My Wish

Stop poking me!

I am realizing that there is actually a lot more I could be doing beside working on my virtue of patience.

Once we get a referral we are encouraged to send a small package of items to our child. Several items are recommended and should fit inside a one gallon zip lock type bag. It should include a small photo album, one 8x10 photo of the family, a small blanket to act as a transition item that the child can take home. However, it is possible that none of the items will be returned, so they encourage you to buy/make duplicates so that you can have them for the child on the trip home.

I have been doing a little research on the forum of our adoption agency and you would be amazed what some of these women can fit into a one gallon plastic bag, here is the list from one mother:
blanket, rattle, pic, book, bib, onesie, sleeper, toy. Since I am an over-achiever I am going to try to get a kitchen sink in my gallon bag. I refuse to be out-done.

Apparently there are also some streamlined packing lists that have been developed as well. Some of these organized travelers have made some of the most detailed packing lists I have ever seen. I am not sure how to top a packing list that includes the number of pair of underwear I need to pack and your above average toiletry list including tampons, but I thought it might be possible until I saw that the list also included Duct tape - is there anything Duct tape cannot do? I decided the list is complete and that I should use it and not attempt to fix something that is clearly not broken.

Travel shots - well this topic lends itself to a story. For those of you who consider yourself a friend or acquaintance there are probably a few basic pieces of information you have about me that are well known:
1. I am full of useless facts and information - and every once in a while some useful facts.
2. I don't eat blue food.
3. I have an insane fear of needles.

Soooo, Trenton was the first to get an appointment and go to the doctor in preparation for adoption and travel. He came home with 4 band-aids, two on each arm, blue in color. When I saw them I said "WHAT ARE THOSE!!??" He calmly replied to my panic, "What?"... "Band-aid, four band-aids! Why?" I blurted. He explained calmly that we needed to get travel shots (I knew that! not FOUR). I was a mess, my appointment wasn't for another two weeks - I would be a wreck by then, worrying about the needles!

I arrived at the doctor, she knows me, they all know me, we all worked together for the past year. Going to the doctor for me is like a visit with old friends - except the part where friends feed you dessert and these people stab me with needles - OK it's more like some strange kind of torture, but I like them all until the needles come out. Anyway, I explained to the doctor again, that I don't like needles and that I would be happy to provide documentation to avoid any "just-to-make-sure" injections. I talked her down to only two! I was soooo proud of myself. So the medical assistant comes in, I warn her that I do not like needles. And she says it will be OK because she normally works with pediatric patients and she is fast and good, then she added that she was military trained, "in case you need to throw a punch."

I thought I was all set, I've been poked before, I have something like a 50% success rate of staying upright throughout the process. The odds were against me today! She poked me once, she poked me twice... the needles were out. Ahhh, but the worst was NOT over. Moments later I requested permission to lay on the floor - denied. I immediately followed with another request to lay on the floor - I was redirected to the exam table. The next time I followed with a statement, "OK, I am going to lay on the floor now." So I did. Picture it, like a crime scene, I am sprawled out on the floor face down with my hot sweaty face pressed against the cold tile floor of the exam room.

Moments later I am surrounded by a couple more of my "friends" who are wondering if a "code" is in order. "NO, IT IS NOT!!". I am thinking, "Do not call a code, everyone in this building knows me and they do not need to see me laying here on the floor over a dumb little needle." The story goes as you might expect, I have to stay to be observed, they give me water and a lecture about letting people know I "pass-out" from needles. Apparently the average health care professional hears the words"I don't like needles" several times each work day. I was told that those words must be followed up with "... and I pass out." The medical assistant put a formal note in my chart. It's official, I pass out from needles.

Back to the point of this blog, I need one more shot, for Yellow Fever. This blog is long enough. To be continued...

I dreamed you into life

There I was in the hospital room, being handed my first born, a daughter. There she was, the same little girl who presented herself to me in a dream only weeks earlier. I loved her before I saw her. There was a special bond with that little girl. Her name was decided before her gender confirmed. We interacted from the time she had enough strength to create that flutter in my belly. I did everything I could to create communication with that little soul. I rubbed my belly, played music and sang to her. Occasionally turning on a flashlight on my belly or poking or giving a push in response to her kick. Her sleeping times had to correlate with mine, because if too many minutes passed without a kick or turn, I would wake her to make sure she was still there - apparently the huge protrusion of a belly wasn't evidence enough. Before she breathed her first breath of air I loved her the way any mother loves her child, there wasn't something that changed after our eyes met... just, there she was, just the way I dreamed she would be (literally) and it was as if two old friends were coming together, never missing a beat but continuing on in the way they had always known each other.

