One of the hardest things we have endured during this adoption process is the waiting! We have officially been active for 7 months and still not one call from a potential match. We are so excited about this journey but sometimes find it hard to not get discouraged as we continue to wait for that call. I guess in some sense it's like being pregnant and waiting that nine months to hold that sweet bundle of joy in your arms except we don't know how long we will be "pregnant" for till we or if we will ever have the opportunity to be mommy and daddy. Emotionally it's a roller coaster ride because our greatest joy comes from someone else's greatest sorrow. So the longer we wait the more I sit back and reflect on the joys I will have when or if that day ever comes.
I have never looked so forward to being sleep deprived. Haha I know that is crazy. I look forward to long nights and early mornings, dirty diapers and endless mounds of laundry, I find myself envious of all my friends that are expecting not jealous just envious that they get an end date. I look forward to the day that I will know what month my future child may be born, what gender my child might be, what his/her biological mom will be like and the joys of getting to know her. Of making sure she feels included in this child's life no matter where life takes us. I know some may say be weary that you don't want to much contact but I feel the opposite. I look forward to the friendship that I hope we can build through our mutual love for the child. I look forward to including her as much as she feels comfortable so this never feels like a loss but more like she gained a whole new family. Like I said my joy is her sorrow. I have learned so much through this process and patience would have to be the biggest. Patience to let go and know that god truly does have control of this. Patience to wait and not know if this is in my cards are not but to still remain hopeful to the end. Patience to stay as positive as I can be no matter how long we have to wait.
I will look back at all this one day and hopefully say to my child this is where your journey to join our family began. That your biological mom choose life and love and only wanted the best life could offer you. I promise to love you and cherish you for always. I promise to guide you and encourage you to be all that you can be. I promise to help you be the person you were meant to be. I promise to teach you diversity and never be scared to set your own path. I promise to give you all that we have to offer. I promise that you will know daily how much you are loved by us as your parents by your extended family and your biological family. I promise to love you for a lifetime and keep you safe happy and healthy.
We pray daily for that phone call that will allow us to be the parents we know we can be. To be able to show so much love to a child that we can call our own. Till then our story starts here with no true beginning as to when we will have more joy in our hearts than we can fathom.
With All Our Love,
Patiently Waiting Mom and Dad!
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
I loved you before god even made you
I haven't even met you, yet I'm already incredibly in love with you.
I do not know what gender you will be.
Will you be the little girl I always dreamed of.
Or the little boy I always wished for.
I do not know what color hair you may have.
Will it be straight like me and your daddy?
I do not know what shade your eyes will be.
Maybe you will have brown eyes like me or hazel like your dad
but I love you already.
I do not know if you will be short or tall
but I love you already.
I do not know what your personality will be like.
Will you be funny and witty like your dad or shy and reserved like your mom.
I do not know if your first word will be momma or dada.
Will you love sports?
If your a girl will you be a tomboy like me?
Will you love to dance or sing?
I hope to teach you to carve your own path and just be YOU
because I love you already.
I hope to teach you to be everything you can be because you are SPECIAL!
You are the child god hand picked for us.
We just haven't met you yet.
You may not have grown under my heart but in my heart you have always been. And out of all the stuff that I don't know about you YET I do know that I loved you before god even made you.
I do not know what gender you will be.
Will you be the little girl I always dreamed of.
Or the little boy I always wished for.
I do not know what color hair you may have.
Will it be straight like me and your daddy?
I do not know what shade your eyes will be.
Maybe you will have brown eyes like me or hazel like your dad
but I love you already.
I do not know if you will be short or tall
but I love you already.
I do not know what your personality will be like.
Will you be funny and witty like your dad or shy and reserved like your mom.
I do not know if your first word will be momma or dada.
Will you love sports?
If your a girl will you be a tomboy like me?
Will you love to dance or sing?
I hope to teach you to carve your own path and just be YOU
because I love you already.
I hope to teach you to be everything you can be because you are SPECIAL!
You are the child god hand picked for us.
We just haven't met you yet.
You may not have grown under my heart but in my heart you have always been. And out of all the stuff that I don't know about you YET I do know that I loved you before god even made you.
Friday, May 10, 2013
I absoulutly love this article. I did not write it but if you have ever considered bringing a child into your home by adoption or fostering it hits so close to home. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.
Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,
I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son’s school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.
It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.
Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn’t in God’s plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin’s neighbor’s friend. Maybe you ignored them.
Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life-savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.
Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?
I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes, but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.
I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes, so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.
I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.
I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.
Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby’s room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.
I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding, from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.
And I know about the followup visits, when you hadn’t slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.
And I’ve seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what’s being promised and what’s not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.
I’ve seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that’s emerging. I’ve seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn’t have to go through with this. I’ve seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments—while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.
I’ve seen you look down into a newborn infant’s eyes, wondering if he’s really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.
And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.
I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.
I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn’t even know you were holding for months. Months.
I’ve seen you meet your child’s birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I’ve seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile … people who love him because he’s one of them. I’ve seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he’s shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.
