Benjamin Part III

 "I want to be clear about something, as long as you give me pain medication, you can do whatever you need to do to get this baby out. I want you to get him out, we want to hold our son", I told the doctor as we entered our last 12 hour rotation before the cutoff Paul and I had set for ourselves.

I want to hold my son.

They would have let me labor longer but I had already been gone from home for 4 days. I knew I had another 3 days post delivery and I couldn't put my kids through an endless time without us after losing their baby brother. Unfortunately, my body just wasn't interested in cooperating and we were about to have to choose our six over our one and I was terrified.

I want to hold my son.

Thankfully, God sent me a doctor and a nurse that night that heard me loud and clear and also met me with a similar sense of humor and sarcasm to offset the stress of the evening. It was game time and it was clear that it wouldn't be fun. Paul and my nurse accompanied me through some quite unenjoyable moments as I offered my body to whatever my doctor could "strongly encourage" it to do.

I want to hold my son.

By about 1030, in a medicated stuper, I started to have contractions. Somehow, in all of our conversations about how things could go, for some reason I never realized that I would have regular contractions. So, when they started, exhausted Jeanne was quite offended that I had to ALSO go through labor. I was so tired. I didn't have the mental energy to do this the way I normally did and I panicked.

I want to hold my son.

Thankfully, it didn't take long before I felt that pressure that all mom's know. It was time.

I was going to hold my son.

"Don't tell me what is happening. I'm scared he's going to come out in a weird way, I don't want to know".

At 11:42pm, our Benjamin Michael was born. The room was eerily silent as the lack of a cry filled every corner. It hit me again, he's gone. I watched Paul's face as he looked on to what was happening, trying to study it and prepare myself for what he was seeing.

"Do you want me to lay him on your chest or wrap him in a towel?", the nurse asked.

"You can wrap him in a towel. Paul can hold him". I wasn't ready, I was so scared, and I needed Paul to buffer me.

As they laid him in Paul's arms, his eyes welled up with tears. He held him just like he he'd all of our babies; with a confident love and protection. Benjamin didn't even know that he had the greatest daddy but everybody in that room did.

"I want to see him. Does he look alright?"

My nurse quickly chimed in, "he's perfect!".

And she was right. Paul laid his 8 inch, 7.8 ounce body on my lap. He was perfect. Like a miniature baby doll. I was stunned. I was immediately struck by the perfect shape of his head. Not even my other babies heads looked that perfect. Next his fingers and toes, I counted 10 each. His knees, elbows, and shoulders, all perfectly formed. He even had the creases on his fingers and toes, nostrils, and full, pouty lips. I just couldn't get over it, he was exquisite. A mini baby at only 19 weeks. God is amazing.

My fatigue caught up to me and I handed him back to Paul. The night was coming to a close and my mind and body were completely depleted. I just needed to sleep. Little did I know, I was just at the beginning.

The next 5 hours were full of a lot more waiting for my body to cooperate, more "strong encouragement" from my doctor to cooperate, and eventually heading into the OR for a God sent D&C.

When I woke up from my D&C, it was about 5:30AM. Everything had been successful and much to all of our surprise, I didn't hemorrhage. Paul sleepily welcomed me back into our room and Benjamin laid peacefully, wrapped in a blanket, in the tiniest of bassinets next to my bed. I looked at him, still perfect, but I had to rest.

In true Jeanne fashion, I slept for about an hour before sitting up in my bed up and pulling my boy over. I still had some trepidation but this was the time, the only time we'd ever get; Mommy and Benjamin time.

I studied him. Every part. So beautifully and wonderfully made. His fingers were so tiny, his ears even smaller, and, oh, those lips were just amazingly plump.

We talked, I cried, and we took pictures. I wasn't sure if I was doing what I was supposed to but I knew I was doing what I needed to. I needed to know my son. My son. My son.

