Remembering

To his birth mom:

I haven't taken the time to write here in a very long time, but there are things in my heart that I just need to get out.  Since I don't know you and don't have the opportunity to ask you these things myself, this appears to be my release.  I know I've written something similar in the past but...well...the feelings remain the same.

I thought of you last night as I was laying in bed, trying to fall asleep.  I wondered if you were doing the same thing - laying in your bed and remembering what I was remembering...but from a different point of view.  Four years ago last night, my husband and I went to dinner at Macaroni Grill to distract ourselves and to celebrate a major life change.  Our last night as "two" before we became "three".  Four years ago, we knew that two women from the adoption agency were bringing him to you for one last visit at that exact moment and that you would be signing your "TPR" (termination of parental rights) papers.  We ate dinner and tried to enjoy our night...but my cell phone was on the table, waiting for a call that you had signed the papers.  I remember the relief we felt when she called to say you went through with it.  Do you remember what you were feeling?  I can't even fathom.

The next day was a whirlwind and I wonder if you knew he was leaving his foster family to come home to be ours forever.  What were you doing that day?  Did you think of him, of us, and the family we were about to become?  Did you try to distract yourself the entire day or did you let yourself dwell on the moments you had with him during those two weeks after he was born?  Did you stop and remember the kicks and punches you used to feel while you were carrying him?  Or the labor pains that told you it was time?  Did you stare at his photograph like we did, looking deep into those eyes that seem to just look straight into your heart?

It's hard to believe that was four years ago already.  Every year, I spend this day thinking about myself.  About our son.  About my husband, the Daddy.  About the family we have become.  Our memories.  But what about you?  My heart hurts a little more with each passing year that we don't hear from you because I know what you're missing.  He's incredible.  He's smart.  He's adorable.  He's hilarious.  He's strong, both physically and in his will.  He's sweet and loving.  He's four.  He's so many things I've dreamed of and so much more that I never even considered dreaming.

I often wonder why this makes me so sad, but I know it's a genuine feeling because it only intensifies with each year.  No, I don't need you to come and move next door to us or hang out at our house every weekend.  But I would like for you to meet him sometime.  I would like to be able to let him ask you the questions he might have about himself.  But -- I also understand.  If I had to make the decision that you had to make, I'm not sure I could handle the contact.  You know the opportunity to communicate with us is always there.  The door is always open.  It's not one we will ever shut to keep you away.  In time, I hope you decide to knock.

Forever grateful for your gift,
- Sarah

I loved him already.

Preschool

My baby boy.  So tiny and little and dependent on me when you were a baby.  I was so excited with every milestone you reached.  I was amazed at the things you could do and how fast you learned to do them.  You made my heart melt with one little grin.  I was enamored with you, adoring every little coo and sound you made.  When you started saying "mama"?  Oh, how my heart melted.

Over three and a half years later, I find myself just as amazed.  And sad at the same time.  You see, today, we took you to your first day of Preschool.

You have been talking about "going to school" for about a year and a half now.  I was quite surprised last night at bedtime when you informed me, "Mommy, I go to school tomorrow -- but you don't leave me -- you stay there wiss me."  Talk about breaking my heart!  I told you not to worry about it right now and that we'd talk about it in the morning.  I wasn't sure what I was going to do if you continued that philosophy, but I knew Daddy would be there with us to help out in case of any meltdowns or clinging to my leg.

Morning came and you were on the fence.  You mentioned it again and I casually told you that I could not stay today because it's just for kids but that I would be back to pick you up when school was over...and then I held my breath for your reaction.  Much to my surprise (and relief), you didn't bat an eye.  You just went on as if I didn't even answer you -- and I wondered if you even heard me!  We got dressed, shoes and all, and had some time before we had to leave.  As you sat and watched TV, you were anxious to go.  I mentioned it was almost time to get in the car and you were out the door, your tote bag in hand.  I wanted to get a picture of you, but couldn't get you to stop long enough to smile.  As we started to drive, you kept asking me for your bag.  I didn't know what the big deal was, but assured you we'd get it when we got to school.  

