those two hours of searching and five tantrums along the way were SO WORTH IT!

    

Despite our day, we aren’t giving up on the idea of geocaching.  It was still great to get out, and to have the dangling carrot of a treasure to keep Princess India moving.  Mark has his eyes set on a directional GPS toy that will make the searching a bit easier.  I have a feeling he will be buying it tomorrow.

Incidentally, this week a friend of mine celebrated her 40th birthday at a roller rink.  And this guy and his wife showed up to bring the Xanadu.

She had on a very sparkly skirted leotard under that trenchcoat.  I must confess, we had a little chuckle at their expense, and I was certainly not the only one trying to steal a picture of Big Red with my iphone.  But then I thought, you know what?  GOOD FOR THEM.  They’re getting out there, they are active and staying fit, and they have a thing.  A thing that they obviously love, that they are doing together.

I’m hoping we find our new thing.  And I’m really hoping it isn’t competitive roller skating.

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urban camping

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All my men are sleeping in the garage tonight.  In a tent. 

A few weeks ago, Jafta got really excited about the idea of camping.  And when he gets excited about something . . . well he just does not stop talking about it.  So we finally agreed that the boys could spend a night in the tent in the backyard.  Except that, it’s been pretty cold.  And tonight – the night that was promised – it is raining and blustery.  So the tent is in the garage.

The boys were sooo excited.  I have never seen then change into their pajamas so fast.  I have some doubts that they will last the whole night, but I know this is a memory they will never forget.

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when date night becomes fight night

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This week at the OC Register, I’m talking relationships.  Specifically – what to do when bickering starts to take over your date night. 

I’ve heard this happens.  To some people.

I have a friend . . . *cough*

Okay, this totally happens with us.  First of all, we are lucky when we even schedule a date night, and if they are two few and far between, inevitably the evening turns to tense conversations because it’s the first time we’ve been alone in a month and someone wants to air their grievances about not being fully appreciated for all the work they do around the house.

I’ll leave it to you to figure out who that “someone” is.

Anyways, we are working hard to have regular date nights, and also trying to implement the “business meeting” strategy I talk about in the column this week:

One of the best ways I know to balance the practical with the passion is to set aside a weekly time to deal with the minutiae of marriage – outside of the date night scenarios.   You might even call it your weekly business meeting.   It doesn’t have to be something formal, and it doesn’t need to have the attention (or childcare) that a date night warrants.  It’s something you can do on a weeknight once the kids are down, or over lunch while the kids are at school.

The point of a weekly business meeting is to have a pre-appointed time to talk about issues, concerns, and details, so that you have the space to talk about the finer points. If you’ve been married for any length of time, you know that date nights are not a great time to bring up finances. Right before bed is not an ideal time to start a conversation about that little idiosyncrasy your spouse does that is bothering you. And yet, as schedules fill and issues mount, couples often find themselves using any opportunity they can find to try to bend their spouse’s ear to something on the agenda. But when the business talk starts creeping into daily conversation, it can feel like it is consuming the relationship, and it can also leave couples walking around on eggshells with each other, never knowing when their partner might initiate “a talk” about something that feels overwhelming, or at a time that doesn’t feel safe.

We went to a marriage conference at our church last weekend and it was such a good reminder that marriage needs to be prioritized.  In our culture, and with our busy lives, it is so easy to put it on the back burner. But I think this conference came at just the right time for us, as we are emerging from a year full of transitions and striving to figure out our new normal – we are hoping to move out of crisis management and into more intimacy with each other (and with our kids).

I am curious – for parents of little kids: How do you keep your marriage a priority?  How has having kids changed things?  Going from ten years of no kids to four kids in five years has been a pretty big learning curve for us.

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what I want you to know: ocular albinism

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s post is by Sarah DeNike of www.thewilltosee.com.
 



What I want you to know is that it is hard to have kids that are not quite “normal.” I am Sarah and have 2 beautiful little boys, Jackson age 6 and William age 22 months. Both my boys have Ocular Albinism, a rare (1 in 17,000) condition that affects their retina, how well they see, visual acuity and depth perception.
Our story actually begins not with eyes but with eating. When Jackson was 2.5 weeks old he was diagnosed with severe reflux and milk protein intolerance. We spent the next 4 months fighting to get him to take a bottle, finally giving up and putting in an NG-tube, a tube down his nose. Eight months later we moved the tube to his abdomen so he could be a “normal” toddler. He was completely tube fed until he was 2.5 years old. To read more about that story, click here.

After our experience with Jack, we were obviously fearful that Will would have the same issues. Right after birth he was also diagnosed with milk protein intolerance, but fortunately we moved him immediately to the formula that worked for Jack. At 4.5 months old he started refusing the bottle as well. After lots of tests including an endoscopy and upper GI, we found that he needed his formula thickened and he went right back to eating. Two days later and the day before we left for my grandmother funeral we got the diagnosis from our eye doctor that Will had Ocular Albinism.

She told us that his vision could be anywhere from close to normal to legally blind. He also had a condition called nystagmus that causes his eyes to move back and forth involuntarily, which is why we went to the eye doctor in the first place. We walked in expecting to her to say that it was just nystagmus and would go away over the next couple of years. Needless to say we were devastated to be told that our beautiful 5 month old baby boy might never be able to really see. All I could think about was how much the world he would miss out on. After going to a specialist a month later we were given better news that he would probably end up with vision in the 20:50 to 20:90 range. In March the specialist examined Jack too and wondered if he too had a mild form of OA. We confirmed that diagnosis in November.