By around 11, it was clear that our time was drawing to a close. His very thin layers of skin were beginning to dry out a bit and I wanted to protect my memories. Paul and I both took one last chance to hold him, kiss him, and say goodbye. Calling the nurse to take him, the finality of saying goodbye to our son, was the hardest thing I've ever done.

It was finished.

Benjamin Part II

It wasn't 30 seconds after my doctor confirmed my suspicion, the probe still on my belly, when Paul came walking through the door carrying a homemade breakfast and clothes for going home.

"Hey babe? I'm sorry but...the baby is gone."

The look of defeat covered his face as he dropped everything in a chair and came to me. I hugged him but my brain quickly moved to the next steps. I knew what was coming. Handing him my phone I went into mom mode.

"Call my dad. I need them to get out here. We have nobody to stay with the kids."

As he walked into the hallway, the doctor went over my options with me. Inducing labor would allow us to hold him, though it would be a long, hard process and with my history of hemorrhaging, I stood a solid chance of it happening again. On the other hand, a D&E would be the quickest, easiest physically on me, but we would not be able to hold or see our son.

Paul walked back through the doorway confirming his conversation with my dad and his agreement to get out to Germany ASAP. I relayed the options to Paul, though the decision was obvious, we wanted to hold our son.

As I sat indian style on the bed, my brain reeling in panic for my kids, they immediately began pushing me upstairs. I kept my head down avoiding any and all eyes contact. I had kids to take care of and I didn't have time to feel this yet.

"Mom, can you come? Either of you? We don't have anybody to keep the kids for that long and they won't let Paul leave when I'm on this medication. I need someone to get on a plane tonight. Please."

As I talked to my mom, I heard the doc giving orders and making preparations over her intercom. Very early onset severe pre-ecclamsia.

By the time I got upstairs and wheeled into an L&D room, we had the kids covered for the next 18 hours with a high likelihood that my parents would be on a plane within hours.

"I am so sorry for your loss", the nurse said. "Oh, it's okay, I had a feeling it was coming". She never twisted her face in confusion at my answer. Clearly my brain hadn't even turned to the baby.

"Mr. And Mrs. Duval, I know there is a lot going on but we need to talk about what is going to happen and sign consents". I looked up from feverishly texting people that needed information.

"I am starting you on this medication. You are going to be on it during your entire labor plus 24 hours after. It will make you feel absolutely terrible at first, you will feel hot, and sick but it will subside. Unfortunately, you will continue to feel bad and be foggy the entire time you are on it. This medication protects you from seizing" as seizure protection pads were slid onto every hard plastic part of my bed. Once you are into the maintenance phase of the mag, we will place pills to help you start dilating. As you know, your baby will be very small so you will not have to dilate the entire 10cm."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm having my baby...and he's gone. This is insane. What in the hell. I just can't believe this. My brain was swirling in shock and disbelief. How in the hell is this happening?

No sooner than the nurse placed the catheter and dug the IV needle into one of the few veins left to poke, the mag was up on the stand, I was 900* and puking my brains out. It was sudden and instant. It felt like I was standing in front of an oven. It overwhelmed my entire body.

This entire time I kept glancing at Paul. He was in a state of shock and overwhelm, trying to support me, trying to hold himself together, and trying to complete the phone calls and texts my fingers were now too swollen to do.

"You are doing great, babe. I'm right here", he said.

Suddenly, the temperature dropped and the puking stop. Phew, I made it.

Apologetically the nurse said, "unfortunately we didn't have the full first dose in one bag so we have to do two" and round 2 started all over.

My body felt puffy and heavy, like someone had put insulation throughout my body. My brain was completely foggy and slowing down and my eyes felt like they had a gloss over them. The slower pace allowed questions to start entering my brain.

"Can you please prepare us for what he is going to look like? Will he look like a baby? I'm kind of scared". A swell of guilt washed over my body, I admitted it out loud, I was afraid of what my son would look like. How could I think like that, he's my son. But I had said it, it was the truth, and clearly it was not an unusual question.

