Two nights ago Trevor had a dream that we were running on the roof, running away from something, and while he was concentrating on carrying Berit, I fell. I "just exploded" when I hit the ground, he says. In his dream, he started throwing up, he was so immediately upset.
Not a regular dreamer, Trevor has been shaken ever since.
***
There have been complications with Korea. Without writing the long list of recent challenges (just the thought of them all have my hands and fingers tired; we have been over and over and over them too much), I'll say this: we are officially in a new position, which is hold.
Too much has been sent our way and we cannot act in the best interest of everyone - Berit and Marta, the new child, Trevor and me - so quickly. We have asked to be put on hold.
Here is what that means: We will not lose our "place in line," which I am not allowed to discuss in detail, but can say that it is very, very high on the list. (Place number one is the next family to get their child, etc.) We will continue to climb this list (though there is very little climbing to do), but we will not get a referral (The Call). People on the list under us will, and when and if we say we are ready to progress, we will be in the same or higher position to receive a referral.
Once we made this decision... well, let me back up. I don't think I can talk about what happened after without at least a notation about making this decision. It was hard. It was hand-shaking, tear-strewn, dream-having hard.
And once we sent our official request to be put on hold, something happened that no one expected. It was almost physical, a sense of a wrapper being taken off, or a tie being broken. Not that we were free, not at all. That's not what I'm getting at. It was like we took our sunglasses off - that's a better way to put it.
And I'm not saying that we weren't good parents before, because we were. I know this. But - our kids! They are so, so cool. They are so big! Marta is writing her name. Writing her name! No one has ever thought to even teach her to make a circle, and she's drawing pictures of people and writing her NAME.
Berit is reading books and riding horses now, too. She is braver today than she was yesterday. She is staying up later and problem-solving and working things out with Marta instead of always fighting. She's getting shy in a group of new kids.
I have never seen my children in the way I do now. No longer do I look at them and instantly wonder how I'll handle a particular situation with three. No longer do I envision going to three at night, or driving three in the car, or feeding/bathing/dressing/shopping with three.
And this is OK. It's amazing that it's OK. It's laugh-and-cry-at-the-same-time OK. Because my God, look at my two funny, smart, brave and great girls. They are so fun to be with.
We go exploring and play games and just talk now, and there isn't a second current running behind my thoughts, wondering how we'll get to Korea. It's just us. We're good.
Of course we are mourning the loss of this current, too. But the gift we have been given is remarkable. We are lucky, not flailing. Everything is going to be alright.
Showing posts with label Adoption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Adoption. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Two
My dear friend Ellen once told me that after her first two boys but before her third boy, when she wasn't pregnant but wanted to be, she wondered why she should feel emotional about *not* having a third. Because look at her two, who are so perfect and wonderful. Look at her loves. Why shouldn't she just be content with her two?
I think of this often, these days.
I think of this often, these days.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Sigh... Update
We have a very small handle on what's happening with Korea right now. On one hand, yes, there is still a chance our child could come home sooner rather than later (we had recently heard that we wouldn't have a chance to bring our baby home until next year, which was devastating news). On the other hand, fees are up and will be due the very moment we accept our referral (child's file - in other words, it's when we say yes, we want to adopt this child that you're telling us is ready to be adopted). So, surprises around every corner.
The worst part is this: If we don't accept a child very, very soon, we will have to wait until 2012 or 2013 to have another chance, as the Korean government is pushing each year to end international adoptions (even though they are direly needed).
It's sort of a put-up-or-shut-up feeling that we are not enjoying, and are in fact, kind of panicking about.
The worst part is this: If we don't accept a child very, very soon, we will have to wait until 2012 or 2013 to have another chance, as the Korean government is pushing each year to end international adoptions (even though they are direly needed).
It's sort of a put-up-or-shut-up feeling that we are not enjoying, and are in fact, kind of panicking about.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Frozen
We belong to a forum through our agency. It's been slow lately; no new news for anyone.
And then suddenly, two girls for two families. And then one of the families gets the change for a second girl, to pick up at the same time they pick up their first.
And my stomach drops in both joy and frustration and anticipation. My eyes tear at the smallest suggestion of a new child, for anyone, anywhere. I feel frozen in time - our call will never come, it must come, it will never, ever come, what will we do when it does come?
And then suddenly, two girls for two families. And then one of the families gets the change for a second girl, to pick up at the same time they pick up their first.
And my stomach drops in both joy and frustration and anticipation. My eyes tear at the smallest suggestion of a new child, for anyone, anywhere. I feel frozen in time - our call will never come, it must come, it will never, ever come, what will we do when it does come?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Wait
So for now, I am waiting.