So what does this mean? It means that the boys don’t have good depth perception and will probably not play much baseball, tennis, football or other ball sports. It means that Will may never be able to drive, because it isn’t correctable with glasses. It means that they will have to sit in the front of the class and for Will the front left side of the class. It means I will have to go into every class and talk to every teacher to let them know that they boys aren’t being difficult or particular, that they have different eyes. It means they will never truly be “normal” kids.

Right after Will was diagnosed with OA most people thought “oh, it is no big deal or it is correctable with glasses.” It took a lot of explaining to get them to understand that there isn’t a cure or a fix for this. This also happened with Jack’s tube and people not understanding why he wasn’t eating and that he wasn’t just a stubborn child. People can be so quick to judge or try to minimize the problem.

When you look at them you probably wouldn’t know anything is different. Maybe with Will you would notice that he holds his head funny to look at you or walks right up to you before he recognizes you. Otherwise they look “normal.” I have learned to hate that word, because my boys haven’t ever been “normal.” I thought we were through all of the differences when we took Jack’s tube out, little did I know.

Then I walk through the doors of Children’s Hospital and feel so incredibly lucky that otherwise they are healthy. There are so many families that are dealing with bigger issues than ours. Then I go to the bus stop and see all of our friends’ children and how “normal” they are and I wonder why we got this draw.



So what I want you to know is it is hard to be not quite “normal”. They look “normal” to the naked eye, but they will always see differently. I want you to know I worry every day what Will’s life will be like and how Jack will adjust to the new understanding of his eyes. My husband and I work very hard so that they don’t think that their differences will hold them back and that have as many opportunities as possible. You can read more about us here.

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defining “orphan culture”

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I’m preparing to lead a workshop at the upcoming Idea Camp, and one of the aspects of my research is looking into the idea of “orphan culture”.   Culture is a huge topic of discussion in adoption circles: cultural loss, cultural heritage, cultural identity . . . and when we talk about it, we are invariably referring to a child’s racial or ethnic background.  As prospective adoptive parents we spend considerable energy educating ourselves on bridging the culture gap.  But as our Haitian son joined our family, what emerged as the greatest obstacle had very little to do with culture in the traditional sense.  It was the culture of family life that was most foreign to Kembe.

I don’t want to minimize the importance of a child’s cultural heritage and losses.  But I have to ask: does it really matter if we learn to make the perfect diri kole (or kimbap or injera) and remain oblivious to the ways our home environments and family systems are completely foreign?  Especially to a child who has spent most (or all) of his life in an orphanage or group home setting?

This is what I am really hoping to explore at Idea Camp.  We have a wealth of academic literature that tells us that institutionalized care is not best practice for the development of the psyche – but we live in a broken world and group care is an inevitable solution for the current orphan crisis.  It is also a solution in the US – though we substitute the word “group home” . . . perhaps to assuage our guilt, or perhaps as a positive reframe for the children, but the dynamics of institutionalized care are the same.  But I’ve seen very little research that talks about the culture that evolves in a group home setting, and how this shapes children as they either grow up in that setting, or eventually live in family environments.  It seems like everything I read focuses on the effects of deprivation of needs, which is related but perhaps not the whole picture for a child who is beyond the infancy period and has developed personality traits (both positive and negative) related to his or her environment.

We have such an idealized view of the orphan life – from Annie to Newsies to Oliver (in fact, is there a movie musical about children who are NOT motherless?)  We see orphans as the forlorn blank slate – the plucky yet sad child pining for family who embraces them with open and willing arms and lives happily ever after.   Parents who have adopted from hard places know that this is not how the story often goes.  On the other hand, I often hear of organizations who hope to raise children in orphanages to become the “future leaders of their country”.  And yet, we know from statistics of American foster care that children who age out are likely to have relational, occupational, and economic challenges.  Is it realistic to pose that children in 3rd world countries will have significantly different outcomes?

My hope is to take a realistic look at what orphan culture looks like, and what the implications are for children.   I don’t want to present it as a case for or against adoption, but rather a realistic look at what the typical orphan is developing, and how we can best help children wherever they are.  I’m hoping that this discussion can be useful for both adoptive parents and for those who care for children in their home countries.  More than anything, my hope is that as a society we can figure out how to best nurture and care for all children so that they can move into adulthood with the ability to form loving family attachments of their own.

Research indicates that post-institutionalized children may display things like superficially charming behaviors, difficulties with eye contact, indiscriminant affection with strangers, destructive tendencies, hoarding or gorging, manipulation, lying and deceitful behaviors, aggressiveness, entitlement issues, and power struggles.  Bear in mind that while we view these behaviors as undesirable in a family setting, such behaviors may have been adaptive (and even beneficial) in an orphanage or group home situation, especially when the caregiver ratios were less than ideal.

So, to employ a bit of crowdsourcing – I’m wondering if you are an adoptive parent of a child who spent time in an orphanage/group home/baby house (or an adult who spent time in one).  Are there aspects of behavior or personality that you attribute to orphanage life?  Did you observe this concept of “orphan culture” as a challenge in your child’s transition to family life?  What do you think was the greatest adjustment in terms of moving into a family setting?  I would love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments or via email.  If you have friends that may have input into this discussion, please pass along the link.  And if you are going to Idea Camp, let me know!

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drama (you give me fever)

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We are still the Haus of SIck around here, so I’m gonna recycle a post from this time last year . . .

drama (you give me fever)

My kid (as most kids do) use some vocabulary that is uniquely their own. The funniest to me by far is the way Jafta refers to Karis's frequent spit-up as "drama". I have no idea how he picked this up, but he actually thinks this is the correct term for it. Of course I don't correct him, because it cracks me up. Nearly every day I hear him say "Uh-oh, Karis is having some drama right now". Or "There's some drama on the floor over there." Or "Burp her so there won't be any drama." Hilarious, right? I mean, why would I want to correct that hilarity?