"Yes, of course. Well, he will be very small. Because he is 19 weeks, his body will be formed, though his head may be a bit disproportionate to his body. He doesn't have all of his layers of skin so he will be a dark red/brown color. But he will look like a baby and we have little tiny clothes to dress him in. We have a small bassinet that has a cooling pad in the bottom that we will put him in. He can stay with you for as long as you would like. We have a photographer that can take pictures and we can make molds of his hands and feet."

"What if I'm scared of him or think he looks gross? What if I don't want to hold him or keep him in the room long", I tearfully asked.

"There is no wrong way to do this. Some people hold them and keep them with them for a long time, so people choose not to even see them. We want to do what you want to do. There is no right or wrong way."

After having the children to the hospital to break the news that not only would I not be coming home but we also lost their baby brother, I drifted into the oblivion of magnesium sulfate.

For 2 days, I laid here. My brain trying to process the massive events that had and would take place. During their hourly vitals check, the nurses were subjected to random deep questions about what was to come, how I was to manage, and sarcasm galore as I tried to distract myself. My nurses were my life. They walked me minute by minute through hell and allowed me to feel safe and loved. They were my battle buddies.

Despite having had 5 previous babies, my body did not kick into action and I laid there, mostly progressless for 32 hours. The moment of truth was coming. If my body wasn't going to cooperate and deliver this baby, we would have no choice but to do a D&E...an option that haunted my thoughts and made me quiver. We wanted to hold and bury our son.

Body, please, I am begging you, do what you know so well to do. I'm desperate. I want to see my son's face and I want to hold him. Please.

Benjamin Part I

I would be lying if I told you that I did not think there was something off this entire pregnancy. I knew it in my soul that this boy was not going to come to be. I fought the feeling, I bought the things, but my instincts knew that he was made only for heaven.

This pregnancy was different. Horrible, really. Sick beyond all sick. My thyroid was uncontrollable. I failed my glucose test yet I bottomed out on my three hour. I never had to pee. My blood pressure was climbing into the high range for the first time in my life. Something was off but nobody could put their finger on it, though everybody could sense the instability.

Last week, we'd take my blood pressure at home, 176/117, surely our machine was broken, no way. All week, 176,/113, 173, 178...hey, at least it was a consistent broken.

At a regular OB check on Friday morning, it was the moment of truth. There it was, 182/117. Buttons were pressed, people were called, and a doctor rushed in ready to investigate. We looked at our boy, kicking up a storm, did all the normal vitals, and rechecked my blood pressure. 187/116.

I was wheeled up to L&D immediately. Over the next two days, it was a quest to control my blood pressure and try and figure out where in the world this was coming from. I was only 19 weeks after all. I was way too early for any obvious pregnancy related issues.

But the feeling persisted. There was something.

By Sunday, I had been poked, prodded, and tested in so many ways, and my blood pressure was mildly under control. I was tired, my veins were shot, and I just wanted to go home.

When my doc finally came in, she talked to me and then said the magic words, "I'm going to have them prepare your discharge papers. You can go home but I want to see you back tomorrow for another blood pressure check. Before I head out, let's listen to the baby really fast."

She sat down next to me and placed the doppler on my belly.

Silence.

Moved it.

Silence.

The doppler turned off. "Oh come on, are the batteries dead"? Turned it back on and placed it back on my belly.

Silence.

The doppler shuts off again and doc decides to just call for a portable ultrasound machine. My brother happened to text for an update to which I replied with what I already knew,

"I was just told I can go home but they can't find the heartbeat, I think he's gone. Waiting for an ultrasound."

When my tiny framed doctor turned on the ultrasound machine, her shoulders immediately squared to the machine and her eyes studied the images on the screen. She measured and studied as she stared a black blob. I assumed it was the placenta and I knew it looked different. As she moved the probe over to the baby, I stopped her and simply said,

"I want you to know that I have known from day one that something wasn't right. Just so you know, you aren't going to say anything that will shock me. I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop and I think this is it".

A wave of relief and confusion came over her face as she showed me my sweet boy. His frame was perfect and beautiful but for the first time he wasn't kicking like a mad man and there was no flicker in his chest.

