Matters of the Heart

The human heart is powerful.  I’m not talking about the muscle that pumps blood through our bodies, but rather the heart that is symbolic of spirit and soul, conscience and intuition, empathy and – most notably – love.  My heart marches to its own beat, literally, at times in complete defiance of adversity, logic, or even just mere common sense.   It leaps over barriers, peeps into futures, and perpetuates longing and hope.
   
Every waking moment (okay, with a couple exceptions!), I am filled with a sense of gratitude for what surrounds me and hope for what is to come.  The spirit of Melody is amongst us, from her stocking, which hangs righteously amidst eleven others, to images of her perched on my back in the Baby Kelty or asleep in her crib, adding to the musical cacophony of snores, snorts, whistles and peaceful breathing sounds of our sleeping children. 

Where are we at with this adoption?

Our home study is finished, and our dossier is now 95-percent apostilled and complete.  This week it will make its way to [Our Country] for translation, awaiting a couple remnant documents including our 2012 tax return forms, since we just missed the cut-off for acceptance of our 2011s.   In the first week of January, we head to the Department of Homeland Security for one more round of fingerprinting.  Once we receive our U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services approval on our Petition to Adopt an Orphan, I race to Olympia for one last apostille – and our dossier is complete!   From that point on, our future and the fate of this adoption is in the hands of the adoption and child welfare officials in [Our Country].  We pray that they deem us worthy of adopting a special needs child, and we wait for them to extend us a travel invitation, a process that takes about four weeks from completion of the dossier. 

We are humble people.  There is a chance we are not offered this invitation.  The country we have chosen is a difficult one to adopt from, and the rules shift and change often.   

Assuming, however, we are issued our travel invitation, we hop on a place about one week later for an initial month-long stay in the region which Melody’s orphanage is located, spending time with her daily and awaiting a court proceeding which ultimately will determine whether she can come home with us.  If the court rules in favor of our adoption,  we fly back home for ten days (a mandatory “wait period” during which biological family can object to the child’s pending adoption);  then Kelsea (my 22-year-old) and I return for another couple weeks to finish out visas, birth certificates, medical exams, etc., in country.  And – if each of the hundreds of variables falls into place exactly the way they must … and each unforeseen obstacle is resolved …. and  each  person who must be persuaded that Melody is worthy of a family and a life and a future is adequately convinced – we  carry her out of her orphanage, onto a train, across a continent and ocean by plane, to her new home, family and life. 

For now, Melody's spirit is embodied in the images of her here amongst us that I conjure up, her one photograph that appears on this blog, her sweet Christmas stocking nestled perfectly amongst the rest, and in the empty crib, high chair, and car seat which await her, our daughter. 

A Very Special Day

Reflections of a Foster Mama

On November 28, 2012, we became the proud "forever" parents of Prince N and Princess R.  Our Very Special Day was not a culmination of 10 months of pregnancy, followed by a tearful birth announcement.  It did not entail baby showers, pouring over baby name books, or ultrasounds.  Rather, my “pregnancy” spanned a four-year free-fall into love that is deep-rooted, fierce.  It involved a marrying of histories and families (our family, our extended families, and the children's extended birth family), some degree of patience with the U.S. foster system, monumental loss on the part of the children's birth parents, a constant juggling of caseworkers, paperwork, and guardian ad litems, and a whirlwind schedule of therapy/doctor's appointments.  And at the heart of all that shone the intimacy, intricacy, and honor of parenting Prince N and Princess R as days folded into weeks, weeks into months, months into years.

Prince N came to us for a brief time as a four-month-old, a product of two overwhelmed teens who struggled with homelessness and a sense of direction.  Doctors worried that he had "flat affect" and that the spark was snuffed out of him.  Determined to re-kindle attachment, I strapped that baby on ... and off we went!


Prince N's favorite perch:  The front pack.

Prince N was returned suddenly to his parents several months later, who were now expecting another child.  We reeled from the sense of loss.  In his short time with us, he made a mighty big impact. I prayed he was okay. Over the next year, I dreamt of him often.  In each dream, he and I would wander with outstretched arms through empty rooms and never-ending hallways, always searching for -- but never finding -- one another.  In the mornings, I would wake up drenched in tears.  Exactly one year later, we received a call asking us to pick up Prince N and his baby sister.  Ironically, that morning I'd had one of my dreams.