India, on the other hand, says that she is "spitting up" any time she actually pukes. I know this, because she throws up quite a lot. She is my little carsick sweetie. A couple enthusiastic pushes on the swingset, and she is sure to lose her lunch. It's so bad that I actually have a technique for protecting her clothing on airplane rides, that involves tucking a blanket into her shirt and then suspending the other end from the seatback tray. Pretty effective.

Another of Jafta's unique colloquialisms is that he claims to have a fever any time something hurts. I'm sure it's based on hearing me say that he had a fever when he was sick. But now, any time he hurts himself, he will hold his head or stomach or knee and say "I have a fever! I'm getting a fever right now!"

Last night, we managed to have a perfect storm of drama, fever, and spitting up. India took her usual nap around 2pm. She had a rough morning, but I didn't suspect anything. I've been so focused on trying to keep the asthmatic and the infant healthy that India kind of slipped under the radar. When she was still sleeping at 4pm, I thought it was kinda nice. At 5pm, it seemed a bit curious. At 6pm, I actually started to worry a little bit. I went in to check on her, and she was burning up with a fever.

She obviously had some sort of flu bug, and when I woke her up she told me she had "spit up". Which she had, all over her bed. Which Jafta discovered and called "drama".
India then proceeded to have "drama" about seven more times last night, all over the house. Despite the puke bowl we hovered under her chin for the better part of the night, she managed to catch us unawares and spew her "drama" on every square inch of the house.

DRAMA.

Fortunately, this morning she is back to her usual self, evidenced by the fact that she made five costume changes by lunch, and then kept lunch down. But Jafta - Jafta has been pointing to his tummy and saying he has a fever, which might actually be correct. And I woke up with the scratchy throat, sour stomach, and body aches that seem to hallmark half of the winter when living with kids in preschool.

Hmmm . . . must be flu season.

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the story of us

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Danielle Burkleo, author of the darling blog Take Heart, asked me to write a guest-post about our love story, and I thought it would be fun to post it for Valentine’s Day.  Here is the story of how we met and fell in love . . .

I met Mark on my first day on campus at Cincinnati Christian University.  My parents had driven me up from Florida and that afternoon we said our tearful goodbyes.  I wanted my college experience to be an adventure and a fresh start, and so I went to school in a different state where I didn’t know a single person.  I met my roommate Tara that day, and she was also from out-of-state and didn’t know anyone.  We decided to roam the campus and try to meet some of the other students.

There were many people out and about that night, but a boy named Mark Howerton definitely stood out.  He went by “Howie” in those days, and he was a tall surfer who reminded me so much of my friends back home in Florida.  He was really funny and we hit it off immediately, but to be honest, I didn’t really think of him as a romantic prospect. I had a boyfriend back home in Florida, and Howie seemed a little bit goofy and not quite as serious as the boys who I usually dated.  He seemed like a lot of fun, though, and I was excited to be friends with him.

Howie was a sophomore so he had already been at the school for a year.  My freshman year we hung out in groups a few times, but not much more than that.  We both went home for summer and came back the next year, and suddenly Mark was catching my eye.

This is the part of the story that sounds insanely shallow, but listen . . . this was the early 90’s and I was a fan of Kurt Cobain and grungy boys with long hair.  What can I say?  Mark was growing out a buzz cut when we met and his hair looked like Zoolander for most of my freshman year.  But when I came back from summer break, his hair was longer and suddenly I heard bells ringing:  My friend Howie is HOT!

I mentioned my newfound attraction to my friend Kendra, who had dated him a few years prior, to see what her reaction would be.  She was really affirming, and had very nice things to say about him – which spoke volumes given the fact that they had broken up.  Mark was also becoming better friends with my best friend Brad, who made it his mission to hook us up.

Well, Brad didn’t get the chance.  Mark and I ended up in the same geology class, and a part of that class involved a weekend field trip – camping, horseback riding, and cave hiking.  This weekend gave me a lot of time with Mark and it was obvious to everyone that by the second day, we were completely smitten with each other.  We took a moonlit walk on our last night there, and got to know each other better.  There was much more depth to him than the surface.  Mark was smart and thoughtful and hilarious.  That night, we walked through the woods holding hands and stumbled upon a huge waterfall that seemed meant just for us.  It was a beautiful moment and I could sense that this relationship was going to be BIG.

 

We got back to campus, and started hanging out more.  I was 19 years old and Mark was 20, and we both had serious reservations about being one of those typical bible college couples that gets married after a year of dating.  We even had several talks with each other about how we wanted to take things slowly.  But the relationship evolved pretty quickly despite our best efforts, and by the time summer rolled around, the thought of being apart was hard for both of us.  Mark was slated to work for a summer camp in Washington, and I spent a few weeks in Florida with my family and then joined him as a staff member at the camp.  It was a rocky summer – Mark was a program director at the camp, but I was in a tough role, chaperoning groups of girls each week and then cooking and cleaning up after them in my downtime.  I had some regrets about following a boy across the country and taking a job I hated . . . but we also had an amazing time.  We went camping and exploring on the weekends and by the end of the summer, Mark proposed.  That couple that was so determined to take things slow?  We were engaged after less than a year of dating.

Our proposal was very romantic – Mark took me into a meadow near the camp, and sang a song he wrote for me.  Mark is neither a singer nor a songwriter so the moment was incredibly sincere and romantic.  I had no doubts in my mind when I said yes to him.  And then I got to return to a cabin full of screaming high school students to show off my ring.