"Yes, you are right. I'm sorry, but there is no heartbeat".

 Every Monday I get the weekly update. I haven't turned it off yet and I'm not sure why. There is something kind of comforting about walking through what would have been. It's all very ironic because Mondays used to signify another week closer, now, given that Benjamin was delivered on a Monday, they count how many week since. 6 weeks.

As the weeks go by, we are getting into a new groove. Little did I know, Pre-eclampsia is a b*tch to come back from so the physical toll over these 6 weeks has not been minimal. Nevertheless, slowly but surely we are making progress and I'm finally feeling more like myself...just with high blood pressure and heart rate. Despite my best efforts, I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that high blood pressure may just be my permanent reminder of Benjamin that I never knew I needed. I swear these kids are out to break me...

Contentment with Benjamin's passing has (mostly) continued to be where I stand. Add in a few doses of regret, anger, and deep sadness and that just about has me covered.

Despite living with 7 other people, loneliness has definitely been the thing that I have struggled with the most. Loss and traumatic events are tough for those going through it and those who are watching. It's one of those times where there is literally nothing to say and nobody can fix it. It's hard all the way around.

Other than that, we are adjusting to the new house, new schedule, and new life here in Stuttgart. Paul has been back to work for a few weeks and the kids and I started our 3rd week back to school. We have been under a lockdown since December so we are hoping and praying that it lifts soon. We would love to leave our house for more than work, the grocery store, or a walk. But all in all, we are doing well and loving this week of beautiful weather!

At Odds

 Have you ever felt like you are at odds with yourself? It's like taking uppers and downers at the same time. I've always been very grateful to have a very clear faith that God's Will is the best way. Even if it leads me to something brutal, I know that I will come out on the other side more of who I was created to be. I wholeheartedly believe this.

But here's the thing, while I have a lot of peace knowing that Benjamin was never meant for earth, quite frankly, I'm kind of ticked that it's the case. Despite all of the complaining I did about being pregnant, the shocking change of plans, and the horrible sickness, I'd give anything to have it all back. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to hear his cry. I wanted to see the joy he brought to his siblings. I wanted to see him grow.

With every day that has gone by and every moment of physical healing, the reality that I am another day farther away from him grips me. Today is the 1st of February and January, the month that we held him, is gone. My HCG levels are back to pre-pregnancy levels, his pregnancy for my body is over. I finally unpacked my bag from the hospital, my time with him is over. All of my amazon packages need to be returned, there is no baby coming. It just goes on and on. Life, despite all of its continued joys and greatness, seems to be a constant reminder of what has been lost.

I just can't quite come to grips with the idea that this is what was in the cards for me. But, at the same time, I have complete faith that it is and will be better than I could have ever planned. A conflict, indeed.

----------------

On a side note, I do want to say that if any of you have experienced miscarriage or stillbirth, I am sorry that I did not know how to hold space for you. There are no right words and nobody can make it better but, gosh, it's a lonely road to walk when the highlight, the proudest joy, of the whole story is a baby that has died. I thought that asking about your son or daughter would upset you. I didn't know that while the tears may flow freely, there is no greater joy than talking about your child. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear about him/her. I'd love to see his/her pictures. They won't scare me. I just want you to know that your baby, your child, won't be forgotten.

Star Blanket

 Nicholas sleeps with two blankets. One is his Thomas weighted blanket that I bought him when I was desperate to sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time. The other, his white and blue fleece star blanket. This is the same star blanket that I shoved into a plastic bag as I nervously carried a complete stranger out of social services on a random Wednesday night. It is the same blanket that wreaked of bleach from 'intake'. The same blanket that we washed for days, knowing it was all he had from the days and years before. The same blanket that we thought would bring comfort but instead brought great anger. The same blanket that I tried to put away but, despite its traumatic representation, was the only normal he knew and therefore wanted. The blue and white star blanket is all Nicholas physically has of what was.

