My baby

Last Sunday we celebrated five years since our oldest child was placed in my arms in a hot room in southern China.  That means that I'm precisely five years and six days into this glorious adventure called motherhood.

The learning curve was vicious at first, but I've come a long way.  I feel that I can say I've come a long way with conviction.  You see, while I had these grandiose visions of instantly knowing all the answers before I was a mom,  along the way, it has become clear to me that I still have so, so much to learn.

And that sometimes, my kids teach me the most important lessons.

Take my youngest for example.  Or should I say my baby.  He has taught me volumes.

He ran into my arms ~ and therefore into my life ~ at nearly 35 months old.  He had been the apple of his foster mother's eye.  Because we were confident that he had been well loved in his younger days, my first instinct was to treat him as an older toddler instead of an infant.

But even though he was just shy of three, he wasn't ready to be a big boy yet.  And he let me know about it.

It started about two months after he came home ~ as soon as he had enough vocabulary to express himself.  Since then we've had a nightly post-bath ritual.  He gets out of the tub and immediately comes to find me.  Then he stands with outstretched arms while saying, "I baby Mommy!"  That is my signal to scoop him up into my arms and cradle him for a few minutes.



We spend the time looking into each other's eyes with him making little cooing noises. In that time it is just him and me, no distractions by siblings competing for my attention. Then, as quickly as it begins, he ends our bonding time with puckered lips (waiting for a kiss) and a wiggly, "Get down Mommy," and then he is gone, in search of his favorite Lightning McQueen pajamas.

The whole routine lasts just about two to three minutes a night.  But those sweet little moments are golden.  They have helped further cement our mother/son relationship and have given me back a precious time with him that I otherwise would have missed.

I'm so thankful he let me know that he still has a little baby left in him after all.  And that I had the insight to listen...

Ambly-what?

A few months ago we assumed that our oldest son had perfectly good vision.

Then I took him to his yearly check at the pediatrician's office.  He rocked out the vision chart using both eyes, and then again with his left eye.  But when it came time for his right eye, he just giggled and shrugged his shoulders.  The nurse got ready to write "uncooperative" on his report, but something about the look on his face told me he was serious.  So I pressed for her to continue testing him.

After several minutes of him saying that he couldn't see the letters,  I was pretty much blindsided by the result.  He couldn't even read the 20/200 line, putting him at legally blind without corrective lenses.  We had no idea.

Next stop was the opthamologist to have a full vision exam.  End result, 20/25 in his left eye and somewhere around 20/250 in his right.

Glasses were prescribed and we were to come back in 30 days to see if they alone would correct the problem.

We went back.  They didn't.  While there was some improvement ~ he could now see at 20/150 in his "helper eye" ~  his vision was still drastically unbalanced.

That was the day I first heard the term amblyopia.  Not life threatening for sure, but still, without treatment the brain simply stops trying to decipher signals from the weaker eye.   Over time, irreversible damage occurs.  The ideal time to begin treatment is before age 5, and doctors seem to agree that if amblyopia goes undetected past age 10 that it is too late for vision to be corrected.

(And I was really put out with myself when I went back and checked his previous well visit reports.  Each year for vision before the nurse had simply written "uncooperative."  We perhaps could have started correction for his condition a year before...)

Thankfully I haven't had to kick myself too hard.  After five weeks of wearing an eye patch "all waking hours," his vision has improved drastically.  He went from 20/150 to 20/50.  His opthamologist thinks that by the end of this next five weeks that my sweetie may be totally done with his patches.

Until then though, we have two patchers in our house.  While neither one of them are crazy about loss of periphery vision,  anything you can share with your virtual twin makes it more bearable...

**End note ~ we've since had a full eye exam for our oldest daughter and have one scheduled soon for our newest addition.  The US National Library of Medicine recommends that all children should have a complete eye examination at least once between the ages of 3 and 5.  With two kids who came home with undisclosed vision issues, now I'm a believer.**

Learning to love dangerously

Special needs.

There's a whole lot of weight to those two words.

I've written a few times about how having several children with so called "special needs" doesn't define our family.  We have more specialist appointments than some and less than others, but overall the family life of the "M6" is mapped by four active kids that fill our home with hugs, laughter, and the occasional sibling brawl.

For us "special needs" are something easy to forget about.  I often am reminded by our calendar (with trips to Duke or Chapel Hill) and not our daily grind that I have kids who came home via the "special needs" adoption program.  

But sometimes "special needs" can be much more complex.  Life spans can be drastically shorter than normal.  Sometimes it hurts to love for fear of loss.  But that doesn't mean that those kids are less deserving of the love of a family.

I came across this blog entry last month, written by a young woman wise beyond her years, and haven't been able to put it out of my mind yet.  She isn't an adoptive parent herself, but she does have two younger sisters who were born in China and works alongside her family at a foster home outside Beijing.  Read on as Hannah shares her thoughts on loving dangerously...  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t really have the words to share right here. Paige, the little one whom I called “Pixie,"  passed away Monday morning.





And I’m struggling to wrap my mind around it. It hurts that I wasn’t there for her last few days, and my heart breaks when I realize that she won’t be there when we get back. 





I did write something for her on the ND blog.  Paige, you were so worth it. Even though we only got to love on you for three months, they were wonderful months. You brightened up my day every day. I couldn’t believe how strong you were. I remember telling the nannies that your heart must have been healing on it’s own, because you could do so much! But it wasn’t… or maybe it was.

Sometimes what we strive and pursue healing for is the physical heart, but most times we start with the emotional heart. Paige’s heart condition was dire. Surgery would have been long and hard and the prognosis would likely have been quite grim. She may not have made it.

So maybe Paige didn’t come for her physical heart to be healed. Maybe she came because the rest of her needed healing. She certainly was loved, and sometimes love is all the healing that is needed.

My heart is hurting badly right now. Even though I believe everything that I have written, I still ask, “Why her?” Why, God, did you choose to take Paige? But I know that he is good. He’s shown me over and over and over and over that HE IS GOOD. And as long as I remember that, I won’t let the hurt and the pain consume me.

We’re going to be bringing in other tough cases like Paige in the future, I’m sure. Maybe even babies who’s hearts are in worse condition than hers. That’s going to be so incredibly hard. Loving dangerously is something that I thought I learned how to do, but now I realize that I have barely touched the surface of it’s vastness. It’s a painful lesson, but one that I know will be so good for me.

…looks like I did have some words.

Not much to say

Today I don't really have much to say about special needs adoptions.

Actually, that isn't really true.

I have plenty to say about special needs adoptions.  It's just that I have this adorable little quad that keep me away from my keyboard more and more these days...


You want to talk SN adoptions?  Come by the house one morning we'll sit with an over sized cuppa joe and chat over the quiet (and sometimes not so quiet) roar.

I'll tell you all about how the heart surgery one of our children received at 9 months was an unconventional one that will cause the valve replacement to come before age 20 yet was a blessing because it allowed the heart to grow properly in the main growth years...We'll talk about how my husband and I were disappointed that after a year of steadily dropping eye pressures, glaucoma is rearing its ugly head again and that if these new drops don't do their job that one child is going to have a mini-valve implanted in one eye...I'll explain that yes, that child really did come through the SN program even though to this day we aren't sure why...And we'll talk about the long road that brought us to our first child ~ the only one we adopted through the NSN program ~ the child whose life intersecting with ours revolutionized how we view life...