We were married a year later, just after my junior year of college.  Our wedding was truly the best day of my life.  Looking back, we were soooo young, and we had a lot to learn about life and marriage.  Our first year of marriage was rough, but at the same time being married so young really allowed us to grow up together.  So much of who I am as an adult I owe to being shaped by my husband.

Our marriage has faced many obstacles in the last 14 years, and I don’t think that starry-eyed couple could have ever imagined what was to come – that one day I would be helping Mark learn to walk again after a car accident, that one day Mark would be giving me hormone shots in our bathroom to try to sustain a failing pregnancy, that we would eventually mourn the loss of five pregnancies, or that we would be parents to four kids within four years.  But I am grateful that our relationship was based on laughter, honesty, adventure, faith, and friendship, because it is the foundation that has gotten us to where we are today.

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just call me K-Ho

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Karis walked into the house today wearing a baseball helmet, holding a football, and asking Mark to play basketball.  I would say she takes after me in her confusion about sports, but let’s be honest: I wouldn’t even be asking to play.

We’re all a little under the weather right now – I’ve been sick and in my pj’s all day and India thinks the “frog in my voice” is very funny.  I spent a rare weekend on the sofa with the remote in hand, being systematically disappointed by Portlandia and then a Coen Brothers flick and then The Grammy Awards.  (Every year watching the Grammys just serves to make me feel very, very old.  Gold teeth, the whore clothes, emo men in eyeliner, Lady Gaga wearing a boney shoulder prosthetic, hip-hop nicknames for grown adults . . . and all of it with NO HINT OF IRONY.   It all frightens me, I tell you.)

Anyways, I’m thinking our Valentine’s Day may not be our most romantic day of the year.  I’ve definitely got the chills . . . but not in a good way.  Hope your day is hotter than mine! And not from fever.

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what I want you to know: infertility

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s post is from my friend Shannon.

We started trying for our second baby when our son turned 1.  It had taken about 9 months to get pregnant with our him so we thought we should get started.  We kept our disappointment in check the first several months since we didn’t really expect it would happen that quickly for us, but as month 9, then 10, then a year passed, my disappointment turned into confusion, sadness and panic.  I was certain there was something wrong, it shouldn’t take this long!  I had heard of secondary infertility and now here I was experiencing it.  

First, I went to see my OB-GYN where they ran some blood tests to check hormone levels throughout my monthly cycle.  The result was that nothing was out of the ordinary.  Due to my “Advanced Maternal Age” of 36, they recommended I see a fertility specialist as soon as possible, since I wasn’t getting any younger!

I have a strong Christian faith and I believe in this big God who can do anything.  I knew that if God created me, he could create a little life in me but, He wasn’t doing it.

I felt this frustration in my faith, I told God, “why should I have to go to a doctor to help create this life, you can do this!”  But, still the months passed with no pregnancy.  
Before taking the giant step into the medical world of infertility, I decided to take the natural route and began seeing an acupuncturist a friend recommended who had helped in her struggle with infertility.  I would lay on the table with needles poking all over me and cry.  I was hopeful, yet skeptical, but mostly sad.  After 6 weeks, I decided to stop going sensing that my body wasn’t at a place to accept this healing.

A few months later after 15 months of trying to conceive, we finally interviewed 2 infertility specialists (which I think is odd, shouldn’t they be fertility specialists?) and chose the one who was closest to our home and also came highly recommended.  Proximity is key as there are many early morning and daily appointments throughout the process.  

Both specialists gave us a very high probability for success, we were still fairly young (many couples who go through this process are in their late 30s, early 40s), healthy and had already experienced a healthy full term pregnancy.  So, this should be easy, right?  The first doctor suggested we go straight to In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) siting that in his experience Inter-uterine Inseminations (IUI) were not as successful.  The second, whom we chose, gave us an overall plan...3 IUIs maximum then move to IVF if not successful.  We were hopeful that perhaps we just needed a little help in getting the swimmers to the right place at the right time, afterall, they have done it before, right?  We completed one unsuccessful round of IUI and found that my progesterone level drops early in my cycle, so for round two we boosted those levels with regular progesterone shots starting mid-cycle.  

I was sure we had found the “issue” and was really excited that this could be it!  We settled into the nightly shot routine, which really wasn’t that bad and my husband enjoyed the close up of my tush even though he was sticking a 2 inch needle into it!
Two weeks of shots later, I hit my lowest point ever in the process.  We learned that round 2 was also unsuccessful and our next step was to either repeat the process again or move forward to IVF.  I was extremely crushed and so emotional.  I knew that no matter what we decided to do, nothing was going to work, at least not then.  Just as it had been with the acupuncturist, I knew I was too emotionally stressed, I knew my body was not going to truly receive anything, so we decided to take a little break and re-group.

This was an extremely painful time for me and I felt very raw.  It was difficult to talk with friends or family as most people had their “take” on things - “time a vacation for when you are ovulating;” “take up a hobby and forget about it for awhile;” “oh, it will happen, just be patient.”- and it was just too painful to hear.  No matter any one’s opinion on the situation, this was my experience and I felt no one really could quite understand.  I found that even my friends who had gone through infertility but were on the other side of it (successful IVF stories, or natural pregnancies) were not as comforting as I would have hoped.  

For the first time in my life, I felt a deep hopelessness.  Again, I struggled in my faith wondering why God wasn’t answering my petition for a child.  I wondered if God wasn’t providing naturally then why would I think he would provide through medical help?  Was there another plan he had for me?  

It was around that time when a good friend of mine adopted her son.  I listened to her story and I began investigating other stories of adoption and as my husband and I learned more that dark hole of hopelessness began to fill again with the light of hope.  I had so much dread that we would go through the rigorous process of IVF only to have it fail.  Now through the hope of adoption, I knew it was no longer if we would have a child, but when.  