Last night we received information about a baby - four babies, actually, who need families. One baby in particular captivated both of us. Both of us. Without ribbons or bows, with her little humbleness and life and need, with her medical condition and all.
And because the information was sent at 5:30 p.m. and everyone apparently left the second someone pressed "send" on their e-mail, we did not get to speak to our caseworker until this morning. Sleep, eh. Right.
While walking through Meijer today, my caseworker called and I cried in the sugar aisle, and she told me not to get attached. Right.
There are other families who are interested in this little one, and while we are first on the list (we've been waiting the longest), our immigration is not sent in because of our recent move - so that puts us in a weird limbo. We'll still be considered but OhMyGodGetTheImmigrationIn.
We also have to come up with our many, many thousands of dollars Right Quick. So, there's that, burning a little hole in my brain because it should not be this way, when a baby needs a home and there is a home to be had.
And she's just there, just out of reach. We are attached. And yet we wait.
I'm waiting to pick up Marta from school, my to-do list for the day completely ignored, my house a mess, my groceries purchased this morning while talking on my phone and steering my cart with my elbow in the little coffee holder still in bags on the counter. Laundry undone. Dust bunnies taking over.
I sit here in front of the computer, hoping something will come up, though nothing is supposed to, nothing has been promised, there is nothing to wait for. But it's my link to the baby, so I dare not move unless I have to.
On January 3 our information will go to a review board who will decide about this little one's forever family. And so. The waiting.
Last night we received information about a baby - four babies, actually, who need families. One baby in particular captivated both of us. Both of us. Without ribbons or bows, with her little humbleness and life and need, with her medical condition and all.
And because the information was sent at 5:30 p.m. and everyone apparently left the second someone pressed "send" on their e-mail, we did not get to speak to our caseworker until this morning. Sleep, eh. Right.
While walking through Meijer today, my caseworker called and I cried in the sugar aisle, and she told me not to get attached. Right.
There are other families who are interested in this little one, and while we are first on the list (we've been waiting the longest), our immigration is not sent in because of our recent move - so that puts us in a weird limbo. We'll still be considered but OhMyGodGetTheImmigrationIn.
We also have to come up with our many, many thousands of dollars Right Quick. So, there's that, burning a little hole in my brain because it should not be this way, when a baby needs a home and there is a home to be had.
And she's just there, just out of reach. We are attached. And yet we wait.
I'm waiting to pick up Marta from school, my to-do list for the day completely ignored, my house a mess, my groceries purchased this morning while talking on my phone and steering my cart with my elbow in the little coffee holder still in bags on the counter. Laundry undone. Dust bunnies taking over.
I sit here in front of the computer, hoping something will come up, though nothing is supposed to, nothing has been promised, there is nothing to wait for. But it's my link to the baby, so I dare not move unless I have to.
On January 3 our information will go to a review board who will decide about this little one's forever family. And so. The waiting.
Friday, September 17, 2010
With Gratitude And Hope And Support
As a writer, I tend to let my fingers do my talking, my thinking aloud, my sorting out. Even when I'm internalizing a situation, I'm writing it in my head, and when I do that, the pieces fit together in the right way. Some people lift weights or garden. I write.
And yet. Tonight I am so drained, so overly emoted, so anxious and a dish rag and a wet-noodle that my fingers don't want to press the keys. I have written this story a thousand times in this day, as the hours dragged on. I'm reminded of when my girls were infants and I had nothing left, and I didn't write for sheer exhaustion, and though I wish I had, I recognize the lack of writing as lack of brain function, lack of sorting ability, lack of cohesion.
I'm tired from crying, from gut-wrenching sadness, from earth-moving goodness.
And oh, God.
We had our day-long adoption training today. We left early - at least an hour before the sun rose - and though we were excited, we felt relatively prepared. We read the books, the blogs, the travel stories. We have gotten it, and we're just ready already. We're so ready that we're tired of feeling ready. We're so ready that we're choked with excitement about being ready.
It was good to be surrounded by people who support adoption. It was good to talk about it again, single-mindedly, and speculate and wonder and be in the company of those who are also ready.
The morning was ruled by extreme possibilities and maybes - hepatitis, ADHD, low birth weight, non-attachment, terribles and scaries and could-be-manageables and treatables.
And there were photos. Photos of happy children, photos of babies lined up on potties where there is no running water. Photos of goats' bottle nipples and babies who don't leave cribs and of children who don't know how to walk on tile/grass/carpet, for whom physical touch is actually painful because it's so uncommon.
Oh, God.