At some point, the star blanket was washed while still having a name sticker attached. That sticker will never come off. It is stuck, forever. Ironically, that star blanket doesn't say 'Nicholas', it is marked with his birth name. The name that was given to him by his mom. The name that is on his original birth certificate. The name that evoked so much uncontrollable negative emotion that we refrained from ever saying it after he decided that he was Nicholas. So, when he recently asked me what the sticker said, I was rather shocked when he had no memory of ever being called that name. A word that used to cause so much upheaval in our lives now means nothing. I was relieved, but so sad. I do not want to erase those years. I do not want to erase her. I do not want to erase K*****.

We talk about his mom often and casually. We have finally reached a point where he can handle the mention of her name. He is remembering more of his time with her and how it made him feel. He knows that he grew in her belly, that he lived with her before us, and that she loves him.

Yesterday was World Adoption Day and this month is National Adoption Month. It is a day and month to celebrate the beauty, honor the struggle, and bring awareness in hopes of stirring more souls towards adoption. If I am being honest, adopting Nicholas has really made me struggle with my feelings on adoption. Not because I am not over the moon that he is mine forever but, rather, because he wasn't supposed to be mine at all. He was given to another mother. A mother who carefully pick out his name and gave him a star blanket. A mother who chose to sacrifice her own desires in order for her son to have a chance at a full life. Adoption is more than the beautiful pictures, becoming a family, and 'giving them a new start'. Adoption is the closest we will come to understanding God's redeeming grace. It IS beautiful. It IS powerful. It IS life-changing. But, the reality is that in order for there to be redemption, we have to acknowledge the need, the fall before its triumph. Every adoption has a star blanket AND a Thomas blanket but they are not exclusive. They exist together, in fact they are dependent. To deny one doesn't actually make it not exist, it simply strips the other of it's beauty and worth.

Saying Goodbye to the Big Log House...for now

 

When we bought the 'Big Log House', it felt absolutely crazy! The logs were water stained, it had no flooring, and we had to start from scratch on the kitchen and bathrooms. Little did we know, that was just the beginning. In our 6.5 years, we have doubled our child count, completed 6 deployments, and ventured through the insane world of foster care and adoption...in between the campouts, treehouse building, bike riding, snow ramp building, RV renting, homeschooling, and life living. This house has been witness to some of our best (and worst) times. Today, we packed up the RV and pulled out of our driveway for the last time for a few years. It's hard to believe that the Big Log House won't be part of our story for now...but not to worry, it has 7 new kids coming to keep things exciting. @nicoleshiffler, I hope it is as good to y'all as it has been for us! Adventure awaits!

Adoption Day

 I feel like I just ran a marathon. Yesterday, all of our family and friends gathered around as we crossed the finish line. I don't know if I will ever be able to explain the relief of breaking through the tape and being free from the race yet having such overwhelming gratitude for the process and the support that was felt along the way.

Most people don't know but there was a time, just last year, that things had gotten so hard that we thought it was not in Nick's best interest to be in our family. As a mother, I was prepared to hand over my son if there was another mom and dad who could better meet his needs. I was reluctantly "helping" social workers prepare his profile for the AdoptUsKids webpage because I was going to make sure it was right. It was, hands down, the worst time of my life. It literally shredding me, my marriage, and my family. I was so angry, so devastated, and so hopeless. It was horrific. For four months, I begged God, 'Lord, whatever your Will is, give me peace'. I knew, no matter how this ended, He would make all things new.

In January of this year, it became clear. We are Nicholas's mom and dad. The kids are his brother and sisters. We, together with the friends who have supported us, are his family. We may not be perfect and we may not be able to meet all of his needs on our own accord, but we have a village and we are willing to ask for help and learn.

Yesterday, as we waited for the judge, I watched Nicholas bask in the glory of an entire court room of people whom he loves. Every single person in that room holds a very specific and special part in his heart and his story. You could see the joy radiating from him. He was safe. He was loved. He belonged.