We dove into the process and 6 months later (I know not all adoptions are this quick) we brought home our precious, long awaited, baby girl!  We were thrilled and as time went on things continued to confirm that she was made for our family and us for her.  Yes, her arrival filled the void we felt in our family and we were so grateful for the gift of adoption, however, a successful adoption does not erase the pain of infertility.  When a woman is pregnant it is like a great confirmation of her womanhood - a stamp of approval that she is worthy to create life.  I still had that lingering feeling of being passed over, of somehow not being worthy of that gift (that may sound severe, but I am sure I am not alone in this feeling).  

I found that I was still carrying that torch - a hope that one day perhaps I would get pregnant again, or that perhaps going down the infertility route would seem right to us. But for the time being, I was content with my role as mommy of two.

A month after celebrating our daughter’s first Birthday, we found to our great shock and amazement that we were pregnant with our second son!  I was still reeling from our daughter’s amazing adoption story, and now this!  We felt extremely blessed!
As we shared with people our news, we often heard “oh, isn’t that always the case?  Once you stop thinking about it, it happens.”  I couldn’t disagree more.  I now know that my struggle had a purpose, that although I felt God was withholding from me, He was actually giving me an amazing gift, one that we could have never “produced” on our own.  The timing and placement of our daughter was so perfect that there is no doubt that our inability to conceive was the catalyst to open our hearts toward adoption at just the right time for our sweet girl.  Conceiving again gave meaning to the confusion of my secondary infertility.  And that meaning is our daughter.

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a million dollar bouquet

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Today was a "mommy and me" tea at the twins' preschool. In Kembe's class, there was a wall displaying the answers each child gave to the following question: If I had a million dollars, I would buy my mommy . . .

Kembe decided he would spent a million dollars on flowers.

A sweet thought . . . but we may have to have a little chat about the prudence of spending that much money on something that will die within the week. Four is a fine age to start discussing return on investment, right?

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the season of phlegm and darkness

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Warning: California resident about to whine about winter.  Temper resentment accordingly.

I hate winter.

I HATE IT.

I’ve never liked it.  I spent most of my childhood in Central Florida, where the winter was a time when you wore a cardigan over your tank top.  When I was 18, I decided I wanted to college somewhere where I could “experience the seasons”.  But really, I did this with all the anthropological curiosity of someone going to live with an ancient tribe in the Peruvian rainforest.  I knew it wouldn’t be a lifelong gig.  I just wanted to see what the whole thing was about.

Fast forward to the first snow of my freshman year.  I fell down the stairs of my school library after slipping on a patch of ice, injuring my elbow (and my pride) in front of half the student body.  This would be one of many ice-related incidents during those gray days of college.  I also distinctly remember waking up to the sound of people scraping snow off their windshield in the dark, realizing that I would have to do the same if I wanted to leave the campus/function as an adult.  I remember my growing resolve on those mornings:

I will NEVER AGAIN live somewhere where I have to scrape my car windows in the morning.

So I can’t really complain that I’ve landed in Southern California.  Except, I am going to complain.  Isn’t that endearing of me?  I still hate winter . . . even though I live somewhere where “coat checks” and snow plows are things my kids have never heard of.  I still abhor November through March. 

First of all, the time change.  I’ve never liked the winter time change and if it didn’t seem completely petty and self-serving, I’d go lobby congress about it because SERIOUSLY?  The vast majority of us don’t really need sunlight creeping in our window at 6am.  We need it at 6pm when we are driving home from a dreary day at work.  But with kids, the time change is an especially unfortunate season.  My typical summer evening involves sending the children outside from dinner until bedtime.  Now, every night Mark and I look at each other after dinner with a wordless question: what the hell do we do with them for the next two hours?  The kids are stir crazy and bouncing off the walls in the evening when it’s too cold and dark to play outside, and I have gotten to the point where I would like to build an isolation chamber that I can live in during the evenings, where I can see the children and smile at them, but no have to hear them.

This dynamic has lead us to looking for destinations every evening.  We’ve been going out to eat a lot, and we’ve logged a lot of hours at the mall, letting them tear up Pottery Barn Kids and the Mac store until it’s late enough to put them to bed.  In November we caved and bought Disney passes, because it is literally easier to take them to Disney in the evening than it is to deal with them in our home.  Mark was out last week at a conference and I took all four of them by myself.  If you know me, you know that this is the act of a desperate woman.

I have been plagued with allergies my whole life, but up until about two years ago, I thought I was just someone who had a perpetual sinus infection during flu season.  I should clarify . . . I did have a perpetual sinus infection during flu season.  I just didn’t realize it, and thought I was just having a cold that lasted the whole winter.  A couple times a year I would have to go in and get a round of antibiotics to knock it out, and my doctor would remind me about my asthma and allergies and ask if I was taking my meds . . . and I would be all, “oh yeah . . . that.”  So I would go for about a month where I was compliant with my Flonase and then forget again.  Two years ago I dragged my infected face into the doctor and she had a come-to-Jesus meeting with me about my non-compliance with allergy meds, and how it makes me prone to getting sick all the time, and I actually listened.  And low and behold, while I still get a cold or two like everyone else in the winter, I am not suffering from November through March liked I used to be.

I don’t love being dependent on pharmacology.  But I also don’t love breathing through my mouth six months out of the year.

My Flonase prescription has made the season bearable, but then there is Jafta.  Who also has the trifecta of allergies, asthma, and eczema . . . and the unfortunate side-effect of his allergy meds is agitation and hyperactivity.   So every winter, Mark and I spend several evenings debating which is worse: listening to him hack all night, or dealing with his hyperactivity all day.  (Currently, we have chose the hacking at night option, which I think his teacher appreciates).