I'll also tell you that today I was smothered with kisses from my two year old (and held my own during a few full fledged tantrums by said child), I cheered my four year old on as she practiced new strokes in the pool, I put my four and one half year old in time out two times ~ for the same offense ~ and I practiced sight words with my five year old in preparation for her first day of kindergarten in three weeks. I'll explain that I did chat with a friend about watching three of my kids when we have our next marathon day at Duke, but I also changed diapers, read books, kissed boo-boos, drove a train around the train track singing the theme song to Dinosaur Train at the top of my lungs, smiled as my girls flitted around the playroom dressed as princesses, moderated a fight between the boys over Lightning McQueen with white wheels, discussed with one child that if drinking milk with dinner wasn't in the super hero handbook that it should be, bought a pair of multi-colored glittery, Hello Kitty-adorned mary janes in secret for one child's Christmas, and got dinner on the table.  Mostly just your typical mom stuff...

Then, when we are done chatting, I'll offer you a challenge.

One that we realized my husband's co-worker and his wife had when we had them over for dinner one night last week.  They knew we had adopted and asked if we would share our adoption story with them as they are considering the same path for building their family.   Just after we introduced all our kids to them, they looked at us rather confused and asked how we had adopted four children from China that were all so young.  They believed that the wait would prevent us from having four preschoolers in the house.  They almost fell over when I replied that the process to adopt three of our kids took 16 months, 11 months, and 9 months from start to finish because they came through the special needs program.  Her response to that (out of earshot of our children) was, "I don't mean to sound stupid, but which three were special needs.  I can't tell."

And just by looking at them, can you?

All this to say that SN adoption doesn't mean "SN life" ~ whatever "SN life" means.  For us, life is pretty typical.  We nurture, we hug, we kiss skinned knees, we fix snacks, we laugh, we pray over and for our children, and some days we see various specialists.

His heart

I'll never forget meeting our Daniel for the very first time.  We had met both Caleb and Darcy around the same age and while Ian and I were thrilled, it could be said that neither of them were...  I was prepared for a similar reaction from our youngest.

As we approached the courtyard, the red door across the way opened and he stepped out.  I froze in my location, overwhelmed with the emotion of finally seeing him in person after watching him "grow up" in pictures via the New Day website.  His squeals of excitement snapped me out of it.  I could hardly believe my eyes and ears as he ran just as fast as his little toddler legs could carry him, but I managed to squat down and open my arms to him.  His joyful little giggles and precious voice calling "Mama, Mama" were such a blessing.  When he finally got to me I stayed at his level and gave him a hug, because I didn't want to overwhelm him.  That however wasn't going to be enough for him and he wouldn't let me stand up without picking him up in my arms.  It was obvious that he had been well prepared ~ and even more importantly, well loved ~ by his foster family and we were so thankful.




Now, some two weeks after that joyful first meeting, we are deep in the throes of experiencing the raw grief that comes with leaving those precious foster parents behind.  I think that I had forced Caleb's grieving process (2 1/2 years ago) into the recesses of my mind, but now that we're in the trenches again, those memories have come flooding back.  The first weeks home with him were gut-wrenching as he cried out for all he had known and lost.  Darcy grieved too, but hers was much different.  She was simply reserved and quiet until suddenly one day it was like she had "arrived" in the family.  Daniel's process is very reminiscent of Caleb's except that it started in China where Caleb's didn't come full force until after we were home.

Each day with Daniel brings progress in him trusting us.  He happily toddles along side either Ian or me 90% of the time unless he is chillin' in the Ergo carrier.  He's allowing us to help him eat, bathe and dress, and is even starting to make eye contact for a few seconds at intimate times.  But when he is tired or even already asleep we catch glimpses of just how broken hearted he is.  It is in those times that his guard is down and we see the heartache he is experiencing.

Take for instance our last night in Urumqi. The bedtime routine went well enough that night.  Just a few whimpers when we turned off the lights and I pulled him into bed with me.

It was around 3:30 when he slid off the bed that the sobbing started.  He sat there on the floor of the room for what seemed like forever reaching out his arms and calling for Mama.  Each time I'd reach for him he'd pull his arms back away from me and look me straight in the eyes as if to say, "please, won't you get her for me?"  Eventually he did let me pick him up but he resisted being held close and continued the full body heaving sobs until well after 4.  By that point both Ian and I were in tears too.

It was one of those moments where I felt like we should take him back to Anna, not because we don't love him, but because we do…

Or last night, our fourth night home, when he woke up inconsolable at 3am.  To avoid keeping Ian up as he whimpered, I scooped him out of our bed and walked him through the upstairs of the house.   He indicated that he wanted to go to the boys' room.  After he pushed several times, I let him down and by the glow of the nightlight, he grabbed two cars and sat down on the rug in the middle of the floor and just sat there, looking around as if trying to figure out his surroundings and how exactly he got here.  He didn't cry, but he looked so tiny and pitiful sitting there in his confusion that my heart was breaking with him.  I knew he didn't want me, but I also couldn't just sit and watch.  The first few times I tried to rub his back he swatted at me, but finally he relented and leaned back into my chest and fell back into a restless sleep.

His referral  talked about his congenital heart condition.  We researched the defect carefully and learned all we could in order to be as prepared as possible for his future.  And while I take that information very seriously, right now I'm more concerned about his heart for another reason.  Today it is still broken for the love of the wonderful foster parents he had.

I do know that eventually we'll come through on the other side of this process.  We have three other children who have become integral parts of our family.  But right now it feels as though we broke up a family to expand ours and I don't like it.  Kylie, who has been thrilled to have him with us and has been going out of her way to be patient with the new brother who doesn't know our family rules yet even asked why we had to take him away from his foster parents after she heard him cry for his foster mother.

Yes, I know that Anna and Joseph are likely too old to have adopted Daniel themselves.  But I also know that they loved him deeply and cared for him well.  I pray now and will continue to pray for them in the days and weeks to come as they adjust to life without him.

Adoption can be a wonderful beauty from ashes story.  But it is often also raw, emotional and difficult in the process.

I share this post in hopes that it will encourage others who adopt a child who's been in a good foster home.  I'm so thankful for the start that he got that has allowed him to trust and love.  But for today, it is hard.

One thing I can say for sure, I'm committed to walking this journey with Daniel one tear at a time...

and we love

There is something unique about the international adoption community ~ specifically the SN group. It is not uncommon for us to sacrificially give to help raise the ransom for our children. We celebrate with one another during each step of the process and especially when our children come home. Yet with great joy comes deep sorrow and unfortunately, sometimes we have reason to grieve together with families we may never have even met in person.

I think I speak for everyone in this close-knit community when I say that our hearts are broken for Stefanie and her family in their grief over sweet Esther. We are all yearning to come alongside her to show her love.

Just two weeks ago there was joy in LOAs coming much more quickly than expected. And we all celebrated with Stefanie and her family. Just a few days ago the final count for the so Loved campaign was announced. And we read the numbers in awe with her and thanked our Heavenly Father for the generosity of this community.

Today? Today we sit in shock with her, grieving a child that none of us had the chance to meet, yet that we loved from afar.

It is so hard to process this loss. So very, very hard.

Stefanie loves really big. Her testimony on her blog has touched so many. And Esther is loved VERY BIG. By her family and so many other people....