So, when Judge Moore signed that paper and Nicholas jumped into his arms, the overwhelming feelings were relief, that we weathered the storm, and gratitude, for all of those around us who loved and supported us along the way.

I Miss the Hell Out of Her

 

The #1 reply to being a foster parent is the fear of being able to "give them back". I get it, it's a scary concept. How are you supposed to pour yourself into these kiddos and at the drop of a hat just stop? Well, I'm going through this now and would like to give you an inside look. Here it is:

I miss the hell out of her. She has been in my dreams every. single. night. Most nights, I wake Paul up because my dreams are tricking me into thinking we've left her somewhere. I adore the family members that she's with, and without a doubt, it's where she is supposed to be, but it's not here. I went through hell and back with that little lady and then all of the sudden it was just over. I can't just turn it off. I committed to loving her like my own and I do. But she's not my own. She is someone else's little girl. It hurts. A lot.

But here's the thing. When Paul and I were going through our training, Paul said something that has stuck with me for the last few years. When asked why he was choosing to become a foster parent, he said, "I'll take the heat so they don't have to be in the fire." And, you know, that's it. I can manage being overwhelmed, exhausted, and heartbroken. They can't. These kids have had to simply survive. I will gladly take some of their load, whether for 5 days or two years, so they can know what it feels like to be loved and protected. That is worth every ounce of hurt I feel.

So, next time the idea of foster parenting comes up, before you talk about your fear of not being able to "give them back", take a moment to consider that you are being offered the gift of standing in the gap, sheltering them from the storm, and showing them an unconditional love and protection that they may have never felt. You will have the honor of escorting them in their darkest hour so they can finally learn that dark doesn't mean scary.

As much as I miss my little lady, I stand with great pride at what my, now hurting, heart provided for her. This, I know and believe.

I Can Do Hard Things

 "I need you to tell me that I can do hard things. I keep telling her that she can, I need someone to tell me that I can, too."

These were the words I cried to my mom on Tuesday morning as I drove back to the hospital. I had slept for 2 hours that night after spending 12 hours in the emergency room holding the frail body of a little one who had been severely neglected. We had only met 72 hours earlier and somehow she was supposed to trust me to walk her through one of the lowest moments of her little life. The responsibility was overwhelming. The stakes high. I had never seen this stuff anywhere but on TV, yet there I sat, rocking my sweet girl back and forth, trying to calm both of our nervous systems for what was to come. Then, it was time, one Reece's Piece at a time, we made it through each test, picture, x-ray, and lab. It was awful. I will never forget it. I pray that she does. But she did it. Bravely, she did really hard things.

Over the next two days, with the support her first foster mom and God send, Miss

Tricia

, I met with every doctor, therapist, dietitian, investigator, and social worker on her floor. I listened, I argued, and I advocated for my girl. She had been silenced and needed her voice back. This girl, my girl, was going to get the best. She would know that she was safe, protected, and loved. We blew a million bubbles, made hundreds of playdoh figures, ate too many french fries, and negotiated every temperature, blood pressure, and oxygen level. One minute at a time, one reece piece at a time, we made it through the days. We finally went home. We did it. Together, we did really hard things.

Today, I woke up to her joyful giggle as she played with the kids. She was safe. She was happy. When her tiny, frail body slowly came down the stairs, she sweetly yet proudly said, "Good Morning, Mom! I love you! I like being home." Not quite yet, baby girl. I have to do a really hard thing.

This afternoon, I packed up her things and brought her to her final destination. Family that will love, care, and protect her. I gave them every detail, every tip, and every phone number. I gave her a kiss, told her that I loved her, and that I was so proud of her. I said goodbye. Hiding my tears with my sunglasses, I smiled, waved, and drove away. As confidently as I could, I did a really hard thing.

Now, the hard things are done and it is time to rest. Unfortunately, another will come and there will be more mountains to conquer. But that's okay, I'm ready, I know I can do hard things...

"Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human." -HENRI NOUWEN

To the Moon and Back

 Dear Paul, Catherine, Claire, Mary-Grace, and Margaret,

One year ago today was not a special day. In fact, it was a typical day with school, Miss Dana, and general life. None of us knew that the next day would change in a way that we would never be the same.

Kiddos, when dad and I signed up to be foster parents, you were signed up, too. We tried our best to explain everything and prepare you for what was to come, but honestly, we didn't even know. But you trusted us. You believed in what we wanted to do, especially once Claire realized that she wasn't going to be the foster kid moving to the new home.

And then the next day happened and our family changed. It was not a smooth transition. It hurt a lot. For a long time.

Guys, you have been the most courageous, compassionate, and perseverant kids I've ever met. You have laughed, cried, and experienced joy and pain that most adults will never experience. You had the courage to speak up when it was too much, took great joy in his victories, and recognized the tragedy in his struggle. But most importantly, at your young age, you believed in our purpose as a foster family; that kids should be with their family. There were several times that we had to console you as you tried to understand how kids could be separated from their mom or when we had to discuss the possibility that he would never go home. You were crushed at even the possibility for him and his mom. I will never forget that discussion, we told you that we weren't sure what was going to happen but if it came about that reunification wasn't possible, what did you think about adoption. All of you spoke up quickly and without hesitation, "I don't want him to leave, but I want him to be with his mom. I want him to go where it's best for him". We were blown away. You were wanting to sacrifice for the greater good of your brother and his mother, if that was possible.

Paul, Catherine, Claire, Mary-Grace, and Margaret, daddy and I are so proud of you. When I look back one year, my initial reaction is slightly miss what was, but quickly thereafter, I am overwhelmed with the pride and joy of what is and I wouldn't trade this year for anything. Thank you for trusting us and for believing in your purpose as a foster sibling. Thank you for teaching me more than you can imagine. But thank you the most for choosing to love our little man with everything you have even though it often didn't look or feel like what you knew love to be. What you chose is a self sacrificing, compassionate, humbling, and joyful love. That kind of love, real love, takes incredible courage.

I love you to the moon and back.

-Mom

Saving Babies...One Mom At A Time

 When my son's mom found out she was pregnant, she was a mentally ill drug addict living under a bridge. Her pregnancy was unplanned, inconvenient, and, quite frankly, unsafe. She was a safety threat to him and he was a safety threat to her. My son was an abortion waiting to happen. Not because she was evil or because she didn't love him, because neither could be further from the truth, but because the odds seemed insurmountable. He checked every single box.

As I read about all of the discussion about abortions this week, from the March on Washington to the horrifying news from New York, I can't help but think that we, as the pro-life movement, are missing it. We talk about the baby, the murder, the injustice. We make and share meme's of ultrasound pictures, baby pictures, and eye catching phrases. But holy moly, friends, do you think our shared social media posts or cries to the government to suddenly be moral are going to end abortion? If we are going to protect these babies, we must first protect their moms.

The idea of saving the innocent is such a sweet and clean concept. But, let me be the first to tell you, it's messy, it's ugly, and it is so uncomfortable it will make you want to run. Ask any foster/adoptive mother, pro-life pregnancy center volunteer, mother/baby house worker, women's shelter employee and they will all tell you the same thing. It's the most grueling work with the most incredible reward. Protecting the innocent starts with each and every person actually putting themselves out there to get involved to help these mother's, children, and families.

You aren't too busy. You are enough. You can do this.

There are so many possibilities to put your good intentions into action. But I think it's about time the pro-life movement becomes less about words and more about action. The only way to drown out the manipulative fear-mongering of the devil is by flooding the same hearts with the unbridled and tangible love of Christ through a neighbor.

I, for one, have seen what can happen when this olive branch is extended. The dedication of many workers and volunteers at an amazing mother/baby house provided my son's mother with the love, support, and security she needed to give Nicholas life. And for that, I will be forever indebted.

"There is no place for selfishness and no place for fear! Do not be afraid, then, when love makes demands. Do not be afraid when love requires sacrifice."