Movies. Movies from orphanages. Hundreds of diapers hung to dry. Dozens of broken-down baby shoes lined up. Blank stares. Empty plates.
...
And happy stories, of course, of families and children and good outcomes. Stories of hard work and its rewards within families. Stories of absolute ease and joy from the first meeting.
Stories that weren't intended to make anyone cry - a walk through a city, the first time trying a Korean dish. Tears, still.
Stories of success, stories of short stature and 3-inch heels and oh, God, why am I still crying?
Stories about children, from those very children, who remember being taken to the orphanage by their mothers and being left there. Confusion. Sadness. Fear.
Oh, God.
Somewhere within every half hour today I wanted to round up all of the children in whatever photo, movie or book I was looking at and tuck them under my arms, against my chest, behind my back. I don't care, give me 300, I'll take them all just get them out, God, why doesn't everyone work together to get. them. OUT.
...
And while we were there, our two darling daughters had their first long day of school, in which they began together and separated later and did first new things. Trevor's mom took them, and I didn't get to see their faces when they were finished, or hear their stories, or give reassuring hugs. I watched my movies about my Korean baby, who is at this very minute in an apartment on the other side of the world, being cared for by someone else, and I was crying for all of the kids, none of whom had their mother or father, who were both so very, very focused on their lives today.
And the guilt. Our Korean child comes from foster care. His or her birth mother was in a maternity ward run by the orphanage. He or she is healthy and bonding and stimulated. We are so very, very fortunate.
Because so many others don't have enough food to continue to survive another week. So many others are in physical and psychological peril. These children, these babies, have no one to pick them up, to rock them to sleep. They quit crying because no one answers. Oh God, the guilt. Why are we making it so easy? Why aren't we adopting one of these more needy children?
And then we speak to Marta on the phone, who tells me about the sucker she got at the bank today, and that she made a bracelet for her sister at school, and that in the library she'll be very, very quiet. And we know why.
On our run we finalized baby names (though we always think we do this). We missed our big girls. We celebrated our seventh anniversary. We imagined what our baby was doing just then, and we were glad for it.
The social workers today advised us to write a "coming home" story. It seems natural that I would - I've written down both of my daughters' birth stories. But when I imagine that time, when our child is home and our family is complete, I don't imagine writing a single word. It's a physical sensation that arises instead, one in which I wrap my arms around three children and don't think, don't write, just protect and hold and rock and sing and be grateful.
And yet. Tonight I am so drained, so overly emoted, so anxious and a dish rag and a wet-noodle that my fingers don't want to press the keys. I have written this story a thousand times in this day, as the hours dragged on. I'm reminded of when my girls were infants and I had nothing left, and I didn't write for sheer exhaustion, and though I wish I had, I recognize the lack of writing as lack of brain function, lack of sorting ability, lack of cohesion.
I'm tired from crying, from gut-wrenching sadness, from earth-moving goodness.
And oh, God.
We had our day-long adoption training today. We left early - at least an hour before the sun rose - and though we were excited, we felt relatively prepared. We read the books, the blogs, the travel stories. We have gotten it, and we're just ready already. We're so ready that we're tired of feeling ready. We're so ready that we're choked with excitement about being ready.
It was good to be surrounded by people who support adoption. It was good to talk about it again, single-mindedly, and speculate and wonder and be in the company of those who are also ready.
The morning was ruled by extreme possibilities and maybes - hepatitis, ADHD, low birth weight, non-attachment, terribles and scaries and could-be-manageables and treatables.
And there were photos. Photos of happy children, photos of babies lined up on potties where there is no running water. Photos of goats' bottle nipples and babies who don't leave cribs and of children who don't know how to walk on tile/grass/carpet, for whom physical touch is actually painful because it's so uncommon.
Oh, God.
Movies. Movies from orphanages. Hundreds of diapers hung to dry. Dozens of broken-down baby shoes lined up. Blank stares. Empty plates.
...
And happy stories, of course, of families and children and good outcomes. Stories of hard work and its rewards within families. Stories of absolute ease and joy from the first meeting.
Stories that weren't intended to make anyone cry - a walk through a city, the first time trying a Korean dish. Tears, still.
Stories of success, stories of short stature and 3-inch heels and oh, God, why am I still crying?
Stories about children, from those very children, who remember being taken to the orphanage by their mothers and being left there. Confusion. Sadness. Fear.
Oh, God.
Somewhere within every half hour today I wanted to round up all of the children in whatever photo, movie or book I was looking at and tuck them under my arms, against my chest, behind my back. I don't care, give me 300, I'll take them all just get them out, God, why doesn't everyone work together to get. them. OUT.