Esther's little life mattered much. She is a testimony to how great our God is! Just look at all of us who will wear our 'So Loved' tee and remember the reason we bought the shirt...because of a loved little girl on the other side of the world who had a family that was fighting for her.

Yes, today we grieve. Yet there is hope and even some joy when we recognize how much love was spilled out from our Father in this journey. Esther's life placed an imprint on our hearts. A lasting, permanent imprint.

She is loved. Stefanie, your family is loved. We are holding you all up to Him. And as we do, we recognize that there are countless others out there who have experienced similar loss and heart-break. Our hearts are broken with you and yet we hold on to the following promise beautifully expressed by Steven Curtis Chapman:

“Out of these ashes

Beauty will rise

And we will dance among the ruins

We will see it with our own eyes

Out of this darkness

New light will shine

And we'll know the joy that's coming in the morning”

...from “Beauty Will Rise”

As a community, we stand beside you, encircle you with our love, and through the pain watch with you in anticipation to see the beauty that will rise.

[I would have despaired unless I believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord…Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage.] Psalm 27:13-14

Laine and Kristi

New perspective on loss

It has been almost a month since my grandfather died.  Long past the the initial shock, and the trip "home" to Ohio for the funeral, the tears have continued to come, usually at unexpected times.  Most recently it was over selecting a bunch of asparagus at the grocery.  Standing there in the produce section I was transported to a day last spring when my children picked asparagus alongside my grandfather at his home.

As I stood there in front of the vegetables with tears falling down my face, once again I tried to process why I'm having such a hard time "moving on" after his passing. 

Hours later, still mulling over my emotions, I suddenly had an "ah-ha moment."

There are so many things about him that I will miss.  Grandpa quietly lived out his love.  His greatest expression of that love to any of us was not in the stuff he bought us, but the time that he lavished upon us.  There was nothing too important that stopped him from taking time to be with us, whether it was fishing in the pond, telling stories of days gone by, imparting his infinite wisdom of nature, or quietly taking walks around the farm hand in hand.  

And yet there was something a bit more, something almost at a primal level.  Both my dad and his mother passed away nearly seven years ago.  Because of that, Grandpa was my last link to my paternal side of the family.  There had been so many questions about his childhood that I never thought to ask my dad, so many stories that I would have loved to have known.  And now the only one left who could have shared much of those with me was gone.  Though I know my aunts still love me the same today that they did a month ago, I feel like a leaf blown off the family tree in a big gust of wind. 

As I allowed myself to grieve over understanding that loss, my thoughts drifted back to my children.  Suddenly all the stuff I have read about loss became less "book smarts" and changed into something real and personal.  While what I feel and what they may one day feel is different, it is in many ways the same.  I am grieving for my loss of family history, something that I enjoyed for 38 years.  I now understand with my heart ~ not just my head ~ how they may grieve for the loss of their family history, even if they never knew it to begin with.  Maybe even more so because they don't know really where they came from.  Knowing now the sense of loss I feel at the connection to my roots being broken, I feel like I have a glimpse into the sense of being un-rooted that they may experience in the coming years. 

While in my heart of hearts I do believe that God's redemption from loss will carry them through, I am prepared for some difficult days ahead.  And while the pain of losing someone I love still hurts, I am grateful to have this shared experience to understand just a little more where they may one day be coming from.

Finding peace

I find it funny how sometimes by the end of the day that I can hardly remember what I had for lunch, yet I know EXACTLY what I was doing three years ago right around lunch time.  To understand that day, I need to back up to 24 hours prior. 

At the time we were wrapping up the paperchase for our second child ~ a child at the time unknown to us.  All that stood in the way of our dossier heading overseas was that pesky immigration approval.  Just two weeks before we had finished filling out our application for our agency's waiting child program.  Our agency had a long list (around 100 families we were told) of folks waiting for SN referrals, so we figured we were in for at least a year of waiting before we got a call.  (This was just as the shared list began to come "online").  We had no idea how being open to a boy would speed things along.

March 10, 2008 was our daughter's second birthday.  I had just laid in her in her crib after reading her a book and was starting to sing her little soothing goodnight song.  Just then I heard the ring of the telephone.  My husband telecommuted at the time and I was thankful that he grabbed the phone before it rang a second time and caused further distraction to my sleepy little girl.  I heard his voice say that I was unavailable, but then I heard, "Oh...Oh wow...Yeah, hold on, let me get her on the line."

I'm sure I was shooting daggers from my eyes when he walked into the nursery ~ after all our daughter didn't do well with interruptions in her naptime routine ~ and handed me the phone.  But the look on his face as he quickly explained that it was our social worker from our agency made me stop glaring and take the cordless from him.

Over the course of the next few minutes we listened to her explaining that a new batch of referrals had come in and that the files had been prayed over and would we like to review one for a little boy who had turned two just a few months before?

Wow.  WOW!  She quickly gave us a brief overview of his medical information and asked if we wanted to formally review his file.  We were both completely taken by surprise.  We looked at each other, minds racing, nodded in agreement, and somehow managed to find our voices to tell her yes. 

She told us that the file would be in our inboxes within five minutes and to try to decide over the next 24 hours if we wanted to have his file for a formal two week review period.

And GO!  I don't think we were off that call for more than a minute before my husband was calling our pediatrician to see if we could get a quick file review scheduled.  While he was on his work line, I was on the home line contacting our home study social worker to ask questions about virtual twinning.  (I find humor in the fact that today I have two sets).

After getting those two messages off, we spent some time in prayer, seeking discernment.  It was a beautiful early spring day and as soon as our little one awakened from her nap, we put her in the stroller and took a several mile walk to process thoughts.  When we got back we talked with both our pediatrician and social worker, and heard nothing from either that really caused us worry or alarm.

We ended the night that night with more heart to heart discussions about what it would be like to parent our daughter and this little boy and again had time in prayer.

I didn't sleep very well that night.  The weight of the decision at hand was pressing.  The next morning we put our girl back into her stroller and took yet another long walk to give ourselves time.

In the end it came down to peace.  Or in our case, a lack thereof.  His condition, while complicated, appeared to be manageable.  The fact that we would be creating virtual twins, he being slightly older, was not as complicated as I had originally thought.  Neither of these pieces of the equation were what ultimately led to our decision.  As I said before, it was peace.  We simply didn't have peace in our hearts that this little boy was our son.  And we didn't want to tie up his file for two weeks as we felt it would keep his family from finding him that much longer.

And so when we returned to the house, I made one of the most difficult phone calls I've ever initiated.  It was three years ago and yet I remember it like it was today.

It was the call where I fumbled with words to explain to our social worker that we didn't believe he was our son.  When tears rolled down my cheeks and it felt like there was a lump the size of Rhode Island in my throat.  When I realized that with that phone call we were making a forever difference in our lives and also the life of a little boy.

During that phone call I half expected to be told that we were going to be put "in the back" of the line for declining a referral.  Instead I was given the following encouragement, "If God didn't provide you a peace that this child was your son, then you are doing the right thing by stepping aside and allowing his family to find him."

Sure enough, two days after this little guy's profile went on our agency's password protected website, a family came forward for him.  Due to privacy laws, I never knew anything more about them than the fact that they were thrilled to be bringing him home.  While I never have laid eyes on that little boy, I am thankful for the brief time that he was in my life.  My husband and I still call him by name from time to time and wish he and his family well.