-St. John Paul II

Mother's Day

 I find it ironic that on the one day of the year where Mother's are celebrated, pictures portray matching outfitted smiling children, and beautiful words are flowing freely, I am utterly worn out, exhausted, and not really interested. If I'm honest, it was all I could do to open my gifts and read my hand made cards with a genuine smile. Our toddlers had meltdown and attitudes like crazy all day. I took a two hours "nap" this afternoon that mostly consisted of half dozing while I dreamt of the 20 things on my mind. All day I have had to manually shift my heart and brain away from my son's biological mother who's heart is likely aching something fierce. I did a pretty crappy job 'showing up' for Mother's Day. I tried. I really did. But I just couldn't pull it together.

I am so grateful that I get to be the mom of these six crazy kids, but gosh, sometimes we have to sit back and call a spade a spade.
Motherhood is HARD. It is EXHAUSTING. And sometimes, it is just too much.

But, really, I am a thousand times more grateful that tomorrow is a new day and that children have the innate ability to love anyways. Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the day, every single one of my kids offered their prayers for me tonight, kissed me, and told me I was the best mom God ever made. Somehow these kids are able to see through my weakness and love on the greatness that they know that I can be. For that, I am grateful.

Happy Mother's Day to my own mama, my mother-in-law, my sisters-in-laws, aunts, and all of my mom friends. I have learned so much from you and am grateful that I get to walk this crazy road with you.

Offering Ourselves to the Broken

 A couple of days ago, a fellow adoptive mom and I were trading stories about how bad we are at this whole "adoptive mom" thing. It's so hard. It has the highest highs but it also has the lowest lows...that usually have NOTHING to do with you. As we laughed in release at our shortcomings, all the sudden I just blurted out, "we aren't SUPPOSED to be good at this. Foster care, adoption, these things weren't supposed to exist! Kids are intended to be with their parents. Sin caused this. We aren't supposed to be good at this!"

It kind of shocked me when it came out of my mouth because I had never thought about it like that before. But, gosh, it's so frustratingly accurate. My brokenness, your brokenness, all of the brokenness, it wasn't supposed to be. God had a much better plan.

I have continued to think about this. It has continued to frustrate, yet comfort me, all at the same time. So how are we supposed to "succeed" if we were never even intended to perform such a task?!? I see what Nick deal's with, I see what we experience, I see what his biological family endures, and it all makes me so sad because it just didn't have to be.

Yesterday morning, on a completely unrelated note, the kids and I had a sit down. I'm cracking down on quite a few things and I needed to post the warning. I explained exactly where I was tightening up and how things would be handled. I then told them my absolute favorite quote by St. Catherine of Sienna, "If you are who you should be, you will set the world ablaze!" and explained that it is my job, as their mom, to help them learn who they were CREATED to be because it is only there that they will truly know the the gifts that they were given to give to others.

And there it was. My answer. No, the brokenness of our world, in ourselves, was never intended to be but it is in knowing who we are in the One who created us that we can help carry that load and help another see that they were also intentionally, lovingly, and perfectly created and intended for greatness. The success doesn't come in fixing the brokenness, it comes in offering ourselves to it so the brokenness can see it's beauty.

Bam.

He Loves Me!

 

This little dude has put our relationship to the test for the last 4 months. By no fault of his own, his understanding of a mommy is a bit out of whack and it comes with A LOT of big emotions. That box got unlocked after a trauma response in December and we've been riding the crazy attachment ride ever since. He shifted Paul into the safe seat and put me...well, under the left wheel of the car. It's been humbling to say the least. And frustrating, very frustrating.

So, this morning, when he walked in my room at 6:03AM and asked to "lay wif mommy", you bet I scooted over and took a picture to remind myself next time I'm about to pull my hair out. I had no idea that this picture would say so much more. Thank you, Jesus, for this Holy Week gift!

#HeLovesMe #HeReallyReallyLovesMe #HeSureHasAFunnyWayOfShowingIt #AdoptionIsALotHarderThanItLooks #ButWorthIt