The reality of adoption is that it never really ends.
Yes, the paperwork is done, filed, and sealed and the second anniversary of her Gotcha Day just passed, but I still feel like we are in the thick of it. To be perfectly honest, I don’t often share too much of what goes on because I feel so conflicted.
I adore my girl with every fiber of my being and I have unending gratitude to God that He chose to give her to me. On the other hand, I am exhausted.
I might have mentioned that we have a guinea pig. Harry is the progeny of the class pets at the local elementary school who joined our family when my oldest asked if we could keep her (yes, Harry is a girl…). My husband told Ethan that it was up to me, a mistake he regrets because he really didn’t want a guinea pig, and our very timid and traumatized guinea pig moved from a raucous class of third graders into a family of four kids. She’s still traumatized.
Last week, the thing that I have been dreading happened.
I feel like the last year has been a whirlwind and I am just now catching my breath-sort of. I was running so tired I needed to cut loose everything that I could to focus on what is important. There have been some very important things…
I no longer have to use the title “foster mom” when I take my little girl to the doctor or fill out any official paperwork. I don’t have to get permission to travel with her or consult with social workers about what her needs are. I can post pictures of her, hence my excitement with this blog’s title photo. I can just take care of it since I’m now simply “mom”. Continue reading
A friend emailed me this week and invited me to an online event on Friday night. I told her that I would love to be there, but Brian was going to be a men’s camping retreat with church so I was going to be on my own with the four kids. I said that I would be there, barring any unforeseen chaos.
I actually used the word “chaos” in my email to her. I learned a lesson this week.
Don’t use “chaos” in reference to something you are hoping doesn’t happen with three boys and a foster daughter. I also shouldn’t play the song “I Lived” by OneRepublic as it has the line “With every broken bone I swear I lived.” It’s only setting myself up for failure.
I’m late in posting this because I feel like I am still processing what has happened.
Friday was a profound day: my foster daughter had a court hearing to make some decisions for her case. I’ve always hated court dates because they are such a poignant reminder of how broken everything is. It’s heartbreaking that a situation could go so off the rails that it ends up being debated and decisions made by outside parties in a court of law. Nobody wins. Ever. It is simply about mitigating the damages.
I’m feeling the strangest mix of emotions as I’m absolutely elated and wretchedly heartbroken. My foster daughter’s biological mom had her parental rights terminated on Friday.
We are going to adopt her.
I adore my three-year old. Jackson is hilarious, loving, and preciously protective of his siblings. He is still three, though, and doesn’t like going to bed.
He really doesn’t like being put to bed for the eighth time (per evening, and all of these times in the course of writing this post) and spontaneously appears around the house several hours after bedtime has commenced. I’m considering making a suit of pajamas out of Velcro and constructing special Velcro sheets to match: he is officially a night person.
Last night I told Brian that I had seen a list of things parents never thought they would have to say… until they had a boy. The list was funny, but most were pretty mild. I mean, “Why is there pee on the floor?” is amongst our weekly refrains which usually ends in all three boys pointing immediately at another brother.
This week has been interesting. I’ve written before how life is never dull with three boys, but the saga continues. (click here for the previous hilarity)
I have decided that having a two-year old boy share a room with an infant is not really the best of ideas. Jackson loves to sing. The problem with this is that his singing precludes sleeping: his own and that of my foster daughter.
This time in May is hard since I always remember the birthday we should be celebrating, but aren’t.
It has been awhile; like most women who’ve miscarried, I can be far more specific about how long ago, but it probably wouldn’t interest anyone to know how many years, months, weeks, days and even hours. The point is it is still with me. I think about the baby I never got to hold, but I will always hold in my heart.
I clearly laugh often as a parent.
No matter how much I try, I can never fully expect what they will come up with next. This photo, while a couple of years old, is evidence of that.
Luke was only three years old and had gotten in the habit of screaming, “NEEEEED COFFEEEEE!” It is always a good point to take pause when kids start doing some very adult behaviors. Apparently, I am far too coffee-dependent.