And almost exactly three months later, we got another phone call about a little boy named Lu Tao.  This time the prayer brought peace.  In the long run, that phone call on March 11, 2008 made a forever difference for two families ~ ours and his ~ and for two little boys ~ his and our oldest son's. 

Conversations at Bedtime

Ever have one of those nights when you're pretty sure your kiddo(s) is(are) stalling at bedtime with random questions?

Yeah, me too.  If I'm going to be honest, around here that happens pretty frequently.

Take the other night's conversation for instance.

Caleb ~ "Mommy.  Hey Mommy."
Me ~ "Yes Caleb?"
C ~ "What amoebas eat?"
Me ~ "Um.  I'm not sure exactly.  But I think bacteria.  I'll check in the morning.  I can tell you for sure that they eat really, really small things."
C ~ "Smaller than cous-cous?"
Me ~ "Yes baby, smaller than cous-cous."

Quiet for a minute.

C ~ "What about Cheeta?  He got caught by amoeba."
Me ~ "That's just a silly song Caleb. [The Tarzan song] It isn't real."
C ~ "Oh.  Okay."

Silence for  a minute more.

C ~ "Mommy.  Hey Mommy."
Me ~ "Yes Caleb."
C ~ "Who bigger?  David or Golliath?"
Me ~ "Who do you think?"
C ~ "Golliath."
Me ~ "You're right."
C ~ "But Mommy?  Who bigger?  Golliath or God?"
Me ~ "I think you know the answer to this sweetie."
C ~ "God."
Me ~ "Yes Caleb.  God is bigger than Golliath."

Another round of quiet.  This time his eyes were closed and I thought he had fallen asleep before I left the room.  But then he sits up, puts his hand on my arm and says,

"Mommy?  I always be Caleb?"
Me ~ starting to get tired of the question game tonight, "Yes honey, you'll always be Caleb."
C ~ "Even when I grow up?"
Me ~ answering in a slightly irritated tone, "Yes Caleb.  You'll always be Caleb.  When you are a teenager, when you are a grown up, you'll always be Caleb."
C ~ "And I'll always be your boy?"
Me ~ how did I not see it coming just yet? (growing even more perturbed with his stall tactics and I'm sure my voice conveyed it)  "Yes Caleb, even when you are a big boy, you'll always be my boy."
C ~ "Oh. Okay.  Cause once I was Lu Tao and I had foster mommy."

PAUSE...
 
Oh.  my.  Such big thoughts for such a little guy.  

I mean...there are times that I would give almost anything to be the one who gave birth to him.  Not because I think it could possibly make me love him any more than I already do.  It's just that I wish could prevent him from facing the ghosts of his past. 

But I can't.

And honestly, even if I could, there would be other things to face.  That's part of parenting, isn't it?  No matter how our children come to us, no matter what their story, no matter what their past, they will have difficult paths to travel.

For children who were adopted, at some point one of those things to deal with will likely be questions about the decisions made on their behalf when and where they had no say in the matter.  Some of those questions may have answers that we don't know.  Some of those questions may have answers that we wish we didn't.

So instead of trying to pave over that painful part of his past I will do my very best to answer his questions head on, in language and terms that he is ready to process at the time that he asks.  And I'll choose to feel relief that he's comfortable enough to ask them.

We will walk this road together.  As a team.  Because he doesn't need someone just to "say all the right things" or "give him all the things that are necessary for survival."  He needs me ~ and his daddy ~ at his side, making it very clear that while we may not have all the answers to give, that we will stand with him as he searches (in his time) for answers.

...UNPAUSE

Me ~ "Baby."  (Scooping him up to hold him close for a minute).  "Oh honey, you're right.  You were Lu Tao in China.  And you did have a foster mommy who loved you very much.  We can talk about before we met each other more in the morning.  For tonight I want you to know that you will always be my Caleb.  I'm your mommy.  Forever.  We're a family."
C ~ "Okay good.  I love you mommy."
Me ~ "And I love you honey.  Always."

And with that he relaxed, laid down, and was asleep within seconds. 

How I pray that he'll continue to feel "safe" enough to ask, long after his "babyhood days" have passed.

My free spirit

It wouldn't take much to convince me that it was my youngest daughter who the person that coined the phrase "happy-go-lucky" had in mind.

DQ at her free-spirited best just after a beach wedding we attended last fall

She not only rolls with the punches, she embraces them.  Getting two busy siblings overnight after three years of being an only child?  Loved it!  Eye surgery within a month of being home?  No problem.  New glasses?  She loves them.  Eye patches three hours a day?  She wears them with style. 

Honestly.  It has seemed that no matter what DQ has faced that she has been able to overcome.  She's just that spunky and bubbly. 

Until last week.  What typically would have been an eagerly anticipated visit from Grandma turned sour very quickly.  Not that DQ wasn't excited to have Grandma come.  Rather that she overheard me telling a friend that my mom was coming to help out with the 'bigs' during a marathon Duke appointment week.

A visit to her eye specialist was no issue.  She loves Dr. F.  It was the mention of the "polka dot" doctor that sent rainclouds over my little ray of sunshine.  Because last time didn't go quite as well as I had hoped.

The worst part?  I was carrying a lot of guilt over the results of her first laser treatment.

Back in June when we had our initial consult, Dr. B noted that we enjoyed the sun.  So much so that he said he'd want to wait until at least October to let some of her tan fade as too much melanin can cause blistering.  Now I'm careful with the sun.  Yes, we are outside as much of the summer as we can bear the heat, but my children are always slathered in SPF 50 or higher.  And I drive them crazy with the reapplying.

But as summer began to give way to fall, I was a bit neglectful about her arms.  Oh her little face was always smeared, but I'd frequently forget that her arms were not protected by long sleeves during our days of Indian summer.  And inadvertently she continued to tan on her arms.

The results?  Blistering.  Bad blistering.  My tough nugget who complains of no pain (unless her little brother was anywhere nearby and she figures she can get him in trouble with a cry) woke up from her twilight anesthesia moaning in pain.  She looked back and forth between us (her daddy and I) and her little blistered arm as if she couldn't believe that we would let such a thing happen to her.  Then the sobs began.  It was almost more than I could bear to take.  Within 24 hours of her first procedure, her right arm looked like a sheet of bubble wrap.  Try as we might to prevent it from happening, many of those little blisters popped which led to more pain and the fear of scarring.

To say that I carried a little guilt over what happened is an understatement.  After all, I was the one responsible for how much time we spent outside.  And it led me to feel even worse about her reaction to hearing that we were soon headed back to the "polka dot" doctor. 

Immediately my little happy-go-lucky gal lost her smile and began walking around in somewhat of a daze.  There was none of her typical "zest" for life.  Only a little girl wandering in a stage of shell shock.

The birthday party of one of her sweet friends snapped her out of her funk on Saturday.  For the few hours of the party anyway.  But as soon as it was over, she began to look lost again.  She refused to eat dinner.  She feigned sickness Sunday morning (and therefore missed going to kids church which she LOVES).  All day Sunday she had a blank look on her face.  She refused to eat.  She whimpered or cried all day.  She wouldn't make eye contact with any of us. 