I used to wonder if loving a child not born to me would feel any different than loving one who came from my own body. I don't have a tidy, catchy answer for all who may be considering adoption.  I have learned, as a seasoned foster parent of many difficult placements, that to love the little ones who are randomly placed in your care is a choice.  It's not something that we're all able to do.   Chemistry is certainly a variable, in the same way that we choose in our lifetimes who to date, who to befriend, and who to marry in a sea of faces and possibilities.  Foster parents learn the art of choosing to love, even when chemistry is absent. 

Why then Prince N and Princess R?  Why not the others?  We chose to adopt N & R not because they had a need and we had a room, but because -- for whatever reason -- we fell over the edge of a foster parent's love and down into the abyss of hopeless, FOREVER, mommy and daddy love. And there is a difference. You know you are there when you are holding her and your heart misses a beat. Or when you watch him sleeping and your heart swells with such love and pride that it threatens to burst. Or when you catch yourself looking for perfect Christmas gifts eleven months in advance of Christmas! Or when you lay awake at night worrying for and dreaming of their futures.   Or when the thought of losing them knocks your feet out from underneath you.

We called our adoption day “I LOVE YOU DAY,” a day that we can tell the world how much we love you, and that we celebrate being your mommy and daddy forever.  It was a bittersweet moment: a five-minute court proceeding in exchange for years of  love and emotion and history.  We spilled many tears that day:  Tears of joy.  Tears of loss for the children's birth family.  Tears for the children's future struggle to overcome the "whys" of adoption.  And tears of gratitude for all who have supported us, and N & R, on their long journey towards permanence. 

So to get back to the former question, does adoptive love feel any different from birthed love?  The answer is, quite simply, no.  I cannot discern my love for them from my love for my birth children and step children.  

"I have found the parodox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love."

- Mother Teresa

 

What's not to love?

 

Twinkle Toes

I have not watched TV in 15 years.  The last time I saw a television program was when Melrose Place was popular in the mid 1990s.  When I glance at the "Star" and "People"  magazines that adorn grocery check-out lines, I don't know a single person in the headlines or photos unless they are directly related to the President.  I have nothing against TV ...just that I'm certain that almost anything, short of sleeping, is surely a better use of time.  Our kids -- meaning our younger kids who aren't old enough to have jobs and buy themselves a TV -- have also never watched TV, excepting their videos.  They are blissfully unaware of fads or trends.  They've never heard of Hannah Montana.  They've never seen a commercial.  They ask Santa for things like "a doll" -- not Talking-Barbie-with-Dyable-Hair-Who-Dances-While-Getting-Nails-Done.

Recently Isabel announced that for her 7th birthday she'd like a pair of "Twinkle Toe" shoes.  Surely I was hearing things! Certain that she could be swayed, I suggested that we keep thinking of other ideas.  "But Mom, ALL the girls have them!"  When I was unable to convince her that Elmer's glue and glitter applied to existing shoes might have the same effect, she pouted, "But they're COVERED in sparkles and light up when you walk!"  In a last-ditch effort to avert trend, I explained that Twinkl-y Toe-y Shoes aren't really available in our rural community.  She shot out of the kitchen like a track star, and within seconds shouted, "See??!!  $45.99 and free shipping!!!"  Apparently Google Search is something they teach in school these days.  Voila: Pages and pages of insanely cute shoes, the types that kids for thousands of years have only dreamed of -- available with only the click of a mouse and a credit card!

So did she get those shoes?  You bet she did.  Is this the end of the Twinkle Toes story?  Hah!  No sparkly story ends when there is more than one little girl in this house, including one who could re-write the Book of Stubborn.  Morning after morning, I'd hear a rustle, rustle, then a patter, patter of little feet headed down the stairs in pitch black darkness.  Gillian learned that if she simply got up before the crows, or even the sun, she could snatch the Twinkle Toes from Isabel's shoe box and get them fastened securely to her own feet.  Poor Isabel.   No amount of cajoling, bribing, reasoning, Love & Logic, or even tickling could get those shoes off Gillian, who would clomp her way onto the bus in shoes two inches too big, lighting up the universe along the way, with Isabel trailing gloomily.

Now, Isabel is a strong-willed child -- not the type to be bullied or trodden upon.   If any other person dared this antic, they'd have met the wrath of Queen Isabel.  Not Gillian.  Isabel loves Gillian.  She understands her, she interprets for her, she looks out for her.  At recess during school, she seeks Gillian out to play with.  They eat, play, seek out mischief, and sleep side-by-side. 

As luck would have it, Gillian's birthday is just weeks after Isabel's.  On November 12, Gillian celebrated her 9th birthday.  Isabel celebrated too, as her  pink Twinkle Toes were officially handed over, replaced by their purple twins -- Gillian's perfect size. 