...
And while we were there, our two darling daughters had their first long day of school, in which they began together and separated later and did first new things. Trevor's mom took them, and I didn't get to see their faces when they were finished, or hear their stories, or give reassuring hugs. I watched my movies about my Korean baby, who is at this very minute in an apartment on the other side of the world, being cared for by someone else, and I was crying for all of the kids, none of whom had their mother or father, who were both so very, very focused on their lives today.
And the guilt. Our Korean child comes from foster care. His or her birth mother was in a maternity ward run by the orphanage. He or she is healthy and bonding and stimulated. We are so very, very fortunate.
Because so many others don't have enough food to continue to survive another week. So many others are in physical and psychological peril. These children, these babies, have no one to pick them up, to rock them to sleep. They quit crying because no one answers. Oh God, the guilt. Why are we making it so easy? Why aren't we adopting one of these more needy children?
And then we speak to Marta on the phone, who tells me about the sucker she got at the bank today, and that she made a bracelet for her sister at school, and that in the library she'll be very, very quiet. And we know why.
On our run we finalized baby names (though we always think we do this). We missed our big girls. We celebrated our seventh anniversary. We imagined what our baby was doing just then, and we were glad for it.
The social workers today advised us to write a "coming home" story. It seems natural that I would - I've written down both of my daughters' birth stories. But when I imagine that time, when our child is home and our family is complete, I don't imagine writing a single word. It's a physical sensation that arises instead, one in which I wrap my arms around three children and don't think, don't write, just protect and hold and rock and sing and be grateful.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Another Check Off The List
I just signed and sealed away our big, hefty middle payment to the adoption agency. It's such a bizarre feeling, to transfer money over in those amounts and count our pennies and feel concerned about affording this. We had to pay for most of Berit's many treatments, tests and medicine out of pocket, and for all of Marta's prenatal care and our entire hospital stay, including delivery. With Berit we were ready, though we didn't know we'd be using our let's-go-on-a-two-week-vacation-whenever-we-feel-like-it-fund for baby stuff. But thank God we had it. With Marta we were still recovering from our first pregnancy's expenses and we were able to handle it, but just.
And when we wrote those checks, we were so filled with anxiety. How would we get back to our ideal place?
We knew how much adoption would cost going in, so there are no surprises. We have had surprises, however, during our home renovation process and it's making our adoption fund exceptionally tight. But still, we know. It's so weird, to be this prepared. It's kind of nice, to have it all out of the way -- God knows we'll have our hands full when the baby's here. And even though it's not fun to send large sums of money away, we're not overly stressed about this. It's not part of an even bigger stressful event, like having a new baby and recovering from delivery (unless you count remodeling a house and living with your in-laws in the meantime).
And while every single day I wonder if we're doing the right thing, the process is so slow and gentle, it's practically fun. Last night we came up with a new name for the baby. You'll just have to be surprised.
And when we wrote those checks, we were so filled with anxiety. How would we get back to our ideal place?
We knew how much adoption would cost going in, so there are no surprises. We have had surprises, however, during our home renovation process and it's making our adoption fund exceptionally tight. But still, we know. It's so weird, to be this prepared. It's kind of nice, to have it all out of the way -- God knows we'll have our hands full when the baby's here. And even though it's not fun to send large sums of money away, we're not overly stressed about this. It's not part of an even bigger stressful event, like having a new baby and recovering from delivery (unless you count remodeling a house and living with your in-laws in the meantime).
And while every single day I wonder if we're doing the right thing, the process is so slow and gentle, it's practically fun. Last night we came up with a new name for the baby. You'll just have to be surprised.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
A Warm Wind
Marta is standing in front of the open window, mesmerized by the lake, her pigtails flipping in the breeze carrying wildly through our hot house.
I got the call today; the answer. It's good news. It's so good, I need to cry but I'm too happy to cry. I'll have to cry later, because I feel like I'm just brimming with tears. Our adoption is on track, everything is fine, there is nothing left to worry about (except, you know, the adoption itself). The girls are safe, my choices are safe, the new baby is safe. Everything, just now, is as it should be.