It was miserable.  All day Sunday I worried.  All night Sunday night I fretted.  The entire way to Duke I was beside myself in fear that I had contributed to breaking her spirit.  And yet I felt pretty sure that continuing treatments was the right thing to do, even if it was hard.  Twenty years from now I didn't want to look at  complications from thickened blood vessels and know that we could have done something when she was a preschooler to prevent the problems.

So in the midst of it all, I did the only things I knew to do.  I printed a picture of what happened to her arm to show the doctor in hopes that there was a 'miscalculation' on the laser the first time.  And the other thing I did was call in some of my girls for prayer.  Prayer that we'd get a chance to talk to the doctor before the procedure and prayer that the results would be different this time.

Because if she was burned again, I don't think there would have been a next time.  I would not have been able to stomach her mini-depression a second time.  Sitting in the waiting chair while something physical is being worked on, while not my favorite aspect of being a mom, is bearable.  Worrying that my child's happy-go-lucky state of mind has been robbed is not.

Imagine my sense of relief when we first saw her in recovery.  From a quick glance I saw dark purple round bruises and no white charred dots.  And then she opened her eyes, held out her arm, giggled, and said "Hey, lookie purple dots.  They not hurt, they tickle." 

My free spirit was back!

The one that came between

My youngest child will probably not have concrete memories of her birth mother.  Today we are 9 1/2 months into a lifetime of making memories together with me as her forever mother.  And while I'm the one she will have permanent memories of, I will do all I can to help her keep memories of the one that came between the woman who gave her life and me alive. 

Not so long ago though, this relationship would have intimidated me.

Or actually, it did intimidate me.  Take for instance the very first time foster mommy was mentioned as language skills developed.

"I miss foster mommy.  I want her."

There it was.  Spoken in tears.  I was just getting to the point that I felt we were really making progress in our developing mother/daughter relationship and she was asking for someone else.  What was I going to do with it?

Pretend I didn't hear?  Deny my daughter one part of her past that she actually does remember?

Or do what was harder and encourage her remember?  Do my part to help make foster mommy a part of who my little girl is?

There was likely a time that I would have swept discussions about a foster mother under the rug and forgotten about them.  Even at that time I was uncertain what approach to take.  But I could see in my little girl's eyes that she truly loved this woman who cared for her from the time she was four months old until just shy of her third birthday.  I felt that for her, I needed to honor that love. 

Then about four months after we came home, I comprehended the depths of her love for her foster mother for the first time one day at rest.  Of my three children, she is the only one that needs you to be out of the room in order to fall asleep.  A few minutes after I had kissed her forehead, I heard muffled crying and went back to check on her.  When I asked her what was wrong, she said, "I no find foster mommy!" and burst into sobs.  I stood for a second, glued to my spot, unsure of how to respond.  But then I looked at her pitiful, tear stained face and it was enough to kick me into action.  We searched high and low for her pink photo album that has several treasured pictures of her foster mother.

When I finally found the coveted book under her bed, she smiled, hugged the book tight, closed her beautiful little eyes, and fell asleep without even opening the book.  It was as if simply the presence of those pictures were enough.

That sealed the deal.  I vowed then and there to help my little one remember the woman that had raised her in her tender years.

After all, I will forever be grateful for the start foster mommy gave my daughter.  Because of her consistent care, my daughter was able to experience love and began to trust and grow.  Foster mommy is not someone to be viewed as competition, but rather someone that helped shape my precious girl into the loving, considerate person she is. 

And from that time on, when she randomly has a 'foster mommy moment' as we call them, I stop and try to jog her memory.  I ask questions.  I listen.  I don't change the subject.  Even when she tells me that she misses foster mommy and that she loves her very much.

Because our last conversation about foster mommy ended something like this.

D ~ "I really miss foster mommy."

Me ~ "I know you do honey."

D ~ "I love foster mommy.  I always love foster mommy."

Me ~ "I'm glad that you loved her.  And it is okay for you to always love her sweetie."

D ~ "Thank-a-you Mommy"

(big smile.  pause, almost long enough that I thought the conversation was over)

D ~ "And Mommy?"

Me ~ "Yes?"

D ~ "I love you too Mommy."

From now on, I'll continue to encourage my girl to talk about her foster mother, because in doing so, I've learned a very important lesson.  There's room in her heart for both of us...

A matter of the heart

I was sixteen when my cousin's son was born with a hole in his heart.  Back then I had no idea that such things were actually rather common.  Or that it was likely that the hole would close up on its own ~ which actually ended up being the situation.  All I knew was that for a short period of time, his life was uncertain.  And I was terrified.  I distinctly recall thinking at the time that heart conditions were something I wouldn't be able to survive someday as a mother.

Fast forward just over twenty years.  Walking the road of special needs adoptions, I've learned a lot about the heart.  Defects range from quite minor (requiring no surgery) to quite severe (that despite world class surgeons may not even be surgically repairable).  I personally know families at both ends of the range and their willingness and stories have changed my life and my way of thinking. 


And so now I'm awaiting the arrival of my second son ~ a little guy who had 'radical heart surgery' (not my words, but taken directly from his file) at the tender age of nine months.  Last night it struck me as somewhat ironic that I would come full circle in my thinking.

I guess to analyze that circle, I'd have to admit that it really wasn't my thinking that changed, but rather that I allowed God to change my thinking.

Because if I'm going to be perfectly honest, there is something still terrifying about opening my mother's heart to a child with an imperfect (physically) one. 

Why?  Because as we prepared to write our LOI, we spoke with two pediatric cardiologists and realized that even though he looks stable, (he's in that 'middle ground' of conditions) there are still a lot of 'what ifs.'

What if he does indeed have to have a valve replacement surgery in his teens or early 20s?  Yes, I have spent my time in an OR waiting chair, but it is a BIG step from eye surgery to open heart surgery.

What if  his pulmonary artery can't keep up and has to have frequent catheterizing to provide adequate blood flow?

What if that increased chance of sudden cardiac arrest, though rare, catches us?

What if he only lives to the current life expectancy of 50 to 60 years and I find myself doing the unthinkable and have to bury my son?

But instead running away from doubt and fear, we stopped and faced them head on.  By spending time in prayer.  And then God sent more important questions to hit me.

What if we walk away?   

What if we miss this blessing because we are afraid to trust?   

What if we go the rest of our lives wondering what if?

And so we took a deep breath, looked at that sweet picture one more time, and hit send on our LOI...




Amazing what 20 years and the peace of God can do!

Mixed emotions

A week from today my beautiful girl will have her first appointment with the laser surgeon.  The procedure itself will last less than fifteen minutes from the time anesthesia starts until I'm called back to recovery.  Much less complicated and involved than the two eye surgeries she's had so far.

And yet I find myself in much more inner turmoil about this appointment.

First of all, here's the discomfort factor.  I've been told by other moms that it simply ranges for different kids.  Some take Tylenol after the procedure and are fine.  Others have been prescribed heavy pain meds.   My girl seems to have a pretty high tolerance for pain, but sometimes I still wonder if she really is 'tough stuff' or if it is still that sense self reliance rearing its ugly head.  I cringe to think that she'd maybe rather be in pain than fully count on me to help make it go away.

But far beyond the discomfort, there's the message that I'm afraid at some point that she may interpret out of seemingly cosmetic surgery.

