Trial by Fire

Five months? Wow. Hard to believe it's been that long since I wrote a blog entry. It's a pretty good indicator of what life has been like at our house as we go through the process of adopting older kids. I'd like to promise that I'll be posting more frequently, but for now we'll just take it one day at a time.

Our kids are in elementary school. They came to us nearly eight months ago with strongly established preferences, likes and dislikes. They had a strong bond with some members of their birth family (our preferred term for their biological family), which can make bonding with a new family difficult. They also came with a set of behaviors that were ingrained deep inside them during their formative years of life.

Adopting older children is more like a new marriage than welcoming a new baby. Our challenge as parents is to get to know these new family members and find the right balance of high expectations and healthy compromise to make our fledgling relationships work. It ain't easy.

The first six months or so since the kids joined our family, we were on lockdown. As we approach the eight month mark, I feel like we're emerging from a long, dark tunnel. I'm starting to see the light on the other side. We are figuring out what works and what doesn't work for our newly merged family. We're figuring out how attachment and bonding work at this age too.

I'm thankful for everything our kids have taught me about myself, like letting go of perfection. If I don't prioritize connection over perfection, the whole thing unravels. I have a tendency to worry about what people will think of our kids' behavior rather than focusing on the joys we can experience in the midst of the chaos.

So it's been a trial, one of the most stretching things I've undertaken. In my core, I believe it will be worth it. We are already seeing the results of our hard work, but it's not an easy road to walk. It takes more compassion for myself and others than I could have imagined. And I hope to be back on the air waves again soon to share more of our journey.

P.S. - If you know our kids, please don't use their names in this public forum. Thanks!

A Mother's Day Gift

This year my Mother's Day weekend was spent doing all the things I have dreamed of doing with my kids. Making crafts for the grandmothers in our world, drawing with chalk on the sidewalk, reading stories before bedtime.

It wasn't the most idyllic Mother's Day. My hubby, who is usually a very thoughtful guy, was so completely absorbed in the joy of having our children in our home over the weekend that he kind of forgot all about the day. And I don't mind, because I so love seeing him provoke them to shrieks of laughter that we forget about everything else.

I thought a little bit about my Liza Jane, the sweet girl who first made me a mommy. I still love her deeply, and she will be precious to me always. And I love each of the new children who are joining our family with their unique and special personalities.

After losing a child, the only gift I have wanted for Mother's Day was to be a mother. Actively, with children in my home. And I'm so thankful that I received that gift this year.

Mother's Day is a day for honoring mothers. Really, though, there is no gift that can possibly represent the sacrifice a mother makes for her children. Even so, I'm glad we have the day to pause, remember, and celebrate the mothers in our lives. Whether they are with us here on this earth, or lovingly treasured in our memory, mothers are the best gift of Mother's Day.

Is it happy, or is it sad?

So I've noticed that when I blog about adoption, I get many more "views" than when I blog about grief. And I get that, because it's hard to read about sad things, and it's fun to read about happy things.

Today, though, I want to talk about where grief and adoption intersect. You might think, say what? Isn't adoption a wonderful, loving choice? Parents who adopt, rescuing babies and children from difficult circumstances, following a path that few dare to tread. Isn't it a wonderful, happy, heroic experience?

You guessed it -- adoption is not all walking on sunshine. There are many facets of grief associated with adoption.

First, let's look at the birth parents. They will at some point experience a deep grief and loss over losing their child. Maybe they gave them up voluntarily, or maybe their hand was forced (depending on the country and circumstances). But speaking as someone who knows what it is like to lose a child, my heart goes out to the birth parents of adoptees. I cannot imagine what they are going through, and I hope and pray they will find healing and peace.

Next, what about the adoptee? Shouldn't they be grateful they have been rescued from less than ideal circumstances? It isn't really as easy as that. They have lost the connection to their family, their roots. They have lost an essential part of their identity, which those of us raised by our biological families cannot comprehend. How often in our formative years have we thought, "I'm creative like my mom," or "I'm good at sports like my uncle," or "I like to eat sour foods like my grandmom...." The list goes on, and on, and on.

Adoptees have lost their moorings, and many have spent untold time and energy to track down their bio families and try to regain a sense of self. Most of their parents love them very, very much, even if they were unable to care for them for a time. (I do not speak from personal experience, only from hearing the stories of adoptees who are now adults, so please forgive me if I have misrepresented the perspective of an adoptee. I do not pretend to lump all together in one bucket, nor should we.)

Finally, adoptive parents experience loss as well. Many of us have not been able to have our own children, or if we have, some of us have lost those children due to cruel disease. There is a strong desire hard wired in our DNA to see our offspring, to observe as our own traits are carried on through the next generation. This is a grief on a primal level, as we let go of basic expectations that most of us held for the majority of our lives.

Right now, I am extremely excited about the possibility that we may be matched with our future children soon. At the same time, though, I am sad. Adoption is a wonderful gift, but it is also a symptom of an imperfect world. While we will be over the moon to welcome our future children into our home, we also have to keep in mind the journey of grief and loss that they and their bio family members will have to walk through.

It is a mix of both: happy and sad.

Christmas without Her

When a child has died, Christmas feels like empty arms. It feels like a big black hole, a missing puzzle piece.

I have had a similar feeling at holidays in the past, during the nearly two years when we were trying to get pregnant and nothing happened. There was emptiness and a longing for children then, too.

Friends on Facebook post about their holiday woes as they try to juggle caring for young children with all the work of getting ready for the big day. And I am glad they share, because I want to be connected with them and be a part of their families' lives.

However, for we who have struggled with infertility, or miscarriages, or the death of a child, we long to experience those holiday issues. Or at least I do. Days before Christmas, I sit with all the presents wrapped, the house decorated, the baking done, and wish that I was behind. I wish that there was a little one bugging me so that I couldn't quite get the cookies made, couldn't quite wrap all the presents, couldn't get the floor cleaned on time for company to arrive. I long to have the happy chaos of a little one making messes that interrupt my day.

Without Liza Jane, though, all I have is stillness and quiet. I have done every Christmas task I can possibly think of to keep my arms busy, and still they ache with longing to hold her again.

I try to find warm spots to fill the void. I have learned that a person has to come up for air sometimes while grieving. Make that a lot of the time. So Luke and I find things to do that bring happiness, like making a favorite meal together or enjoying a new movie.

As often as I can, I try to turn to our God for comfort during this time. Sometimes, though, that is not as easy as it sounds. Putting my trust in God often feels like putting my trust in a paper shredder. There seems to be only pain in a place where there was once blessing and comfort. Other times, I am able to sense the comfort of God's presence.

And in between those brief moments of solace, I find reasons to keep living. Because surviving the death of a child is just that... a fight for survival. So here we are, surviving the day after Christmas, hanging on to any shred of hope that we can find.

We remember her by putting ornaments on the tree that remind us of her. We remember her by visiting her grave and placing flowers on the place where her ashes are buried in the little wooden box her daddy made. And we remember her with our tears as we cry with aching and longing to see her again, to have her close to us.

Nothing will feel quite right as long as she is gone. Which means... the rest of our lives.