Father Time

After taking off out of the adoption paper-chase starting blocks at breakneck speed, we’ve slowed to a crawl.  We are seriously in “wait” mode, aka “stuck” mode, waiting for several things to happen, none of which we can control.  The good news is, we’ve done the hard stuff.  The bad news is, I must be patient while our paper trail catches up to US!  Now, Patience is not my middle name.  Patience is not my friend, not even an acquaintance, and surely not a virtue.  I am, after all, a Virgo, and when I say now, I mean now. 

First and foremost, we are waiting for our social worker to complete our home study.   Rather than get myself in a dither over something I can’t control, I remind myself on a daily basis “this too shall pass” while sending him seething “Hurry! Hurry!” messages via telepathy when Patience isn’t looking.  We have our last appointment with our social worker scheduled for next week, and he’s promised to have a draft of our home study in hand.  Let me tell you, there’s nothing like an occasional home study to prompt a spring cleaning, any season!   All the places that no one cares about have never looked so good: the closets, the kids’ clubhouse, the linen closet, the underside of beds...  And speaking of looking good, how did I manage to limp through life without a Bissell?  After decades of rental and hauling the leaky Safeway contraption to my home twice a year for a carpet-cleaning blitz, I finally splurged on my very own Bissell.  It has already landed itself high on my Love My Gadget List, right under the Coffee Pot. When I finished every carpet in the house , I turned my focus on upholstery!  Then throw rugs! And when the entire house was pleasantly damp and smelling of chemicals, I did the carpets again --just for the fun of it.  I did turn it off when I caught myself pointing the super-cool upholstery tool toward our long-haired black cat, whose hair I’d just spent 48 hours plucking from the underside of my gadget.  


"Don't Bissell the cat!"

Being a Virgo does have its advantages:  If there’s one thing that makes me crazy is a job half done.

Secondly, we remedied our passport fiasco:  My newest passport (my third this year) arrived, bearing “McCracken” all beautifully squished together.  Unfortunately, it also bears a brand-new passport number, which means the final third of our dossier documents will need to be re-done.  For now, we wait (im)patiently for our friend  the UPS Driver to deliver Peter’s passport; then will come Operation Dossier Repair. 

Thirdly, the State of Pennsylvania Department of Vital Statistics clearly doesn’t drink the same caliber of coffee as its Washingtonian counterparts.  In all fairness, it’s probably not the coffee but rather the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy which has caused a several-week delay in mailing out Peter’s birth certificates.   This is okay, as we don’t really need them until our home study is in hand. 

Then we’ll be back in our foot race against Father Time.  In Eastern Europe, orphans who are deemed “disabled” (for something as menial as a cleft lip or a physical deformity of a hand or an HIV+ label) are stripped of family and human rights and spend precious time, day after day, week after week, year after year, waiting and wasting.  It is estimated that less than 50 percent of Eastern Europe’s orphans, “disabled” or not, will live to see their 20^th birthday.  Almost all of them have living parents who’ve cast them away.  Children such as Melody who are in need of medical or therapeutic advocacy will be lucky to reach the age of five.

If anyone is reading this blog who has yet to be convinced about the severity of the situation involving these orphans, I dare you to spend one night – just one precious hour -- watching this video which demonstrates the reality for children who live and die in state-run mental institutions in Eastern Europe.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h-6Yv5GbZ7Y&feature=youtu.be

Coming next, the Tale of Twinkle Toes!

 

Details!

I am one who prides herself on being a "detail-girl," the inherent administrative assistant, the type who even dreams in detail.   Why is it then that I'm being challenged?  I have a new-found respect for those who have managed their way through an international adoption.  I am certain they possess a caliber or quality that I don't.  They must be Brilliant!  Fearless!  Crazy!  I suspect it's some combination of the above.  Whatever the magical ingredients, I need their recipe.  This is H-A-R-D work!

While I haven't yet stooped to groveling, I confess that "pretty please...?" has been applied a time or two, particularly when it comes to persuading folks to prepare our tedious forms.  Our family doctor, who has had to write no less than one, two or even three letters on behalf of each member of our family, gets this week's Trooper Award.  Our employers, mortgage broker, bankers, assessor's office, auditor's office, public notary ... we just chip away at 'em.  There is no notary in town who is happy to hear, "Would you mind notarizing these, um, ten things?"  When she hears our story, she is slightly more happy to accommodate our project.   But when you approach her again several days later with just, um, ten more ... and, um, another five .... you're past "pretty please" and quickly approaching grovel.