That's the part I dread.  That she may misunderstand why.  Before she is old enough to fully comprehend the surgery, will she think that I didn't think she was beautiful enough?  Because she is!  Will she think that each time I've stroked that little red cheek that I haven't meant it when I said, 'piao liang' (beautiful)?  Because I have!  Is there a possibility that she'll interpret our decision to move forward with treatment as an effort to 'fix her face?'  Because that's not what it's about!

I'm struggling here.  This is an elective surgery that at the very least will be itchy and uncomfortable.  I also know it will cause small, circular, purple bruises all over the right side of my baby girl's body.  I realize it likely will draw even more attention to her birthmark.  A birthmark she's so sensitive about that it caused her to hide her face from us the day we met her.  If there were a way that I could shield her from the harsh days of middle school, or even curious adults who have asked insensitive questions in front of her, we would likely skip the number of treatments it will take before Dr. B thinks the port wine stain is as faded as it will get.  If there were guarantees that over the years the stain wouldn't thicken and possibly cause vision issues from swelling of the eyelid or breathing issues as it covered her darling little nose, we wouldn't have a trip bright and early next Monday to Duke on our calendar. 

Because in my eyes, she is absolutely beautiful.  Just as she is right now.  I don't see her port wine stain.  It simply isn't possible for me to focus on it at all.  I can't get past her smile...

Just your average mom

Since I've become a mom to a child with a visible special need, I've noticed something interesting about the way some people perceive me.

Many people, from our guides in China to friends who know our schedules with various specialists to random strangers in grocery lines, want to promote me to sainthood. They say things like, "Thank you for giving her a chance at a normal life." or "Wow, you sure do juggle a lot of medical appointments." or "Just imagine what her life would have been like..."  And while I would love to sit back and polish my halo, I have a confession to make.

I'm just a mom.  Really.

Yes, we may have more doctor appointments than most.  (And of course less than many others).  We may even be on first name basis with more than one specialist at Duke University.

But I'm just a mom.

The fact that I'm raising two kids that came out of the special needs program (and one who came through the non-special needs program and yet has her own set of unique challenges) doesn't make me any more special than any other mom out there that loves her kids.

Because that's the whole point.  I'm not raising a label or a condition or even a disorder.  I'm raising my three children.

I'm just like every other mom who would move heaven and earth if it were in her power to make life a little better for her kids.  I'm just like any other mom who would step in front of a bus to save her child.  I'm just like any other mom, biological or adoptive, mom to healthy kids or those with health concerns, that at the end of the day sneaks into her child's room for one last glance at her cherubs before going to bed.  I'm just another mom who collapses into bed at night, spent from the effort of the day, yet happy to have the reasons to be worn out.

Because I love my kids.

Period.

Don't get me wrong.  Don't go into a special needs adoption blindly.  Do research.  Lots of research.  Know the full range of the condition you are considering.  Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best. 

And sure, there are a bunch of things that make parenting special needs children a bit easier.  Patience, tough skin (for those insensitive comments that are bound to come up from time to time), a reliable vehicle (to transport you and said child to various appointments), a network of family and friends( to offer support or to watch any other kids that you don't want to drag to marathon specialist appointments), and reasonable insurance are pretty high on my checklist of things that make this journey easier.  When you stop to reflect, you'll probably find that you already have most of those. 

If you are considering a special needs adoption, remember.  You don't have to be a saint, or even necessarily have "a full checklist" to adopt a child with a special need.


In the end, it really comes down to love...

"What's wrong with him?"

I have three delightful children.


When I have them all in tow, we get a lot of politely curious question in public.

A LOT.

We hear, "Are they all siblings? Are the girls twins?  Are they all triplets? and Are they all yours?" (especially when my blond haired, blue eyed husband is with me) almost every time we are out of the house.  I have three really close in age Asian children.  I'm not Asian.  We attract attention.  I get that.  And most of those questions don't bother me or them.

But then there's the line of questioning centered on the fact that one of my three is a boy.  From China.  And people are educated to the one child policy ~ to a point.  So I've also heard, "He's from China?  How did you get him?" more times than I care to count.  Because I've learned that series of questions is frequently followed with, "I didn't think they let their boys out." 

Sigh.

Mercifully it usually stops there.  But sometimes it doesn't.

I've become wiser since then, but I'll never forget the first intrusive questioning along "the boy line."

I was standing outside the preschool where I had just paid the registration fee (one month's tuition ~ per child) and first month's tuition (per child) to secure my older two a spot for this past school year.  The director told me that I could take my kids out, show them the playground, and meet the two year old teachers as my son would be in one of the two year old classes.

As I stood there watching them interact with the children nearby, one of the teachers came over and commented on how adorable my kids were.  Usually that type of comment would bring a smile.  But that time it was in "that tone" of voice.  The tone that let me know ahead of time to brace myself...

(In retrospect I now know I should have scooped my kids and made a strategic exit).

I smiled and mumbled thanks, hoping that my lack of eye contact would make it clear I was not in a chatty mood.  But she would not be deterred.

"Are they both adopted?"  and when I affirmed her question, she quickly followed with, "From China?"

Right at that moment my 2 1/2 year old son was running and tripped.  As I bent down to help him up, I heard, "What's wrong with him?"

In my typical, trusting that people are kind, sort of way, I began to answer that he was fine, just a tiny hint of a skinned knee.

It was as I stood back up and saw her face that I realized she wasn't talking about his fall.  Rather she was prying, in a very rude manner, into my son's personal business.  It was one of those rare moments that I could find no words.  By the time I had completely righted myself, she repeated herself, "What's wrong with him?"

Luckily he had already headed off to join a kid at the sandbox, but my oldest, the one that doesn't let a word of conversation slip by, had joined my side.  She had heard the woman's question and was looking up at me, mouth hanging wide open, waiting for my reply.

So I gave the most eloquent response I could muster as my three year old watched (and listened with rapt attention).  I simply said, "We are blessed beyond belief to have him in our family."

In my mind that was a "conversation ending" response.  One that signaled that I really didn't think it was appropriate for her, a complete stranger, to be asking me such an intrusive question, especially in front of one of my young, impressionable children. 

But it wasn't.  Instead she came again with, "But China doesn't give their boys away, so what is wrong with him?"

In that moment the sun was shining, but I was certain the birds stopped chirping as it occurred to me ~ maybe for the first time ~ that some people really were going to ask that type of question about my children.  I became somewhat jaded toward all future folks who gave our family a second glance. 

In my total unpreparedness for such a line of questioning, I glanced down at my watch, got out a cheerful, "Come on kiddos, we're going to be late for our play date," (which was true, we were headed to meet friends at the pool), and got the heck out of dodge as quickly as possible. 

When I found out the next week that "question lady" was going to be his teacher, I promptly withdrew my kids from the school.  And lost the before-mentioned deposit.  That may have been an overreaction.  It may not.  What I knew was that she asked an insensitive question, in a blunt, callous way in front of me.  (And that she asked it in such a negative tone, in front of my kids?  We won't even go there).  I couldn't risk my son's first school experience to possibly be marred with a teacher that brought about self doubt.

In the months that followed, I prepared myself to answer that question with more confidence.  To simply smile and say that there's nothing wrong with him.  In that tone of voice that commands that the conversation is over ~ at least in front of my children.  Or even more proactive, I've learned tactics to head the "what's wrong" question off before it comes.  To respond to, "He's from China?  I didn't think you could adopt boys from China?" with a quick, "Actually, many people don't know that there are boys waiting for families in China.  If you're interested in finding out how to add a Chinese son to your family I'd be happy to share some of our experiences."