I got the call today; the answer. It's good news. It's so good, I need to cry but I'm too happy to cry. I'll have to cry later, because I feel like I'm just brimming with tears. Our adoption is on track, everything is fine, there is nothing left to worry about (except, you know, the adoption itself). The girls are safe, my choices are safe, the new baby is safe. Everything, just now, is as it should be.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Take-Back-Control Yesterday
So, we did the thing. And then we ended it, walked away, said we wouldn't be back for the dozen more (each) we were scheduled to have. After we came home, Trevor and I were both sick about going through with the first one. We felt like we let ourselves down, let our kids down, and we couldn't reconcile it. For us, for ourselves -- not for anyone else, not for any other family. So I don't know where that leaves us, except more sure than ever of our own decisions.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Loss-Of-Control Eve
Tomorrow we're taking the girls, our unsuspecting, happy-to-oblige-this-stop-in-our-day girls, to do something we firmly decided we'd never do. I can't write about it; I will someday, but for now I can't. It's not scary or bad or really that controversial; I just can't write about it because it involves the part of our adoption that's private right now.
The problem is that I can't not write about it. Five years ago we researched, prayed, wavered, then decided a path for our family, and now we're being forced to go a different way. It was nearly a deal-breaker for us on the adoption, as simple as it may seem to some people. It's the forced part of it, I think, that makes it so unsettling.
I have a mantra of "They'll be OK, they'll be OK" running through my head. I won't sleep tonight; last night I had nightmares about it. And really, it's probably no big deal. But it is a big deal, because as a parent you make decisions -- you choose which schools to attend, which shoes to buy. Which food to feed and which dog to own. You pick babysitters and sidewalk chalk and TV shows. And no decisions are ever very simple. The hard ones are really hard. They change lives, for the ones you love the most. So when you make a decision based on research and consideration and pure gut instinct, and then someone comes along and tells you that no, you can't have that choice anymore, you feel like turning your back and saying "forget it then. I'm going back to my life before I knew you."
Oh, but that's not an option, is it? I mean, I suppose it is, but that baby is already in someone's womb, and you've already started loving him or her.
I never thought this would be easy. But I didn't think that adopting a baby would challenge my core values as a parent. Rather, I truly believed this process would enhance them, strengthen them, grow them into a better, more productive set.
I don't think I'll be entirely sure that we're going through with this until it's done. There is a chance I'll pick the girls up at the last minute and excuse us, and then our adoption will be over. I hate to sound so ridiculous, but I feel like stomping my feet and saying, "It's not fair." It's not fair to the girls. It's not fair to be so regular about it, so whatever, after I've spent five years knowing and re-knowing that it's right for us.
Ah, when I write about it (if I have the time and brainpower once the little one is here) you'll laugh and say "Really? Because it sounded much more important than that." So I'm sorry if in the end I sound whiney and silly. But tonight, just before I have to do this, this thing that is apparently the one thing wrong with my parenting skills, the one thing they have to fix before they'll allow me to adopt an orphan, I am feeling whiney indeed.
The problem is that I can't not write about it. Five years ago we researched, prayed, wavered, then decided a path for our family, and now we're being forced to go a different way. It was nearly a deal-breaker for us on the adoption, as simple as it may seem to some people. It's the forced part of it, I think, that makes it so unsettling.
I have a mantra of "They'll be OK, they'll be OK" running through my head. I won't sleep tonight; last night I had nightmares about it. And really, it's probably no big deal. But it is a big deal, because as a parent you make decisions -- you choose which schools to attend, which shoes to buy. Which food to feed and which dog to own. You pick babysitters and sidewalk chalk and TV shows. And no decisions are ever very simple. The hard ones are really hard. They change lives, for the ones you love the most. So when you make a decision based on research and consideration and pure gut instinct, and then someone comes along and tells you that no, you can't have that choice anymore, you feel like turning your back and saying "forget it then. I'm going back to my life before I knew you."
Oh, but that's not an option, is it? I mean, I suppose it is, but that baby is already in someone's womb, and you've already started loving him or her.
I never thought this would be easy. But I didn't think that adopting a baby would challenge my core values as a parent. Rather, I truly believed this process would enhance them, strengthen them, grow them into a better, more productive set.
I don't think I'll be entirely sure that we're going through with this until it's done. There is a chance I'll pick the girls up at the last minute and excuse us, and then our adoption will be over. I hate to sound so ridiculous, but I feel like stomping my feet and saying, "It's not fair." It's not fair to the girls. It's not fair to be so regular about it, so whatever, after I've spent five years knowing and re-knowing that it's right for us.
Ah, when I write about it (if I have the time and brainpower once the little one is here) you'll laugh and say "Really? Because it sounded much more important than that." So I'm sorry if in the end I sound whiney and silly. But tonight, just before I have to do this, this thing that is apparently the one thing wrong with my parenting skills, the one thing they have to fix before they'll allow me to adopt an orphan, I am feeling whiney indeed.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Transition
I just had an e-mail conversation with a friend I met in Traverse City, who, with her husband of course, has adopted two children from South Korea using the same agency and same case worker as we are.