To date, we've had:

A daily chuckle: 

Guessing which of our notarized forms will pass inspection and which won't, kind of like guessing which apple will next fall off the tree ...

A "who'd have thunk it?" moment:
Peter's medical form clears on his first pass.  Sharon's is initially rejected.  Anyone who knows us will appreciate the, ahem, humor in this situation ...

An annoying hiccough:  Obtaining the many requisite fingerprint cards for our family became a part-time job in itself, bee-bopping between the police department (too inexperienced, too inky), the sheriff's office (too disorganized), and the jail (too busy).  I'm happy to report, one and a half months later, that we've been officially fingerprinted to death, and there's not a smidgen of criminal in us!

A reality check:  In considering who might be the perfect guardian for our little angel, we learned that caring for a special needs child is not appealing to all -- that there are those who look forward to retirement and wealth and travel and independence, while others (like us) cannot imagine anything more rewarding than sharing the remainder of our lives with our "special" kids, and everything else will follow ...

An identity crisis:  We're currently charged with persuading the passport folks (with certifiable evidence) that our last name does not have a space between the Mc and Cracken.  As silly as this seems, this little "extra space" is currently hanging up our entire dossier and may involve re-creating our identities, moving mountains, or if we're lucky, just opening our checkbooks again and applying a little more paperwork.

Thanks to all who have offered patience, assistance and encouragement along this journey of detail bedlam:  Every apostilled document that makes its way to our dossier brings us one step and one day closer to meeting our new daughter. 

We're coming for you, baby girl! 

P.S.  Nancy, if you're reading, we couldn't do this without you. xo

The Case of the Missing Shoe

In our household, it is not uncommon to hear a sentence that begins with the ever-dreaded "HAS ANYONE SEEN ....  (then fill in the blank)

           ... my car keys?"

          ... the can opener?"

          ... the tie for my robe?"

          ... the roll of toilet paper?"

Things disappear.  Correction:  They are disappeared from us, snatched stealthily in random order as if their presence in our lives were just figments of our imagination.

When things get really hairy, it's when ALL of something disappears. 

          ALL of my knee high stockings...

          ALL of the forks...

          ALL of the unpaid bills ...

But nothing compares to the very annoying  "Missing Just One."

          ONE earring.

         ONE of the two avocados needed for tonight's guacamole.

Allow me to demonstrate:  Mother Unit (Sharon) dashes downtown to purchase a pair of ballet shoes for a certain ballerina, but discovers she is mysteriously without her debit card and drives home empty-handed, eyebrows furrowed.  While pulling into the driveway, she encounters Teenage Son, wearing similarly furrowed brows.  "Hey, have you seen my debit card?" she asks half-heartedly.

Silence.  Sad sigh.

"Mom, she took my shoe.

"Just one?"

"Just one."

Now doomed to flip-flops on a wintry afternoon, he ambles miserably off. 

His beloved little sister is BANDIT CHILD.

We know it's going to be one of "those kinds of days" when BANDIT CHILD dashes by wearing a backpack, or creeps around on hands and knees, towing a heavy purse by a bathrobe tie.  Or when you see her blonde ponytail flash by and you inquire what she's up to and she wheels around and hisses, "shhhhhh!  I hiding!!"  We're doomed.  Our day is spent keeping one eye on her general whereabouts, biding time until BANDIT CHILD succumbs to sleep.  Then, let the hunt begin!

Somewhere -- under a bed, behind a dresser, buried under a bush -- is the culmination of a day's worth of pilfering.  It will usually present itself in the form of a bulging bag or purse, and its contents will astound you:  $100 worth of stamps.  One orange rind.  Your driver's license from 1987.  4 driveway pebbles.  Every piece of jewelry you've ever owned.  The kitchen sink sponge.  You get the drift.

And if you're really lucky....

ONE shoe.

On borrowed time

On a more serious note ...

It has been a month and half since we began this journey.  We have Melody on the brain, and each day that is spent going about business as usual feels like a day that could have been better spent.  We should have plowed through more paperwork!  Finished our online classes!  Read another chapter of Deborah Gray's Attaching in Adoption!  As it is, we're running on a half-full (or half-empty, depending on the day)tank right now, keeping up with our little ones, jobs, and burning candles at night to move through our adoption process as quickly as possible.  The uncertainty is unnverving; the waiting is tough; the paperwork is daunting.  In fact, the only certainty I can grasp onto is that Melody is worth this, one hundred times over.