Because it's a fine line between me sighing and taking a deep breath when someone is uneducated about boys being adopted from China (hey, I didn't know when I started this road myself) and being...well, whatever it is that I felt when the first person asked me, "What's wrong with him?"

A surprise gift

I have a son.



Every now and then that statement still surprises me.

When my husband and I began the road to building a family through adoption from China, we simply assumed that we'd have daughters. (At the time we were oblivious to the fact that there were boys who were waiting for the love of a forever family).  Initially I was disappointed that there would be no little guy to toss a baseball in the backyard or take camping trips with his daddy.

However I quickly got over the letdown and began to build my vision of a houseful of little girls.  After all, I grew up with a sister.  My boy cousins lived three states away.   A few of my mom's closest friends had boys, but I spent, at most, a few hours a week with any of them.  Based on my limited experience, boys were a totally different species.  They were loud, wild and unpredictable.  I asked myself why I would want to raise one and focused instead on all things pink and hair bows.

The path that brought my little man into my life didn't happen all at once.  Slowly my eyes were opened to the waiting child program when we were paper chasing for our second child.  At that same time I became newly aware of friends who had raised kids with special needs.  And then I realized that there were indeed boys waiting to be placed in homes.

So we took a leap of faith and checked that we'd be open to a boy or a girl with various special needs in our second set of paperwork.  Less than two months after our second dossier had been submitted we were matched with a little boy from the shared list, and six months to the day from our LID we were stepping off the plane in Beijing, three days away from meeting our son.



Before he walked into my life I thought the phrase "Mama's boy" had a negative connotation.  Now I fully understand how much love and affection can be behind it.



He has added a "rough and tumble type" of joy and exuberance for life to our formerly "pink and hair bows" existence.



He loves Lightning McQueen, potato chips, God, and his family ~ though not necessarily in that order.  He is amazingly strong, and quite clever.  What he lacks in size he MORE than makes up for in enthusiasm and determination.  What he does, he does with all his heart and might.  He is fast and impulsive, not always a great combination, but an accurate description.



I've found that many of my earlier ideas about boys are true.  He is usually loud.  There are times that I'd use the world wild to describe his mood.  And he is predictable only in that you can count on him to be somewhat unpredictable. He is "all boy."

And yet, even though sometimes I question if I have what it takes to help mold this bundle of raw energy into a respectful young man, he's stolen my heart and is an integral part of our family.  If I had stuck to my plans or preconceived notions, I would have missed him.  I'm so thankful for the things which opened my heart to possibilities I hadn't seen and people, blogs, events, and God's nudgings which overcame both our uncertainty of raising boys and our fears of "special needs" and allowed us to see each child as a unique gift from God.

Oh yes, I received a surprise gift.

I have a son. From China.

photos courtesy Tricia Roller Photography

US 35 North ~ revisited

I bet that I've ridden the stretch of US 35 North between Charleston, WV and Dayton, OH at least 100 times in my life.  It's familiar.  I know where to expect the power plants, glimpses of the river, the convenience stores, and the grand farm houses as we make our way "home" to western Ohio.

But a few weeks ago, on an impromptu "family visitin' road trip," that stretch of highway provided something new.  A millisecond of panic.

It wasn't a panic that I had forgotten the $250 glaucoma eye drops for our youngest, the sudden realization that I wasn't entirely sure our dog sitter and I had communicated the correct dates, or even from the four deer that apparently wanted to be hood ornaments on our Sienna (though we did gasp).  Instead, that panic was brought about as we cruised through one spot that I distinctly remember almost exactly 13 months before. 

As I recognized that long, straight stretch between the river and one of the huge, white farm houses, a flood of memories washed over me.  On April 8, 2009, we had new information, the picture, my sudden doubt, Ian's confidence, and (what seemed to be at the time) a looming decision.

Just that day we finally got a phone call from my contact at Lifeline that they had indeed been able to get updated information and new pictures of "Payton."  We were walking around on my grandfather's farm (with no access to the Internet) ~ our last stop before heading back to NC ~ when the call came in.  We drove all the way to Chillicothe, nearly three hours away,
before we found a coffee shop with free WiFi so that we could check my email to read about and see the child that would potentially become our youngest.

The information sounded good, and her picture was precious.

But before we had gotten to this stage, I had done my homework and read about Sturge Weber Syndrome, the syndrome referred to in her dossier.  (Perhaps I had read too much).  I'll be honest and admit that much of what I read scared me.  In that picture ~ that was supposed to show us if the port wine stain was on her eyelid, therefore giving us a better guess if she indeed had SWS ~ her eyes were "blank."  And that scared me.  A LOT. 

We didn't talk much after we left the coffee shop.  I think then I used the excuse that I wanted to wait until our kids were asleep before we started discussing our thoughts on the child I had been praying over for 26 days at that point.  However, the real reason was that all of the sudden I was scared.  I became frightened of how this child may impact our lives.  I worried.  And I was really close to simply deciding that our family was complete.

Thankfully, God had other plans in mind.  Because while Ian had been slower to warm up to the thought of adding a third child so quickly (we hadn't been home five months with our son yet when I stumbled upon "Payton."), once he gets moving, he's like a locomotive that can't be stopped.  And when I began backpedaling, he reminded me of all the things that had drawn me to "Payton" in the first place.

His confidence was disarming.  I began to relax again.  Until I remembered the picture.  I used the it as my last reason to potentially walk away ~ after all, who would have known beyond the two of us and our agency contact that we had even considered another child.  From what I had read about SWS before, the blank stare in that picture was reason for concern.  But my husband wouldn't be deterred.  He simply said, "Her eyes are probably empty because she is missing the love of a mother.  It likely doesn't have a thing to do with her brain function."

Then he proceeded to remind me of all the things others would call coincidences that had happened that allowed me to find "Payton" in the first place.  But what perhaps sealed the deal was his echo of what our pediatrician had said to us when we had him review her file the week before.  "I can't promise you that she doesn't have Sturge Weber Syndrome.  What I can promise you is that if God has led you to this child, that He will equip you with what you need to parent her in any circumstances." 

And then my husband glanced at me and said, "Remember, we aren't talking about adopting Sturge Weber Syndrome.  We are talking about adopting this child.  In your heart, do you believe that God had you find her?" 

Within days we were waiting for a waiver from our agency to begin an adoption process before we had reached the "six months home mark" with our son.  Following a frantic paper chase, we were back home with our sweet girl less than eleven months after that conversation in the car.

So almost 13 months later, I had a millisecond of panic as we cruised that stretch of US 35.  As that scenery reminded me of how I almost backed out, I actually had to turn around in my seat and confirm that she was indeed there, sleeping peacefully in her car seat, as part of our family.  It was as though I had to see with my own eyes that my fear of a syndrome hadn't stood in the way of having the joy of our third child.

A new look on life

Well, the most recent eye exam didn't give quite the results we were hoping for.

At the last visit three weeks ago Dr. F was encouraged by the reduction in pressure in our little one's eye and hoped that we'd be able to avoid further surgery for months, possibly even years. But the pressure has remained the same since then and so our next visit in three more weeks is a combo eye exam/pre-op. At that time Dr. F will determine if the goniotomy was successful enough to try to open the second half of the drain or if it is time to go ahead with the Baerveldt valve implant. If I'm going to be perfectly honest, that news was disappointing.