It's so fascinating to hear what she has to say, on one hand, and on the other completely unnerving. Although, if anyone had detailed for me just what sleepless nights were like as a new parent, I'm sure I would have been on the edge of my seat (instead of pushed back entirely to fit the girth of my belly) then, too.
The thing that gets me the most is the grief. Obviously, the grief. She told me about how wonderful her son's foster mother was, and how, when my friend took him from her for the last time after three visits, the boy screamed and cried for the foster mother, and the foster mother tried to comfort him because he was her child, even if she knew she would have to give him up, eventually. And the boy slept after he cried, and didn't know who to bond with at home, and was good tempered but at night he screamed for hours in grief, this baby who couldn't tell anyone how he felt and who did not want the arms of his adoptive parents to comfort him.
How devastating; what a confused little heart.
And of course he is happy and adjusted now, just six months later. But that anguish in a baby is practically too much. If I didn't know that, without us, the child would live in an orphanage, I couldn't do it. I think of my biological children and I practically die inside when I envision the loss they would feel.
I know it will be fine, that one day we will look back and realize we made it. But it makes me mad again, mad like I was when I started thinking about adoption seriously, mad that life is Not Fair for children and that there are so many who suffer much greater losses every second of every day.
I get mad, too, at the books we're required to read, which detail exactly what the birth mother is probably doing while pregnant and the effects these activities will have on the child, or what could happen, or how they might not adjust well, and how they might have a breaking heart every day and take it out in various horrible ways.
Trevor and I keep telling ourselves that even if we had a biological child anything could happen, and it's frustrating when people who are close to us quietly mention that we should maybe just stick with the two we've got. Do they not think we've considered this? Do they think this is simply a thrill ride for us, all part of being young and fun and why not?
The wait is what's difficult. I don't know, though, if it would have been easier on the day we called the agency to begin the process to have been sent that very day to Korea, to have been barraged with information on the plane ride, to have been thrown into every emotion right then -- or to have a full year-and-a-half to think about it.
There is a group of mothers that meets in Traverse City. Mothers of adopted children, I think they're all from the same agency. I'm going to start going with the girls, even though we don't have our littlest one yet, to let the girls play around Asian kids and also to see how they do it. To witness that they're still standing, and that the children are OK. That this is the good path, to have leaders on it, and to simply exist together, the before and after stories.
It's so fascinating to hear what she has to say, on one hand, and on the other completely unnerving. Although, if anyone had detailed for me just what sleepless nights were like as a new parent, I'm sure I would have been on the edge of my seat (instead of pushed back entirely to fit the girth of my belly) then, too.
The thing that gets me the most is the grief. Obviously, the grief. She told me about how wonderful her son's foster mother was, and how, when my friend took him from her for the last time after three visits, the boy screamed and cried for the foster mother, and the foster mother tried to comfort him because he was her child, even if she knew she would have to give him up, eventually. And the boy slept after he cried, and didn't know who to bond with at home, and was good tempered but at night he screamed for hours in grief, this baby who couldn't tell anyone how he felt and who did not want the arms of his adoptive parents to comfort him.
How devastating; what a confused little heart.
And of course he is happy and adjusted now, just six months later. But that anguish in a baby is practically too much. If I didn't know that, without us, the child would live in an orphanage, I couldn't do it. I think of my biological children and I practically die inside when I envision the loss they would feel.
I know it will be fine, that one day we will look back and realize we made it. But it makes me mad again, mad like I was when I started thinking about adoption seriously, mad that life is Not Fair for children and that there are so many who suffer much greater losses every second of every day.
I get mad, too, at the books we're required to read, which detail exactly what the birth mother is probably doing while pregnant and the effects these activities will have on the child, or what could happen, or how they might not adjust well, and how they might have a breaking heart every day and take it out in various horrible ways.
Trevor and I keep telling ourselves that even if we had a biological child anything could happen, and it's frustrating when people who are close to us quietly mention that we should maybe just stick with the two we've got. Do they not think we've considered this? Do they think this is simply a thrill ride for us, all part of being young and fun and why not?
The wait is what's difficult. I don't know, though, if it would have been easier on the day we called the agency to begin the process to have been sent that very day to Korea, to have been barraged with information on the plane ride, to have been thrown into every emotion right then -- or to have a full year-and-a-half to think about it.