For the sake of her privacy, there's not much we can disclose about Miss Melody at this time, including her true name, which country she's in, or even her age.  We have little information as of yet, aside from one photograph and a brief description of her known medical issues which include an array of congenital heart/valve conditions, that she is fortunate to have had heart surgery which reduced pulmonary hypertension, and that she's in serious need of medical advocacy.  Families who've met her in her orphanage have contacted us to say they've been sick with worry for her.  She's been waiting tooooo long.

We are working with a country that does not allow "pre-selection" of children.  Instead -- assuming we will be extended an invitation and travel date by our target country -- once "in country," we will be referred to children who are in the approximate age range and gender that we've been prequalified for, and whose disabilities/medical issues are ones we've expressed interest in.  We will pray that our girl is appearing amongst them.  We must be open to the possibility that things won't go as planned.  The possibilities for heartbreak are endless.  In the past month, as we meet more and more families who have walked or are curently walking this same path, their stories are real.  The child that you just moved heaven and earth to reach is suddenly "not available," is stuck in orphan limbo with faulty paperwork,  or -- the ultimate heartache -- your child is now deceased.  When it is said that these children are on "borrowed time," it is not a joke.  "These children" that I'm referring to are the special ones: the ones who've been cast off as Disabled.  Malformed.  Socially Unworthy.  Unwanted.  These children.

So where are we at with all this?  We are putting one step in front of the other:  If all goes as "planned," we will be walking off a plane this winter with Miss Melody in our arms.  If the plan is altered, we will greive, but we will walk off that plane holding the hand of another. And if that plan doesn't work, we will know that we tried.

Meet Masha!  She is the same age is Gillian:  At the age of eight, she is living in an impoverished adult mental institution.  If I could win the lotto today, or turn back my life by a decade to create a more flexible situation, she'd be coming home with us too.  If you're interested in finding out more about Masha, or making a donation to a grant which will assist a family in adopting her, click here. 

Masha

Spiderman

A couple years ago, a three-year-old lad (whose name I won’t disclose; his nickname was Spiderman) was placed in our foster home.  He was burning through foster homes at a high rate – not because he had Down Syndrome, but because he had an extraordinary gift for climbing and escaping.  He was the modern-day, pint-sized, ever-grinning, tow-headed Houdini.  Keeping him safe was a full-time job that required eyes on every angle of your head.  You see, he could scale walls.  Fences?  Why bother!  7-foot walls?  Hah!! His former caregivers, each of whom adored him to the moon and back, could not keep up with him.  Could I?  Well, I assured the caseworker, I may not be a spring chicken, but I am an avid runner!  If anyone could do it, it would be me.  The afternoon that his caseworker dropped him off at our home, she set him down with his two duffle bags of belongings and proceeded to give me the typical 3-minute quasi-exchange of information: he doesn’t know how to eat food, so good luck with that; he likes to suck on his entire hand, but don’t let him suck on his feet; here is his medical card; he has two doctor appointments upcoming; he can disappear as quick as you can blink an eye and -- WHERE IS HE??????!  Less than two minutes from arrival, he’d already departed.  Introducing:  Spiderman.

A cherub.



I laugh when I hear stereotypes about children with Down Syndrome.  “They’re so SWEET!”  (True.) “So GENTLE!” (Mostly true.)  A picture is painted of pudgy cherubs, sitting angelically still.  But if you asked parents of children with Down Syndrome to describe their child/ren in a few adjectives, two top contenders would be “stubborn” and “BUSY”!  Our kids may be “low tone,” according to physical therapists, but their sheer love of life and adventure gives them extraordinary determination and superhuman powers….  Spiderman. 

For the next year and a half, Spiderman took our community by a storm:  We collectively fell hopelessly in love with him:  His grin, his chuckle while steaming full-speed ahead, his cowlick, the way he’d climb up you like a totem pole when he wanted a hug.  We learned how to manage.   Neighbors would keep Spiderman Vigil.  Preschools assigned special Spiderman helpers, whose jobs were to never let him out of their sight.  Bus drivers, well, prayed.  The term “attractive nuisance” took on a new, colorful meaning, as neighbor’s ponds, ladders, scaffolding, etc., lured Spiderman into action. 

After months of battling to keep him off the tops of cars, the tippy-top of the clubhouse, the top of the refrigerator, dancing on table tops, etc., we compromised and let him have the van.   I learned that if I parked it next to the kitchen window, I could actually prepare dinner AND watch him boing up and down on top of its roof Tigger-style, while it made that popping/denting sound. He was busy, content, and IN EYESIGHT! Passersby would stop to knock on the door, “Do you know there’s a child on the top of your van?” “Yes,” we’d sigh. Never mind explaining.

