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?