There is a group of mothers that meets in Traverse City. Mothers of adopted children, I think they're all from the same agency. I'm going to start going with the girls, even though we don't have our littlest one yet, to let the girls play around Asian kids and also to see how they do it. To witness that they're still standing, and that the children are OK. That this is the good path, to have leaders on it, and to simply exist together, the before and after stories.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Status Update
We've been ... busy! But of course, who isn't? Here's what we've been up to, in brief:
Physicals: We've all been thoroughly examined, tested, weighed, measured and declared healthy enough to bring a new baby into the family.
Home study: We're going in for our second meeting, individually this time, which is two of four in our home study, after which we will officially be linked with the orphanage in South Korea and our waiting game will begin. Not to worry! We won't get bored. We've got lots of required reading and classes to take online.
Well-child exam: Berit is 41 inches (75th percentile) and 35 pounds (50th percentile), and loves to twirl (that's totally medical, right?). She had a big-girl eye exam and hearing test and passed both just fine, with only the smallest beep on her right side being questionable. She continues to have a strong, healthy heart, and any SVT occurrence henceforth will not be fatal. I repeat: We are out of the scary, scary woods for good. Not that she's even had one since before she was born, but a mother can't help but be on guard when her child's heart is in question.
Fourth birthday and subsequent party: I do have photos and a story to go with it. I will post them this weekend. I hope.
Preschools: We have failed to do anything about a preschool for next year. Really, really I plan to go check out the afternoon preschool at our church. Next week, or maybe the week after.
House: First comes love, then comes the purchase agreement, then comes the closing in the baby carriage. We are still waiting for the purchase agreement. Still. Waiting.
Marta: I cut her hair. Just a little, and I saved a ringlet. It was getting pretty fuzzy, and after several consecutive nights of calling her "Larry from Dumb and Dumber," I decided to do something about it.
So, toss in a little family time and fish suppers on Friday nights and that's us in a nutshell. Help, help, we're trapped in a nutshell! Just kidding. We're fine in here.
Physicals: We've all been thoroughly examined, tested, weighed, measured and declared healthy enough to bring a new baby into the family.
Home study: We're going in for our second meeting, individually this time, which is two of four in our home study, after which we will officially be linked with the orphanage in South Korea and our waiting game will begin. Not to worry! We won't get bored. We've got lots of required reading and classes to take online.
Well-child exam: Berit is 41 inches (75th percentile) and 35 pounds (50th percentile), and loves to twirl (that's totally medical, right?). She had a big-girl eye exam and hearing test and passed both just fine, with only the smallest beep on her right side being questionable. She continues to have a strong, healthy heart, and any SVT occurrence henceforth will not be fatal. I repeat: We are out of the scary, scary woods for good. Not that she's even had one since before she was born, but a mother can't help but be on guard when her child's heart is in question.
Fourth birthday and subsequent party: I do have photos and a story to go with it. I will post them this weekend. I hope.
Preschools: We have failed to do anything about a preschool for next year. Really, really I plan to go check out the afternoon preschool at our church. Next week, or maybe the week after.
House: First comes love, then comes the purchase agreement, then comes the closing in the baby carriage. We are still waiting for the purchase agreement. Still. Waiting.
Marta: I cut her hair. Just a little, and I saved a ringlet. It was getting pretty fuzzy, and after several consecutive nights of calling her "Larry from Dumb and Dumber," I decided to do something about it.
So, toss in a little family time and fish suppers on Friday nights and that's us in a nutshell. Help, help, we're trapped in a nutshell! Just kidding. We're fine in here.
Monday, February 22, 2010
FAQs
Today we had our first face-to-face meeting with our case worker. She filled us in on plenty of questions that we had, and over the past few days we've been answering a lot of questions that our friends and family have had. Here's a short list of frequently asked questions and their answers, to the best of our knowledge. Thanks for asking, and thanks for caring so much about our process!
How long will this process take? We will receive our referral (the name and information about our child) about 12 months after our final home study. It's looking like our home studies will wrap up by mid-March. After those 12 months, we have about 3 months, give or take a month, until we are able to pick up the baby.
How old will the child be? We have requested "as young as possible." Families usually can adopt a baby between 5-12 months old.
Will the baby be a boy or a girl? There are more boys waiting than girls, though the ratio is not extreme. Because we have two girls, odds are that we would be able to adopt a boy if we preferred to. However, we've decided that God will give us the child we are meant to have, and honestly we don't want to make that call.
What will you name the baby? The baby will obviously have a name, and we plan to use his or her birth name as his or her middle name. We will probably call the baby by both his or her first and middle name for awhile, to help him or her feel more comfortable. If the baby is a boy, his name will be Peter. If the baby is a girl, Johanne (pronounced 'Yo-hann-eh'). (Johanne is the name of a friend who lives in Denmark, and we've loved it since we considered it for our first two girls. It also goes nicely with their Scandinavian names, we think. Peter is, well, the rock. :)
Will you travel to South Korea? Yes, Trevor and I will travel there together to pick up the baby.