You carried it up the sidewalk and began digging through it as soon as we stopped.  As we stood there waiting for them to open the doors, you found the envelope containing our family picture for the bulletin board in your classroom.  I wondered why on earth you were so intent on finding it -- and you were so insistent that you needed to hold onto it!  Last night, I mentioned it was in there and that we needed to remember to give it to your teacher, but that was it; no big deal.  You held onto it the entire time we waited, walked straight into your classroom and gave it to your teacher.  She asked who was in the picture and you answered her without hesitation or shyness.  We found the hook with your name on it and hung up your bag.  I turned around and saw you had gotten right down to business playing with some trucks.  I gave you a kiss, reminded you that if you were still dry when you got home, you'd get "something special" (you picked a sucker) and told you we were going to leave.  You said okay and kept playing, never looking up to say goodbye.

As Daddy, Avery and I walked down the hall, I teared up.  A few escaped, but I held it together.  As I got in the car and began to drive away, a few more fell.  We were almost home and I noticed the song playing on the radio.  It was Mark Schultz's "He's My Son".  This song has always impacted me, as I try to put myself in Mary's shoes and think of how I feel about you, unable to fathom what she went through.  This is obviously a drastic comparison to what I was facing, but it's true.  You're not just ANY child; you're my SON.  I lost it.  Right there in the garage, I sobbed.  It wasn't that I was afraid for you.  I wasn't sad.  I think I was just crying over the milestone.  I know it's just two mornings a week.  I know that you are going to love it.  I know that this is what we decided is best for you.  I've known this was coming for about 9 months now.  But that doesn't help.  I had to let you go today.  I had to leave you in a place I'm unfamiliar with, full of people and kids I do not know and drive off.  I'm not still in the building, should something go wrong.  Someone else is responsible for you and you are going to have to ask them for help.  I cried last night as I worried...what if you need help pulling up your pants after you go potty -- who's going to help you?  What if you decide to strip down completely like you often do at home and are sitting on the bathroom floor as you try to get your pants back on?  Do they know you can easily dress yourself when you are wearing shorts, but that you have some trouble getting your legs through your long jeans?  I hope you feel comfortable enough to tell them when you have to go potty.  I hope that you're not afraid when you realize you don't know anyone in that classroom.  You don't know their names and you probably don't recognize their faces because you've only seen them one other time -- and you played by yourself the whole time, shyly refusing to talk to anyone.  Are you going to share?  Are you going to listen and obey your teachers?  I hope you're not the kid who has to be told 42 times to do something like you often are at home.  I hope that what people tell me is true; that you're very obedient and follow the rules when Daddy and I aren't around.  I know you're only 3 years old, but I hope that they realize it too.  I hope they know you've never been in a setting like this before and you don't know what to do.  

I wish I could be a fly on the wall this morning to see how you react to things.  Instead, I sit here at home in a quiet house.  Your sister fell asleep on the way home and is napping in her bed.  I am wondering what to do with this time.  I'm sure I'll fall into a routine soon enough, but today I just want to reminisce.  To think about you and us and the life we've had so far.  This is just the beginning.  This is just Preschool.  But it's a start.  It's your first introduction to school and you'll never have that again.  Thankfully, Kindergarten is still a couple years away.  Baby steps are good for me.  You, on the other hand...I have a feeling you'll be upset when I come to pick you up this morning.  That's just how you are.  Fearful and cautious at first, but then you dive in and don't want to stop.

Sigh...I sure do love you, my big kid.

His Eyes

Have I blogged about this song before?  It wouldn't surprise me if I have.  Heck, it wouldn't surprise me if I've written this exact post before!  Ever since I was little, this song has impacted me.  It comes up every now and then in my life and in those moments, I'm always filled to overflowing with God's love.  Especially when I hear this part:

Sometimes I look above me when starts are shining
And I feel so small;
How could the God of Heaven and all creation
Know I'm here at all.
But then in the silence He whispers,
"My child, I created you too.
And you're my most precious creation;
I even gave My Son for you."