But there was a really good part to visiting Duke again. Cause these precious little Julbo frames were waiting for us when we got there.



Our little girl has a new look on life. Her strong eye went from 20/60 to 20/40 and her helper eye went from 20/400 to somewhere between 20/200 and 20/125.



And not only does Dr. F (and therefore we) know she is seeing better, more importantly, it appears she knows she's seeing better.



Cause she grinned as soon as they were on her face. Then she spent a little extra time studying mine. She never once tried to take them off all day. And when she reappeared from her bedroom after her nap, she was sporting her little pink frames.



Something tells me that her little grin means she thinks she looks as pretty as we do.



And you know what I love about my kids? Both of her siblings were supportive of her new look. Of course I wasn't really surprised about that. These days, about 90% of the time, that's the way these guys are. Loving life. Laughing. Smiling. Together.

Now, there is the news that we will start patching her strong eye so that the brain is forced to accept information from the helper eye. Three hours a day. Seven days a week. For the next two years.

Can't say that I'm looking forward to it. Course from what I know about this little girl, she'll roll with the punches. It's what she seems to do best. And when she gets a questioning look from someone in public about her patch, she's got her posse by her side.



When you got love like this on your right and left, who needs to worry about what others might think...

**reworked from a post on my personal blog from last week. It's been a little hectic around here as late.**

Reflections from my first time in "the waiting chair"

Welcome to Kristi, our newest contributing blogger. Kristi has three children adopted from China and her newest daughter, Darcy, joined their family in February. Kristi blogs about their family at Fireworks and Fireflies.

Wednesday of this past week I joined a club. A club I never would have imagined myself in just a few short years ago. The waiting chair club.



I'll have to be honest, I wasn't looking forward to being a member. Oh sure, I was all "cool hand Luke" until Tuesday. I'd casually toss out a request for friends to pray, but I was calm and relaxed.

But then "the day before surgery" came. As my baby girl's goniotomy (one potential pressure reliever for glaucoma) drew closer, I became less and less calm, cool and collected and more and more a bundle of raw nerves. I could hardly get my thoughts together enough to compose a post on my personal blog.

The more I thought about it, the more confused about my own emotions I became. On the one hand I knew that there were so many other mothers out there who had/were/will be facing soon much more serious and complicated surgery for their children. Open heart, spina bifida, and various transplants to name a few. So I began to feel guilty for being all nervous about the outcome of outpatient eye surgery for my Darcy.

But on the other hand I kept having flashbacks of Dr. F saying that while she promised to do her best, there are risks associated with any surgery. Risks which in this case include the possibility of permanent blindness in Darcy's "helper eye." Or remembering that paragraph about general anethesia that made my head spin and eyes tear up. If you've never seen "the paragraph" before, its the one that lists the possible negative effects of "going under." The one you have to sign right beside so they know you understand the risks associated. The one that includes the words "and in rare cases, death." In my mind I knew that it is very rare that there are such complications. But I also knew that out of all births, port wine stains only occur in an estimated 0.3% (according to the Vascular Birthmarks Foundation) AND (according to WebMD) only about 8% of people with facial port wine stains have Sturge Weber Syndrome. Leave it to me to let my mind wander...

So I was vacillating between guilt and fear. Honestly neither was a pretty destination for my thoughts.

The good news is that eventually I got a post up to let family and friends know that we were finally approaching a potential solution for Darcy's eyesight. And I requested prayer. I wasn't eloquent enough to get a list of specific things to pray about up, but I did get a general call out there. Pretty soon comments, emails, and phone calls started rolling in. About that time, peace returned to my soul.

Peace returned because I realized what the problem had been. I had wanted to take control of the situation. I wanted to be the one to make Darcy's eyesight better. I wanted to be the one to protect her and keep her safe. I wanted the surgery to be successful. I, I, I...


While it is of course natural ~ and I guess somewhat good ~ to have all those desires, the problem was that I was trying to take it all out of God's hands. After all, I've known since my first dream about a daughter named Darcy that He has been writing her story to become part of our family ever since she entered the waiting child list. I had to place my trust back in Him. Because if He brought us this far, He wasn't going to leave us now...

And Wednesday night in my exhaustion I nearly cried when I read emails that listed all the specific things people prayed about in the hours leading up to Darcy's surgery. Prayer requests I wanted to make on Tuesday but was unable due to my guilt and fear inner turmoil. Prayers requests that were offered ~ and this next part is HUGE here ~ by other Mamas on the other side of sitting in the waiting chair for the first time. Women in this circle who have gone before me and understand the fear. Prayers that were answered even though I was not able to communicate them.

Things like: Darcy ~ my kiddo who toddles down the hall most mornings straight from her bed saying, "Ma-ma, I eat cereal" on her way for her morning hug ~ would not be miserably hungry as she waited for surgery scheduled around 10:30. {She never even asked for as much as a drink from the time she woke up until she went back for surgery}

My peace of mind. I think that's enough said. {I caught up on a book club reading, went downstairs to check out their pediatric eyeglass frame options, and chatted calmly with Ian while we waited. And I was not anxious, at all. Well, okay, I did get a bit uneasy,when it was about an hour after Dr. F came out to talk to us and we still hadn't been called back to Darcy in recovery. But the recovery nurse eventually called me back to be with Darcy as she woke up because she had been in my shoes before.}

Her surgeon would be skilled. {We knew that Dr. F was a leader in pediatric glaucoma. Then Wednesday we met another family whose daughter also has Type II Sturge Weber who did extensive research on pediatric glaucoma surgeons and flew in from Chicago to have Dr. F do their daughter's surgery. This woman shared that Dr. F is considered the top in the country.}

Darcy would wake up gently. I had been warned that many kids come up swinging or very agitated. {She rolled over, said "Mama" and reached out her arms to me. No crying, no fear.}


Darcy would not experience nausea. {She downed four packets of graham crackers and 16 ounces of apple juice in recovery and then managed to eat a banana and an entire package of Ramen upon our arrival home.}

Darcy would have a quick recovery. {It was all we could do to keep her from playing rough with her older siblings that afternoon.}

Follow up medications would not be an issue. {She gets eyedrops ten times a day (Four different types, some four times, some two times ~ it's complicated enough that we have a daily calendar...) and calmly lays her head back each time we come at her with a bottle.}

These are just a few examples of things that people wrote in comments and emails that they prayed for. There are more.

And will be again. Next time.

Because even if this surgery was successful (we won't know for sure for about five more weeks) there will be the other half of the goniotomy. And if it wasn't successful there will be surgery to implant a tiny stint.

But what I must remember is that I wasn't in that chair on Wednesday alone. There were so many who have sat there before. Knowing just what this Mother's heart was feeling. Knowing just what my concerns were. And praying.

And most importantly, Darcy's Heavenly Father was listening.

While I can't say that I think I'd ever get to the point of liking the waiting chair, now that I'm on this side, I know that I can face it again.

And when you are the Mama getting ready for your first time in the waiting chair, know that you will make it too. Because when anxiety takes over and you don't know what to pray for, I'll be among the group of Mamas able to lift up specific prayers for you and your sweet child just like so many other mamas did for me.