Two years later I would find myself bonding with another growing belly. More poking, prodding, music and flashlights... anything, anything to be able to communicate with this new soul. I would rub my belly, and responding to every kick with a nudge right back. Encouraging the big sister to fall in love with my belly too. I knew his sleeping patterns and I recognized the hiccups and the play times. And when the blessed day came for my son to breath his first breath and meet his family, I saw him and again, it was if we were reunited as old friends who had been waiting to see each other after a long journey away from home.

I didn't experience those post-pardum blues that I have heard so much about. I didn't have a time that I wished I wasn't a mom, or that I didn't feel that I loved these children totally and completely -more than I had ever loved or wanted anything in my life, before or since.

Adoption, especially adoption of an older child lends itself to issues related to bonding and attachment. I think about meeting this new child and wondering if I will feel the same as I felt when I met my first two children. Would it be as if I were reunited with an old friend, would we both be longing to be with one another?

I imagine our first meeting. I imagine that I will wait patiently for him to come to me. That I will talk with his nannies and try to demonstrate through their trust of me that he too can trust me. Patiently - waiting contentedly, observing him and learning how he responds to his world. And he will watch me and wonder who I am and he will wait until he remembers me, his long lost friend whom he is happy to be reunited with.

I pray that she is not sad or frightened, though I know she will be. These pale strangers who speak another language who will take her from everyone and everything she has known - again. She will miss her birth mother, she will miss her nannies, I can only hope to be that friend who can console her through her sadness. And when she comes out on the other side of the sadness that she will call me "Mother".

Random thoughts on Mother' Day

Becoming a mother makes you the mother of all children. From now on each wounded, abandoned, frightened child is yours. You live in the suffering mothers of every race and creed and weep with them. You long to comfort all who are desolate. ~Charlotte Gray

Today is that special day of the year when mother's are honored for all the good things they do and are. As we proceed in the adoption process, there are many new ways to reflect on this special day. Whether someone is a mother because she is called so by her children or because she desires to be a mother and has the heart of a mother, she deserves honor and respect for this important role she plays in our village.

I share the journey of adoption with many others. Some who make the journey already a mother and others who make the journey to become a mother for the first time. The interesting part is that there is no difference in the excitement and passion between those about to experience motherhood for the first time or those who are about the experience it for the tenth time.


A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts. ~Washington Irving
My mother is my friend; the person I turn to first with good news and bad. I have always appreciated her willingness to listen through the insanity I often create in my own life. For example taking on a new job, deciding to run a triathlon (or two), starting an adoption journey all while being a full-time working career woman, mother, and wife. Obviously, I bring some of my pain and suffering on myself. But when a piece, any small or insignificant piece, isn't going quite the way I expected, I know I can call on my mom to listen through it. She wouldn't be a good mom if she didn't remind me that maybe I am over doing it, or maybe I should think through things before proceeding, but in the end she offers 110% support for all the things I do.

A daughter is a mother's gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters' role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships. ~Victoria Secunda
I am a daughter and have a daughter. We are gender partners, all three of us. Allies always, adversaries sometimes, but fully aware of that our bond surely will help guide us on our journeys in life. May I be aware enough to take all of the wisdom offered by my mother and use my own experiences and add to that wisdom and pass it all on to be an even greater gift for my own daughter. And may she add her own wisdom and pass it on to those who she loves in her life!

I remember my mother's prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life. ~Abraham Lincoln

Captain Kangaroo

I have been taking the time to read others' blogs. I have been trying to get a grip on what it will be like when they call us with our referral. It seems like that part is the opposite of the birth process with biological children. With biological children you go through all the work and labor pains before you get to see them. During an adoption, they send you a picture and then the labor pains kick in... scheduling travel, packing, a 20+ hour flight. Both processes, biological and adoptive, are fine with me, I can't say I would prefer one over the other... just that they are different.

The last couple days there have been announcements of referrals with our agency. It is so exciting. Many of these families have been waiting seven or eight months, and then, out of the blue, the phone rings and you just start packing for Ethiopia. Well, of course, there is more waiting and paperwork between referral and travel, but I am sure when these families have baby in arm, all those details of paperwork will be forgotten. Again, a lot like the pain of natural childbirth... I mean if we really remembered that, we wouldn't have more than one child. The joy out weighs the pain exponentially. And some people adopt more than one child, so I have to assume the forgetting is the same with adoption.