Umm.  Wow.  I'm at a loss for what else I can even say about that.  So...just...wow.


His Eyes - by Steven Curtis Chapman

Sometimes His eyes are gentle
And filled with laughter,
And sometimes they cry;
Sometimes there is a fire
Of Holy anger,
In Jesus’ eyes.
But the eyes that saw hope in the hopeless,
That saw through the fault to the need,
Are the same eyes that look down from Heaven
Into the deepest part of you and me.

CHORUS
His eyes are always upon you;
His eyes never close in sleep.
And no matter where you go,
You will always be in His eyes, in His eyes.

Sometimes His voice comes calling
Like rolling thunder,
Or like driving rain;
And sometimes His voice is quiet,
And we start to wonder
If He knows our name.
But He who spoke peace to the water
Cares more for our hearts than the waves,
And the voice that once said "You’re forgiven",
Still says "You’re forgiven" today.

Sometimes I look above me when stars are shining
And I feel so small;
How could the God of heaven and all creation
Know I’m here at all.
But then in silence He whispers,
"My child, I created you too
And you’re my most precious creation;
I even gave my Son for you."

Parenting

• 12:30am: Crawl in bed after a long day, no nap for me, and a great night with great friends.

• 4 to 5am: Baby wakes up crying, a lot, 3rd night in a row. Back locks up when I reach to get her out of her crib.  Try everything from patting to holding to rocking to letting her cry. Nothing works.

• 5am: Try feeding her as a last resort. It seems to have worked. Looked down and it hits me: she's sound asleep, still latched on, and SO. UNBELIEVABLY. BEAUTIFUL. as she just peacefully lays there. Have a "I'm the luckiest girl in the whole world" moment. Go back to bed and hubby's alarm goes off for bike riding. "Moment" quickly ends.

• 6am: Finally fall asleep and he gets a text on my phone about said ride.  Bring my phone to him in the kitchen, drop it on the counter without a word, and stumble back to bed.  Barely fall back to sleep and he (sweetly) comes in to thank me for letting him know about the text and tell me he's going to ride close to home for just an hour or two instead.  I still love him, even though he's woken me up.  Again.  The night is starting to feel like a big joke now.

• 7am: Baby cries again. Feed her again to get our "normal" day started. Falls asleep as she nurses.  Hopefully she stays that way like she should.

• 7:30am: I'm now wide awake. And so is the boy (who went to bed over an hour late).  But at least he's in a GREAT mood!

And so our day begins. With coffee.

Parenting: the greatest reward, but the hardest job you'll ever have - physically, mentally, AND emotionally!

My voice is groggy, my vision is blurry, and my body is weary...but I {honestly!} wouldn't trade it for the world.

A Glimpse

The day after we got home from our vacation at the beach, Avery was having a tough time.  That afternoon, it was time for her to eat but she just cried and cried and really just all-around flipped out every time I tried to feed her.  There came a point that the only way she could be consoled was when her Daddy was holding her.  I began to feel hurt.  I began to feel rejected.  I began to feel frustrated.  It turns out, she was tired.  Overly tired, actually.    We put her to bed and she woke up a little later, eating with no problems at all.  Like nothing ever happened.  I thought the worst was behind us...until earlier this morning.

I was quite distraught to realize the same exact thing was happening again.  I knew deep down inside that she was tired again and that it was not "me" she was rejecting...but it still felt like it.  It was time for her to eat.  I had so much to give her - to the point that it (literally) hurt me that she wouldn't just take it.  It was there.  It was ready.  I had made it just for her.  All she had to do was calm down and realize it.  It was such a simple answer.