How long do you have to stay? About a week, maybe less.
Is the baby in an orphanage until you pick him or her up? No. The baby will be living with foster parents.
Are you telling the girls? No, not until we receive our referral.
How secure is this program? Very. Our agency has been working with this orphanage (there is an orphanage, but they place babies into foster care when possible) since 1982.
How long will this process take? We will receive our referral (the name and information about our child) about 12 months after our final home study. It's looking like our home studies will wrap up by mid-March. After those 12 months, we have about 3 months, give or take a month, until we are able to pick up the baby.
How old will the child be? We have requested "as young as possible." Families usually can adopt a baby between 5-12 months old.
Will the baby be a boy or a girl? There are more boys waiting than girls, though the ratio is not extreme. Because we have two girls, odds are that we would be able to adopt a boy if we preferred to. However, we've decided that God will give us the child we are meant to have, and honestly we don't want to make that call.
What will you name the baby? The baby will obviously have a name, and we plan to use his or her birth name as his or her middle name. We will probably call the baby by both his or her first and middle name for awhile, to help him or her feel more comfortable. If the baby is a boy, his name will be Peter. If the baby is a girl, Johanne (pronounced 'Yo-hann-eh'). (Johanne is the name of a friend who lives in Denmark, and we've loved it since we considered it for our first two girls. It also goes nicely with their Scandinavian names, we think. Peter is, well, the rock. :)
Will you travel to South Korea? Yes, Trevor and I will travel there together to pick up the baby.
How long do you have to stay? About a week, maybe less.
Is the baby in an orphanage until you pick him or her up? No. The baby will be living with foster parents.
Are you telling the girls? No, not until we receive our referral.
How secure is this program? Very. Our agency has been working with this orphanage (there is an orphanage, but they place babies into foster care when possible) since 1982.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
News.
Not long ago I wrote about wondering if we were pregnant, and being happy with the idea that we might have a surprise baby on the way. And while we were of course thinking about the child, there was something bigger about the possibility that we were pregnant, that we weren't ready to share at that time.
For the past two years, Trevor and I have been on a prayer and research journey. It's one of the most serious things we've ever done as a couple. We felt called to do something in particular, but we weren't sure if we were... sure.
A few months ago this subject became clear -- just like that, God gave us an answer. So we started a process.
Last month, when we wondered about being pregnant, we were also wondering if God was sending us a message. Maybe we had misunderstood His direction, and He wanted something different for us. But no. We are on the right track.
We have never felt so sure in our lives, to be honest. We feel secure in our relationship like we've never felt. Our future feels good and solid. We get what we're supposed to do, what we really, truly long to do.
The journey we are on, the path we have been following, is about to become much more public. So over the past few days we have told our family and some friends, though we won't tell the girls for another year, probably.
We are adopting a baby.
We are working with an agency to adopt a young child from an orphanage in South Korea. We don't know much about the child who will join our family yet; this is a long process and we will have more details about the actual child in about a year. But we are moving along and things are sounding very, very positive.
I'm looking forward to writing about what we experience along the way. We are so thankful for the supportive kindness everyone has already shown, and we are completely humbled by the months in front of us and by the child who will change our lives in so many wonderful ways.
For the past two years, Trevor and I have been on a prayer and research journey. It's one of the most serious things we've ever done as a couple. We felt called to do something in particular, but we weren't sure if we were... sure.
A few months ago this subject became clear -- just like that, God gave us an answer. So we started a process.
Last month, when we wondered about being pregnant, we were also wondering if God was sending us a message. Maybe we had misunderstood His direction, and He wanted something different for us. But no. We are on the right track.
We have never felt so sure in our lives, to be honest. We feel secure in our relationship like we've never felt. Our future feels good and solid. We get what we're supposed to do, what we really, truly long to do.
The journey we are on, the path we have been following, is about to become much more public. So over the past few days we have told our family and some friends, though we won't tell the girls for another year, probably.
We are adopting a baby.
We are working with an agency to adopt a young child from an orphanage in South Korea. We don't know much about the child who will join our family yet; this is a long process and we will have more details about the actual child in about a year. But we are moving along and things are sounding very, very positive.
I'm looking forward to writing about what we experience along the way. We are so thankful for the supportive kindness everyone has already shown, and we are completely humbled by the months in front of us and by the child who will change our lives in so many wonderful ways.
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