All that to say, I’m really looking forward to spring, when it’s light past 6pm, when the kids can play outside to their hearts’ content, and when Jafta and I can leave the house without our sinuses staging a coup d'état on us.

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the public sharing of resolutions

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It’s February, and I think I’m finally ready to share about my New Year’s resolutions.  Not because I’m just now doing them . . . oh no.  But because I have this awful personality flaw that makes it very difficult for me to announce the things I’m striving for, in case I don’t meet my goals.  I’m a “get-it-done” girl.  I don’t like to talk about things unless I have an action plan and an end in sight.  This can be problematic, especially since I am married to a guy whose favorite thing to do is brainstorm and dream.  In his family of origin, it’s perfectly acceptable to sit and chat about the restaurant you are going to open in Mexico . . . which prompts me into anxiety and running budget sheets and researching schools in Mexico, only to come back to find the conversation has turned to opening a café in a storefront in Kansas, and then my head explodes.  And it’s not them, it’s me.  I have always been plagued with a not-so-fun combination of literalism, anxiety, and pessimism.  You do not want me on your group project.

Anyways, that was a rather convoluted attempt at explaining why I struggle with announcing my goals until I am 100% sure of achieving them.  There was a big part of me that wanted to keep my half-marathon training quiet until I crossed the finish line, out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.  Because then I would have announced a goal that I didn’t meet, and then the obvious conclusion to that would be THE WORLD WOULD END.

I have issues.

Anyways, I have been quietly working on some lifestyle changes this year.  Last year, and the year before, felt like I was just in survival mode.  The addition of a new baby with two kids in preschool, followed by the adoption of a preschooler –  I have struggled with giving myself grace for dropping the ball in many other areas of my life (particularly the ones related to the resolutions below).  But two years is a long time to have been in this paired-down crisis mode, and while I’m letting go of guilt over that, I also feel like it’s time to really overhaul my lifestyle before the strategies I relied on during this season become habits for life.

So, here are some of the things I am working on right now:

Separating work time from family time – I mentioned this in another post, but finding the balance of working at home has not come easy for me.  We have finally set up a situation where I have two days of in-home childcare.  Our home has a mother-in-law suite in the backyard so we now have a babysitter who lives there in exchange for childcare.   Previously we have rented this studio out, and it has been hard to lose that income because it paid for half our mortgage.  But I’m thinking sanity is the priority right now, and this is really helping.  So now I have a couple days a week devoted to working, and I’m trying to make sure I am NOT working on the other days, but also not getting sidetracked on my work days.  This has not been an easy transition, because I have developed the terrible habit of working constantly, and as miserable as multi-tasking is, there is also some anxiety for me in stepping away from the computer for a few days at a time.  But, it’s necessary.

Focusing on quality over quantity – this is related to above, but with the addition of some childcare I am trying to make sure that the time I am with the kids is focused on them, and the time I am away is focused on work.  I think this is a win for all of us.

Getting out of the house – I could write a whole post on this one, but in a nutshell, taking for kids ANYWHERE is a challenge, and I am working on developing a thicker skin so that the potential side-glances of strangers who don’t like children in public spaces does not relegate me to a lifestyle of hiding out at home with my children.

Keeping our house stocked with healthy foods – This is related to above.  I have anxiety taking the kids shopping, but I also have way too much work to do to use my limited childcare days on solo grocery runs.  When I get alone time, the last thing I want to do is spend it listening to horrible muzak at the grocery store.  The result is that I go way too long between grocery store runs, which means we run out of fresh foods and start eating packaged stuff out of the pantry.  I want to make a commitment to getting out and keeping the house stocked with fruits and vegetables.  I also want to get us on some kind of menu schedule – a task that has alluded me my entire adult life.  It is time.

Going to bed on time – Again, explaining this would probably warrant a whole post  but I find it very, very hard to go to bed at a reasonable time.  I am tired and grouchy every day, and promise myself that TONIGHT I will get enough sleep.  But then the kids go down and I have the blissful moments of solitude in a quiet home, and I get grabby about it.  I become Gollum with his ring about my alone time.  When I get it I gaze at it and call it “my precious”, and the consequence is that I am tired all day long from staying up until 2am.

Turning off the internet – This is related to above, because I am quite sure that if I lost my internet connection at 10pm, that I would not be up until 2am.  I can spend hours reading up on current events, reading blogs, shopping online, cleaning out my inbox, etc.  There is always more to do, and I get a burst of energy late at night to get things done.  I am contemplating putting an application on my computer that turns off my internet at a certain time, and only giving the password to Mark.

Dealing with my emails – I’ll write about this debacle another time, but this is a little preview:

That number refers to unread emails.  Is there a show about people who keep too many emails?  Kind of like a Hoarders: Technology Edition?  Because I need Jeff VonVonderen to come give me an intervention.

Maintaining my friendships – This has been a hard one to balance, and I am hoping to re-instate some playdates that allow me some adult interaction, and also be more intentional about calling friends and making plans and (see above) getting out of my house.

Getting outdoors and active – a year ago, I had just run a half-marathon.  Then Kembe came home, and I completely stopped taking care of myself physically.  I want to get back to that – not necessarily to the point of running a half-marathon, but I at least want to get outdoors, get to the beach, and break a sweat a few days a week.

So those are some of the things that I’m working on right now.  I would love any insight for managing these things, because as much as I want to overhaul my life, I know that these will require discipline and some pretty hefty changes.  But I’m ready.