Suddenly, through my tears of frustration, I had a small Whisper of a thought...I wonder if this is how God feels about us.  He has so many things to give us.  Things that are just what we need.  It must sadden Him just like it did me when we don't stop long enough to realize the Answer is right there in front of us.  All we have to do is calm down and turn in the Right direction to see it.  It's so simple, yet...we cry.  We get mad.  We yell and scream.  We give up.  Eventually, we think to turn to Him, but - sadly - often it's not before He's already felt the pains of Fatherhood - the rejection and the hurt that we won't just take His gift so we can rest, completely fulfilled.

I'm not sure I'll ever feed Avery and not think of this again -- I know I'm guilty of it, so I'm thankful for the reminder.

A New Light

We've had a rough week, little one.  Three month growth spurt, maybe?  That's what I hope it is.  Early teeth?  Oh Lawd, I hope not!  (Though you do drool an awful lot lately...)  Today has left me worn down and quite frustrated...until I looked at the calendar as you were (finally!) sleeping and I realized it's July 20th.

One year ago today, from this exact moment, I was sound asleep in our hotel room in Knoxville.  We had signed the paperwork and you (along with two other embryos) had just been transferred into me that morning.  I was resting just like the doctor ordered.  As we went to dinner that night, I felt as if I was wearing a sign; as if everyone just knew by looking at me what special little gifts I was carrying inside of me!  I remember praying over you that night with your Daddy, speaking words of faith and speaking life into your tiny little cells.  I knew that in ten days I would have my answer, but at that time, ten days just seemed like an eternity!  I had no idea what the future held, but I knew that we had done our part and that the rest was up to God.

As I began to read through my blog posts from July 2010, you woke up from your nap.  Again.  Groaning to myself, I stopped reading and went in to see if I could get you to go back to sleep.  When I got to your crib, you stopped crying and just looked straight into my eyes.  I just stood there, staring right back at you.  For quite a while, we stayed that way in total silence.  In those moments, I saw you in a new light.  My memories flashed back to seeing the picture of those three embryos, wondering which (if any) were going to be in my arms.  Now here I was, staring into the eyes of one of them.  My heart softened.  My frustration died down, and I lovingly stood there to pat your behind for as long as you needed me to.  A year ago, that was just a dream...a dream that I am now living.

I sure do love you, sweet girl!

Beautiful

It's been a LONG time since I've even had a thought run through my mind to write about.  I suppose having two kids, a husband, a house, friends, family, and finding time for myself (what's that?!) will do that to you.  A friend of mine posted this link the other day on Facebook and it brought me to tears...even choking up as I read the words out loud to my husband.  It's beautiful.  Absolutely beautiful.  I could not have said it better if I'd written it myself.  

If you're unable to get to it, the link includes a picture of a postpartum belly with stretch marks.  It is called "The Beauty Love Left Behind" and includes this text:

A mark for every breath you took, every blink, every sleepy yawn. One for every time you sucked your thumb, waved hello, closed your eyes and slept in the most perfect darkness. One for every time you had the hiccups. One for every dream you dreamed within me.

It isn't very pretty anymore. Some may even think it ugly. That's OK. It was your home. It's where I first grew to love you, where I lay my hand as I dreamed about who you were and who you would be. It held you until my arms could, and for that, I will always find something beautiful in it.

It's swimsuit season.  My goal this year was to find a suit long enough that there would not even be a CHANCE for my new red enemies on my (glowing white) postpartum stomach to peek out.  After reading this, I don't care so much.  (Of course, it also helps that my mission was accomplished and my swimsuit top is plenty long!  haha)  I now look at myself in the mirror and see things in a new light.  I'm not as disgusted as I used to be by what I see.  I look at my "war wounds" and I smile, for I remember how they got there.  I remember looking in that same mirror and rubbing my hands over my tight round belly as Avery moved and kicked inside of me.  I wouldn't trade those memories for anything; even for a flat, flawless stomach.  

Aah, motherhood...what we'll DO for our kids!