Spiderman's Forever Family found him last Fall.  He lives a few states away but remains forever etched and interwoven in our hearts and thoughts.  Parenting him was a gift.  Knowing him was an honor.  Letting go was the hardest thing I've ever done.  We are so grateful to his birth family, with whom we grew fond, for entrusting their boy to us, and we are especially grateful to his Forever Family who saw the cherub in him:  He is living the perfect life, rich with siblings, parents who worship the ground he runs on, and no shortage of love and opportunities. Oh, and did I mention a tracking device?  :)   We love you, Spidey!

Introducing ... Down Syndrome!

                                                                                 
Before we set off on this journey through international adoption, it would be odd to not mention Down Syndrome.

I have a cousin with Down Syndrome.  My only childhood memory of her involves one rascally moment when, after locking me in Grandpa's spare bedroom, my pleas for mercy were met with gales of laughter.  Patty was a "jokester!" Otherwise, my entire life had not been touched by one who carried that exra-special chromosome.  Indeed, I lived in a sheltered world where all babies are born perfect and beautiful.

Until November 12, 2003, when I gave birth to Gillian Faith McCracken who was born even better:  Perfect, beautiful, and SPECIAL.

 

I could sense that she was different, as if she'd been born amidst a cloud of fairy dust.  And there was an iota of familiarity about her ... something in the set of her chin, her peaceful, dreamy gaze, her perfectly-chistled little ears.   "Does she have Down Syndrome??!!" I inquired of my nurse while still in the hospital.  "Oh, no!" I was reassured.  "She's perfect."  Immediately upon discharge, I snuck out my medical dictionary and frantically read for clues as to diagnosing Down Syndrome ... just in case.   Yet for four months, despite visits to neonatal specialists for "sleepy baby" syndrome and tracheamalasia, she defied and eluded every opportunity for diagnosis.  Her "special something" attracted people to her like a sugar-laden magnet: That cute thing she'd do with her tongue ... her doll-like petiteness ... her ever-sweet disposition ...

 When Gillian turned four months old, her doctor "got it."  "Have you ever considered that your daughter might have Down Syndrome?" she asked, avoiding eye contact.  The karyotype confirmed what we'd always somehow known:  Gillian really was special.  In a panic, I wished I could freeze-frame her just the way she was at that moment, to shelter her from life's inequities, schoolyard bullies, discomforts, disappointments.  I was terrifed for her future.



 
The months have folded into years (8, to be precise), in which we passed through phases and years of heart issues, aspiration with thin liquids, endless hours of therapies and play groups, batteries of failed hearing tests, an appreciable mountain of broken glasses ... then into IEPs, preschool, kindergarten (twice!), first grade, ballet lessons, t-ball, swimming lessons, second grade ....

These days I often forget she has a "label."  She is our little girl, first and foremost, and everything else is an aside.  She is fiercely determined, giggly, silly, talented, funny, rascally, loving. Yes, a "jokester" even.  I am filled with pride for inner beauty and strength, tenacity, friendships, accomplishments -- big and small.

It is with equal pride, mountains of love, and immense excitement that we prepare our family for the arrival of Ms. Melody, who hails from across the ocean in a country that does not honor her life or her gifts she brings to the world.  We can't get her home soon enough.

         "Little Miss Melody"

Green Light, Go!

The Fog Lifts

That's about what it felt like.  In late August, just days before our weekend honeymoon getaway (a two-day jaunt to the ocean sans kids -- our first weekend alone together in so many years I can't remember), I woke up one morning almost blinded by a revelation:  I can adopt a child with Down Syndrome.  If ever I had a role in life, this was it.  At the crack of dawn, I bounded up to Peter like a labrador puppy, gushing, "Peter!  Peter!  I know what I am meant to do!" and presented my "idea" in a five-second, passionate pre-coffee blurt.  In return he gave me his sideways sly smile, amused by my morning zeal but not enough to respond.  I continued quietly researching for a couple more days, and every morning I woke up with a renewed sense of urgency and purpose

I couldn't help but notice that Peter was also starting to poke around online.  And ask questions.   I would overhear him telling others about the plight of orphans with Down Syndrome ... or he would suddenly remember that he knows someone who speaks Russian!  Or is from Ukraine!  Or is related to someone somewhere in Eastern Europe! 

