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.

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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