I am so ridiculously in love with children lately. I feel horribly bad for my friends who have young children, and even for my own children. I oogle over the young children of my friends, offering popsicles and treats and engaging the children as if I have never seen a young child before. The children are so tolerant, allowing me to fawn over them and carry them around - I suppose a lot of that has to do with the bribery of food - but whatever works. As for my own children, I carry them around too. Angelisa, age 8, Naven, age 5 - carried. Two weeks ago in church I was holding them both, one on each hip. My children, they enjoy it, but I wonder what long term consequences I am creating for myself. I mean, I only have two arms. I suppose if we adopt only one more child, I can move one to my back, at that point Angelisa should be 9, I picture her on my back and another child in each arm. Now if we adopt two more children I'll have to get more creative. Maybe some tips from our friends the marsupials.

Growing in my heart

Maybe I am giving the issue about grief and loss more airtime than would be expected during the exciting time of adoption. But I am repeatedly shocked by the issues that brings children to be "relinquished" by their birth families.

I won't pretend that I know anything about why a mother here in the US makes the decision to create an adoption plan for her child. I am sure there are many, many very good reasons. I completely respect these women and the immense and unselfish love they demonstrate increating an adoption plan. But I hope lack of health care isn't one of those reasons.

This morning I read an article about children's health in India. There was a statistic that shocked me regarding Ethiopia - Only 16% of children in Ethiopia under age five get health care when they need it. The article goes on to say that a child's chance of reaching its fifth birthday should not depend on the country of community where it is born. The full article can be found at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/7389283.stm

I can't imagine, even for a moment, that I would have to look at my child and know she is very sick, and malnourished and that some basic food and medication would fix the problem but I can't afford or I don't even have access to it. My decision, as a mother, becomes - keep my child and watch her become more ill, or take her to an orphanage and "relinquish" her so that she can get her basic needs met. I can not get my head around this.

I have to get myself in the right place for this. I have to move beyond the grief and loss issue. I have to find a way to make this make some kind of sense. My child will need me to support him during the times he grieves and I have to make sense of this for both of us. His birth mother, who I now see as my sister, she wants that too. My sister is being brave and strong and doing what she thinks is best for her family. I think she would want me to do the same.

If I may comment on my "sister" for a moment. The brave woman endured childbirth without pain medication, she probably didn't even have access to a hospital. Her body may have endured the mutilation that can be accompanied by a child birth not assisted by a medical professinal. She may be enduring long term physical problems from the laborous birth. Her under-nourished body doing everything possible to support the birth of this new soul, left her weak and ill. She may have even sacrificed her life for the life of this child. - I imagine her. She doesn't want pity just a family to care for and love this child. Provide a safe home with love and opportunity.

I don't take the responsibility of raising a member of our community lightly. Whether the child grew in my belly or in my heart, it's the most important contribution I can offer to the world, - a responsible, compassionate, contributing member of society. And teaching those traits to my children is the most important contribution I can give to them. And what's important to me is that I do it in a way that honors my parents, and in this case the mother of the child who is growing in my heart.

Run in the Ruff

A quick update on things in my life that are not adoption related. I am finally getting over being ill, apparently a sinus infection and not strep. Either way, it wasn't good!

Saturday I ran a 10K (6.4miles) in Milaca. I didn't come in first, and I didn't come in last... so all in all it was a good run. Oh, except for the part where I find out what a "trail run" really is. The name of this run "Run in the Ruff"... someone (who shall remain nameless) failed to find out that "Ruff" roughly translates into English as "3.2 miles knee deep in mud". I can't really say I ran the 10K because it's hard to officially RUN in mud. The really funny part is that for the first 100 yards of the run I tried to steer clear of the mud to keep my shoes clean, little did I know I would completely give up this task around the end of Mile 1.

As I ran Mile 1, I kept thinking, I wonder what lessons there are here in running that can be applied to life. Something about running on the trail? Maybe something about passing people, or about endurance? Nope, all I could think, "If you can't beat 'em, join em." So I decided to run directly through the mud. The only lesson I learned was the obvious, it's dangerous to try to run around mud, puddles, and water on a trail in the woods, just run directly through it to maintain your health and safety. - I'd do it again.