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guest post: the other side of adoption

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Kelly blogs at Love Well, and she wrote this post last week for The Idea Camp’s website about her husband’s experience of adoption.  I found it very compelling, and also related to their story on a personal level, so I asked her if I could share her post here. 

As the wife of an adopted orphan, I am blessed beyond expression when I watch a family adopt. It seems like the Holy Spirit is moving today’s generation to live out James 1:27. Everywhere I turn, Christians are talking about orphan care and foster parenting and rescuing children out of poverty. My soul swells with encouragement.

But you know what else is encouraging? The fact that the Church is starting to be honest about the difficulties adopting families can face, especially when adopting a child from hard places. Because while adoption is a holy calling, and there is a side to it that thrills with hope and love and anticipation, it is also hard, unspeakably hard and filled with grief, especially if you adopt a child like my husband.

Many of you know Corey’s story. He is the son of an American GI, born to a Korean woman, deserted at an early age, left to survive on the streets or, worse, be abused in various foster homes. Through a series of God-moments, he was adopted by an American family, a couple who had adopted a Korean baby a few years earlier. This time, they hoped to adopt a Korean boy, an older brother for their bouncy baby girl, a son who would complete their family.

Suffice it to say, they had no idea what they were getting into. The boy they picked up at the Minneapolis airport was probably close to seven years old (no birth certificate, so we don’t know his age), a child who was riddled with disease and parasites (on a doctor’s advice, they burned everything he brought with him from Korea), a boy who had never known love or stability or family.

He didn’t speak a word of English. He didn’t know how to eat the split pea soup they fed him for his first meal. (Poor choice, perhaps.) Once he did understand they had food for him in the house, he hoarded it and hid it in his room. He tried to run away when they took him to school, because he thought he was being left at another orphanage.
He didn’t attach easily (or at all), preferring instead to stay safely withdrawn. He had frequent nightmares that he never explained. He didn’t trust. He didn’t cuddle. He didn’t tell his parents anything about his past. He mocked therapy.

Corey was not the sweet little boy his parents expected. He was streetwise, scared and suspicious, even years after his adoption was finalized. I know his parents struggled. How do you love a boy who won’t let himself be loved? Did they do the right thing by adopting him? Would he have been better off in his own country?

To their credit and because of God’s great mercy, they persevered. They didn’t send him back. They kept loving him, kept feeding him, kept clothing him. I’m sure adoptive parents today, armed with volumes of knowledge about orphan psychology, would view their actions as clumsy and sometimes misguided. But back then, knowledge about children coming from hard places was nil. They had no choice but to grope through the dark and do the best they could.

That is why I am so heartened to see a honest discussion today about how we can support families who adopt kids from hard places. Jedd Medefind, president of the Christian Alliance for Orphans, says it best:

We have every reason to celebrate the wonder of adoption, explore its theological and earthly significance, and highlight the blessing it can be to both child and parent. We must keep the Gospel always at the very center, as both our motivation and the wellspring of perseverance in difficulty. But we must also increasingly place a strong accent on both preparation for potential challenges of adoption and provision of support when challenges do arise. We must not only affirm this need, but also lead in helping to meet it.

Perhaps it may sound overblown, but I believe there is no single factor with greater potential to derail the growing Christian commitment to adoption and foster care than failure in this point. This is especially true as Christian families increasingly open themselves to the adoption of older and special needs children. In short, for every enthusiastic but ill-prepared and poorly-supported adoptive family that crashes on the rocks of unanticipated challenges, dozens of others will permanently write off the call to adopt.
- from The Most Significant Challenge Facing Adoption in America

I am so glad Corey’s parents didn’t permanently shipwreck on those rocks. And in a twist of fate only God can orchestrate, today Corey is on the board of the Christian Alliance for Orphans, raising awareness of the plight of orphans around the world.
The discussion will continue at The Idea Camp: Orphan Care conference next month in Arkansas. If you aren’t aware of The Idea Camp yet – I tell people it’s like a Christian TED, only the participants are the idea gurus, not necessarily the speakers. But don’t take my word for it; click through and check it out.

And if you don’t make it to The Idea Camp in February, you might consider attending the Christian Alliance for Orphans Summit in Louisville, Kentucky in May with me and Corey. Just don’t try to hug Corey when you see him. He’s an orphan adopted from a hard place. He has issues.

Thanks to Kelly for allowing me to share their story here!

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that’s what SHE said (and one he)

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Here are a few posts from last week that I’m digging.

 

Feelings, whoa whoa whoa — nevermind

I have loved Dawn’s writing at this woman's work for a long time, but ever since she started studying psych, I love her even more.

I might die of my children learning to read

This post from Is There Any Mommy Out There? had me cracking up, because it is exactly how I feel, and why I should never ever ever homeschool my children.


Not knowing how to tell someone their favorite book didn’t completely change your life too. 

From Stuff Christians Like. I felt this way about Sacred Romance. And every book by Dickens.

Court Day

A stirring post from Vitafamiliae as they try to adopt a child from Uganda and run into the inevitable Third World Wait.


Tears and Red Envelopes
This post at Our Little Tongginator put me into the ugly cry.

I like big buts

I love how Megan at The Terry Family resolves to put the kibosh on negativity.

This should be interesting.

Jamie the Very Worst Missionary talks about meeting someone from the internet for the first time.

Bad Mother Is As Bad Mother Does

Examining mommy guilt, founded or unfounded, at Her Bad Mother.

Whitewashing and Fashion Magazines

My sister-in-law Jodie's exposes the practice of skin-lightening in magazine photo shoots.

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what I want you to know: parenting two deaf children

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What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions.  It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here.  Today’s story is from Jill.