I’ve seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things — but you can’t protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.
I’ve seen you at the doctor’s office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little blanks don’t turn into big problems later on.
I’ve seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?
I’ve seen you wonder how you’ll react the first time you hear the dreaded, “You’re not my real mom.” And I’ve seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.
I’ve seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being it is the other way around.
But most of all, I want you to know that I’ve seen you look into your child’s eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that’s just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like losing yourself.
Kathy Lynn Harris
Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,
I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son’s school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.
It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.
Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn’t in God’s plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin’s neighbor’s friend. Maybe you ignored them.
Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life-savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.
Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?
I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes, but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.
I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes, so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.
I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.
I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.
Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby’s room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.
I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding, from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.
And I know about the followup visits, when you hadn’t slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.
And I’ve seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what’s being promised and what’s not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.
I’ve seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that’s emerging. I’ve seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn’t have to go through with this. I’ve seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments—while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.
I’ve seen you look down into a newborn infant’s eyes, wondering if he’s really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.
And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.
I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.
I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn’t even know you were holding for months. Months.
I’ve seen you meet your child’s birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I’ve seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile … people who love him because he’s one of them. I’ve seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he’s shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.
I’ve seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things — but you can’t protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.
I’ve seen you at the doctor’s office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little blanks don’t turn into big problems later on.
I’ve seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?
I’ve seen you wonder how you’ll react the first time you hear the dreaded, “You’re not my real mom.” And I’ve seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.
I’ve seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being it is the other way around.
But most of all, I want you to know that I’ve seen you look into your child’s eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that’s just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like losing yourself.
Kathy Lynn Harris
Mother's Day
As I prepare my self for another childless mother's day I cannot seem to sit back and reflect on this thing called life and where it's heading. For the first time in my adult child bearing years I am okay with not being a mother YET and being able to celebrate Mother's Day childless. I received an awesome email from a childhood friend that helped bring all this to prospective. She simply stated that she never realized that Mother's Day can be so different for some. That simple statement opened my eyes to the fact that I am not alone. I am not the only one that loves to celebrate my mother for mother's day but also that it is just a kindly reminder that you (I) am not a mom. Without my mother and the love that she shared growing up I simply would not exist. I also have reflected on the facts that there are many people that hurt on Mother's Day for different reason's. Maybe their mother has went on to walk with the lord, or maybe they are mourning the loss of a child or pregnancy that just didn't make it to the end. For these reason I hurt this year. Not because I will go another year and not be a mother but for the ones that hurt for different reason's than me. I know my child is out there. I feel it's presence. I know when the time is right god will show me what I need to do or where I need to be to welcome my child into our loving family. This year I celebrate the decades of women that have been graced with motherhood. My many ancestor's that without the decades of women being mother's we simply would not have a mother's day to celebrate.
I celebrate my mother and am so grateful that she is still here to celebrate the woman that gave me life. You are my rock and my very first best friend. You have always been there to pick up the pieces and dry the tears. You were the one that taught me my first words and walked beside me when I was only learning how to walk. You were always there with afternoon snacks after school and as I got older you were always there when I needed an ear to listen or a pep talk. I know being a mother was not always easy especially with us but I am so thankful GOD choose you to be my mother. I am the woman I am today because of you. I only hope that I have made you proud. You choose life and for that I am thankful. I celebrate my only living grandparent left my Nana. Without my Nana none of this would be possible. So instead of pity this year I feel BLESSED beyond words. I am anxious to share the love I have for my mother to my own child but for now we WAIT. Happy Mother's Day to all the mother's out there. Love on them babies a little more this year for all of us that yearn for what you have and never forget the one's that don't have a mother to celebrate this special day with.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MOM'S!
Thursday, May 2, 2013
We have been approved to adopt an infant boy or girl.
After many months and mounds of paperwork we have completed the Home study process. On April 15th we recieved confirmation that we have been approved to adopt an infant boy or girl. Our Dear birthmother letter's have been ordered, printed and shipped to California on the ultimate quest to search for the perfect birthmother for us. Now we wait. I pray daily that we are not one of the couples that wait years for our dream of being parents to be fufilled but it is in gods hands at this point.
Monday, February 11, 2013
On the last hurdle
So it's been a little over 2 months since my last post and we are well underway with our adoption journey. It's been um hectic to say the least. I guess if we knew up front an outline that showed every step it may have been a little less overwelming. If your considering adoption be prepared to have more patience than you could ever imagine. At times it feels like everything is not moving fast enough and then all of a sudden you don't seem to have enough hours in the day to make sure the I's are dotted and T's are crossed. Since I grew up in a family of racecar driver's I guess you could say we are in our final stretch down to the last 100 laps. Wont be long and we will actually be able to see the finish line. I have thought numerous times that I should document every step not only with blog's or little memo's here and there but pictures and then you seem to get so caught up in the requirements that you go crap I should have taken a picture of this or that. The emotions that this whole process has brought out of me I never thought existed. But then again when your ultimate dream is on the course of being fufilled how can you not feel like your on a roller coaster ride.
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