As anyone with a flock of young'uns knows, trying to get away for a two-day trip requires about two months worth of work.  And many friends or willing family members. In this case, we had to spread our five kids out amongst three homes ... which took half a day in itself.  As I was pulling out the driveway, soaked in sweat because I'd been frantically packing, bathing, organizing, and reassuring kids for 48 straight hours, "This will be worth it" is not exactly what I was thinking.  "This is a MISTAKE" was what I was lamenting.   Three stops later, suddenly it was Peter and I -- gasp, alone! -- headed quietly off to the ocean.  Tucked away in our traveling honeymoon basket of cheese and crackers and chocolate and books of romantic poetry were, guess what?  Yup, adoption stuff.  Adoption magazines, cost lists, articles ....  we were determined to educate ourselves.

Ironically, our ocean-side cabin was located on a family-friendly beach.  What does that mean to an uber-mom? That means that every time I heard a child cry, I'd jump up!  Or a "Mommy," I'd spin around!  Kids running with sticks in their hands, I about croaked!  The boy karate-chopping his little sister, he needed a little, ah, parenting!  Letting go is not as easy as you'd think.  The next morn, determined to be on vacation and not vicariously parenting stranger children, I tuned out all noises created by creatures under the age of ten and tuned in to Peter and the beauty of our surroundings:  The steady roar of the ocean, the warmth of the sun making its way through the morning mist, the smells.  It was a magical weekend, lazy and luxurious, everything a honeymoon should be.  We hiked, read books, cat-napped on the beach, wrote letters, explored nearby areas.  And read our adoption stuff.  You see, Peter was hooked:  he just needed to be "convinced."

One week and one hundred conversations later, I heard the words from him that I really never thought I'd hear -- and ironically, I don't remember precisely what they were! But the effect of them was this:

GREEN LIGHT.  GO. 

And so our story begins ...

Round up: One more makes ten

This post is dedicated to Jean McCracken, who unknowingly opened our worlds, thoughts, and hearts to orphans across the ocean blue...

What, you might be wondering, does "Round Up" refer to?  I'll not mince words:  We are rounding up to ten kids -- a nice, tidy, perfect number, even if it's still one short of fielding a soccer team. And we couldn't be more happy.  It is a verb because we are choosing to round up ... with Down Syndrome.

In August of this year, a little miracle happened:  We managed to pull off our dream wedding.  It was't the wedding itself that was necessarily the dream; rather, it was that we were surrounded by everyone that we'd dreamed of:  our sets of parents, our many, many siblings and families, my grandmother, our coworkers and our closest friends.  With family straddling the great divide -- mine Northwesteners and his primarily Pennsylvanians -- and friends littered all between, it was hard to create a vision for our long-awaiting celebration .... here?  there?  somewhere in between? big and boisterous? small and intimate?  The miracle was, they all came:  young and old, near and far, family and friends.  And what a celebration it was! 

What does this have to do with Down Syndrome...? Okay, I'm getting there!

The week leading up to, during, and after our long-awaited (ahem, 15 years) day was spent in the luxury of family who'd flown in and were camped out around town in various bed and breakfasts and nearby rentals -- including, but not limited to, Peter's parents Charlie and Jean, his step-dad Wally and lovely wife Guilia, and Peter's many brothers and sisters and kids.  As Peter's family floated in and around throughout those days, our lively bunch of five young-uns provided no shortage of hoopla.  Jean would occasionally exclaim, "Oh, I know this family!  They remind me of you!  They adopted a little girl with Down Syndrome from an orphanage.  They have hearts like you!"  She'd share a detail or two ... then a couple days later she'd mention this family again, with whom she was acquainted.

After we'd said our teary good-byes and bid everyone safe flights and drives back home, we returned to our reality which is, in a nutshell, one busy family -- running shoes and sense of humor required!

Less than one week later, sometime during the second week of August, a little card arrived with a folded up newspaper clipping entitled, "Daunting problems, undaunted parents."  Staring out was a photo of a little girl, whose sad but peaceful gaze caught my breath:  It was Katie, the little girl that Jean had been telling me of.  The newspaper article detailed her adoptive family's tedious journey to rescue her from an orphanage in Bulgaria, where she was discovered weighing less than 11 pounds at 9 years of age.

Shocked, I got online and started researching ... and researching ... and the more I discovered, the more I felt a "stirring" build up inside. What I found was one horrific article after another about children with Down Syndrome living lives of exile in orphanages and mental instiutions in Eastern Europe, in societies ashamed by their presence.  I discoverd other families with similar rescue stories ... children unable to walk, talk, eat; an 11-year-old wearing size newborn clothing; the heart-wrenching stories of those who weren't rescued soon enough.  I felt I was suffocating in my knowledge.  It wasn't long before I stumbled across Reece's Rainbow, an advocacy group for the international adoption of children with Down Syndrome.  No longer were the stories just black-and-white text: the stories became faces, hundreds and hundreds of them staring out at me with doleful expressions and one common denominator:  an anomale of their 21st chromosome.