Hi, I’m Jill. I have 4 children. Two of my children are deaf.

A little background. I got married at 22, right after my husband and I graduated college. We were working 4-6 hours away from our family; we were with a great company. A couple of years after we got married we decided to try to get pregnant. It worked. Actually, it worked much sooner than expected. After I figured out that I was pregnant, I started with the guilt. What had I done when I didn't know I was pregnant? I had done many pregnancy no-no's. Little did I know what was waiting for me. On October 30, 2000, I went to the hospital with my pregnant self and at 2:43 p.m. a common miracle had occurred. My sweet baby, Ethan, was born. He filled my heart with a joy that I hadn't known. What a precious baby. On the day we were to be discharged, a nurse came to talk to me about Ethan not passing his newborn hearing screening. Honestly, I wasn't concerned. I'm pretty laid back, so when she told me that lots of kids don't pass the screening and it's usually due to an overabundance of skin cells, I didn't worry. When Ethan was two weeks old, I took him back to the hospital to get rescreened. He didn't pass; I didn't know what it meant. The word deaf hadn't entered my thoughts at that point. I took him straight to the pediatrician and asked that he be seen. He told me that if he had failed the screening twice; that it probably wasn't due to any sort of blockage and to prepare ourselves for the news. We waited forever (at least it seemed like forever! -) to have a full audiological examination. Long story short, my son was deaf. What? My son? What had I done? What did I do?

My son was deaf. We had no family history. We landed with a group (physician, audiologists, speech/language pathologists) that was fabulous and helped us navigate the road for Ethan. He was in speech/language therapy starting at 10 weeks and at 10 month (after a LONG.HARD. battle with insurance) he received his first cochlear implant. The cochlear implant is a device that provides electronic stimulation to the auditory nerve when the ear doesn't work...it's more like a prosthetic ear than a hearing aid. With his implant and therapy (2-3x/week for 3 years), Ethan was hearing at normal levels. His speech is perfect and he had progressed beautifully. He is currently in the 4th grade in our neighborhood school without any special services. He earns good grades and has friends.

Between February 2002 and October 2004, I had two more babies, both boys. Both passed their hearing screening. We had genetic testing done. Ethan was most likely a statistical fluke. Our odds of having another baby who was deaf was slim. Life continued on after the birth of each child. I quit my job to stay home with my three crazy boys. We could do this. We were doing this. We lived life. But my heart, oh my heart. I felt so guilty for giving birth to a baby with a defect. Mind you, I loved him. I just wondered what I had done to cause his deafness.

In July of 2008 I learned that I was expecting again. We were excited. I expected a fourth boy and thought of what he would do to our family. Then, fear struck. I started bleeding and I always bleed early in pregnancy. We found out the baby was fine. But, I kept bleeding. A lot. Every doctor appointment, my sweet doctor tried to prepare me for a less than ideal outcome (miscarriage and stillbirth), she was surprised that my pregnancy was holding on. It was a difficult pregnancy; Gestational Diabetes, check. Pre-term labor, check. Bedrest, check (from 20 weeks on..), all of my tests came back abnormal. When I found out at 16 weeks that I was expecting a girl I about fell off the table. I made them double check. She was definitely a girl; we would name her Annelise. I couldn't believe I was going to have a girl. I was scared out of my mind. I knew boys. I don't have a great relationship with my mother, how was I going to raise a girl?

Fast forward through 14 l.o.n.g. weeks of bedrest. I called the doctor one Tuesday morning because I felt like something was wrong. Annelise wasn't moving. A failed non-stress test and biophysical profile earned me a night in the hospital. While I was there, more contractions, but Annelise had bounced back. I was hospitalized for 9 days before I had her. I gave birth to my precious, sweet baby on March 5 2009. She was darling. I loved her from the moment her slick body was on my chest. I had tried to guard my heart since we had such a precarious pregnancy, but it was no use. She was mine. My precious girl. Annelise Marie. She was deaf. I was devastated. I hated how my husband told me. I hated the nurses for assuming she would pass the next time. I knew. I tried to convince myself otherwise. It was no use. She was deaf. Oh. the pain. It pierces my heart to this day.

Oh, but the gift that is Annelise. She is so special. Love has no boundaries. Everyone who meets her is charmed by her. Ethan was thrilled that she couldn't hear...she was just like him. And he loved it. No malice, only love. His brothers could hear, but he was special. Just like his sister. And, all of them are special. precious. adored. loved. hearing or no hearing.

Annelise got her implants at 6 and 8 months. She hears great and has a vocabulary of an average 2 year old. We do speech/language therapy 3x/week and a music class once a week.

Me? I didn't fare so well. I was in a deep depression. I was a mess. I honestly thought "who did I piss off in a past life?", was I such a bad person that my children needed to be punished? No. I wasn't. I wasn't punished. I was chosen. I am lucky enough to have given birth to four amazing children. I am a damn good advocate for my kids. My children are fabulous. Two hear differently...

What I want you to know is this...I grieve my childrens' hearing. I can't bear to tell my ten year old that he probably can't be a pilot or a police officer. I grieve to this day and Annelise is almost 2. I wouldn't trade them for the world. They are breaking stereotypes every way they turn. I have more compassion, kindness and love...and I can teach all my children better because of this.

What I want you to know is this...I'm grateful. I still struggle with my depression sometimes, but I see the beauty of my children and their hearing differences. I'm grateful. I'm so happy my children were screened at birth and we found out early so we could help them as much as possible. I'm grateful that we have a great program that has never watered-down any child's potential. I'm grateful for learning to listen with not just my ears, but with my other senses too. I'm grateful for them. All of them.

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