I welcome you to take your own journey along part of the path that I traveled:  to understand the "why," you need to know the "because"...

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26332429 - a 3-segment Dateline video.  NBC's Ann Curry visits Serbia's mental institutions and learns how a society's most helpless people are shunned and warehoused.  (Click on one video to start .. the other two will follow)

http://abcnews.go.com/WNT/video/utah-family-saves-ukraine-girl-15236476  A family from Utah saves one little girl from a life of institution

 http://reecesrainbow.org/  The faces of the children, the reality, and the people who advocate for change.

The sad truth. In Eastern Europe and Russia, where prenatal care and genetic screening is scarce, babies with Down Syndrome are born... and born. These countries are ashamed of Down Syndrome. Parents abandon their "disabled" children or are persuaded to give them up to orphanages as infants.  At the age of four to five, they are transferred to o mental institutions.  95 percent of them will die within the next year, suffering from neglect, malnourishment, and lack of stimulation. Those who survive will live a life without family, confined to a crib, and will ultimately die alone.

The up-side ... (coming soon!)

Bio (Reece's Rainbow)

Once upon a time …

As fate would have it, soccer and kids drew Peter and Sharon together.  While they lived in the same small town, it is possible they’d never have met, had it not been for the fact that Sharon was the coach of Peter’s daughter’s soccer team.  Sharon, a single mom of three, fell in love with Peter’s radiant spirit, and Peter, a single dad of two, fell in love with Sharon – period!  One year later, they purchased a wonderful old Victorian home and their families moved into one very busy Brady Bunch household consisting of five kids of varying ages – all of whom played soccer! -- and a collection of cats.   Fifteen years and 1,000 soccer games later, Peter and Sharon are happily married.  Four of their oldest have “flown the nest” to live lives of college, work, music, motherhood, etc.

But wait!  There’s more!  The family grew …

Their daughter Gillian was born in 2003; much to their surprise, she had Down Syndrome – and how their world changed!  Suddenly immersed early intervention programs, therapies, and medical appointments, their hearts opened in a way they’d never known possible – for knowing and loving a specially-abled child is truly a gift.  Less than two years later, Isabel (now  7) was born.  Surrounded by toddler toys and blissfully immersed in a kid-centric world, Peter and Sharon opened their home, hearts and family further:  For the past six years, they’ve foster-parented  children who are specially-abled, attachment disordered, and in need of medical and therapeutic intervention and advocacy.  For years, they averaged four kids in diapers, and Sharon boasts she can change diapers blindfolded and up-side-down!  Being a stepping stone for so many broken souls has been a rewarding and humbling experience:  unconditional love, consistency, and stability are magical ingredients for these children, who always thrive in the McCracken’s home … letting them go is hard, and Peter and Sharon have cried buckets of tears. 

(… and grew ....)

 Peter and Sharon are in the process of foster-adopting Prince N (age 4) and Princess R (age 3), a brother and sister duo who’ve been with them for the past three years.  They cannot imagine life without these two angels, who steal hearts with their twinkling blue eyes, Prince N's “Dennis the Menace" penchant for mischief, and Princess R's unruly curls and enchanting spirit – plus a beautiful biological family, who remain in close contact.

(…. and grows!)

About two months ago, the McCrackens became aware of the plight of orphaned children with Down Syndrome in other countries, most notably Eastern Europe.  They cannot imagine that children such as Gillian (now a charismatic 2^nd grader who reads, rides her pink bike, plays t-ball, dances in ballet classes, and swims like a fish) go through life without the pleasures and rights that we take for granted, such as the right to have family, education and medicine; to be loved 24/7; to hear someone whisper “ I  believe in you”; to tickle your toes in sand and snitch cookie dough from the bowl; to grow up surrounded by support and admiration of siblings, grandparents, peers and community.  Rather, these orphans serve a life sentence, if they manage to live past the age of five, in mental institutions.  Haunted by this knowledge, the McCrackens made a vow to make a difference in the life of one orphan.  Peter and Sharon ask you to support them in their efforts to “bring home” this precious little girl:  Melody.

Visit our Family Page on Reece's Rainbow:  http://reecesrainbow.org/
We are currently listed under "Sponsor a Family" > "New Commitments"