The Greatest Gift

My parents don't celebrate Christmas.  I won't go into all of the details, but they have some valid convictions for not doing so.  I now celebrate Christmas with my new family, but for the first 19 years of my life, Christmas was just another day.  No presents under the tree (oh wait, no tree), no Santa, no special traditions.

Imagine my shock when I celebrated Christmas with my then-boyfriend's family for the first time.  Andrew's family members are among the most generous people I know, so there have always been TONS of presents under the tree.  And by "under the tree," I mean that the radius of gifts actually extends well into the center of the living room.  I counted seventeen gifts just for me that first year.  Hello, Christmas.

Material gifts are nice, whether they come at Christmastime or not.  While the true meaning of Christmas can easily be lost in commercialism, the love behind the gifts given is typically what makes
the season so full of joy.  I'm excited about my new Sperrys and my Nike running tights (people know me well), but all of the thoughtful gifts I received pale in comparison to that one not under the tree.
She's sitting in the middle of the living room, wearing her Christmas pajamas and a silver bow on her sweet little head.

The greatest gift is my daughter.

In December 2012, our pastor asked everyone to write an impossible prayer on an index card and place it in an envelope so that he and other church leaders could pray for everyone's requests.  I had almost
forgotten that I turned this in until he texted me a picture of the card a couple of months after we brought Piper home:

Three years ago around Christmastime, Andrew and I decided that we would start trying to get pregnant.  Needless to say, December 2012 was difficult.  Two years had passed with surgeries, doctor visits, and countless negative pregnancy tests.  I did the obligatory "liking" of pregnancy announcements on Facebook and sullenly attended baby shower after baby shower, but inside I was anxious and angry.

This Christmas season has been different.  To a small degree, I think I will always wonder why we are unable to have biological children and struggle to truly be happy for people who so easily find themselves pregnant.  But the joy of Piper has overwhelmed all of the negative feelings in the past few months as I've realized that there is truly no other child I would rather have but her.

This afternoon, we finalized Piper's adoption.  Though she has been our daughter in our hearts since we found out about her in May, today she became our daughter on paper.  I didn't think I would be emotional about this court date, but the finality of the decree and the words below brought tears to my eyes.  She's really ours.

IT IS FURTHER ORDERED, ADJUDGED AND DECREED BY THE COURT THAT THE CHILD GRACE C-H (the previous name on Piper's birth certificate), IS HEREBY DECLARED TO BE THE LAWFULLY ADOPTED CHILD OF THE PETITIONERS, ANDREW AND MARY RACHEL, HUSBAND AND WIFE, AND THAT THE CARE, CUSTODY, NURTURE, EDUCATION AND CONTROL OF THIS CHILD BE, AND HEREBY IS, VESTED EXCLUSIVELY IN THE PETITIONERS.

One calendar year, minus three days.  That's how long this adoption process took from start (filling out the application) to finish (finalization).  An impossible prayer?  Sure seems that way.  Many applicants for adoptions are in the waiting phase alone for over a year.  But the impossible came true.  Today, I'm thankful that God hears our hearts even when we can't verbalize the emotions within it. I'm thankful, amazingly, that I don't plan my life, because 2013 has ended so much better than I could have ever envisioned.  And of course, I'm thankful that my name is next to my sweet angel's on her new birth certificate.  Piper Anna Fenrick- that's the best gift of Christmas.

2013 in Pictures:

January 2- We fill out our application and mail it to Deaconess Adoption.

February 8-9- We complete our agency's required adoption seminar.

February 15- Our friends throw us an adoption party and help us raise over $1,000 to bring Piper home.

Adoption Party Hostesses, Jordan and Abby

March 1- My sweet friend, Jenna, puts together a surprise baby shower for me at work.

Friends at my work shower

March- Piper's nursery is ready.

March- For 30 days, Andrew grows a horrendous mustache, which goes on to raise over $3,000 for Piper's adoption campaign.

April 2- Our home study is complete and approved!

April 5- We have a huge garage sale at my friend, Rachel's, house, to continue raising money for Piper.

May 16- I get a phone call at work from Piper's birth mom, saying that she has chosen us to be Little Girl's adoptive parents.  (I posted this picture to Instagram after Andrew got home that day: "Extra big smiles today because we just found out we are going to be PARENTS!")

May 30- We meet Piper's birth parents for the first time at the adoption agency.  Even our smiles here can't explain the significance of that day.

June 22- Church Shower at Rachel's house

Sweet friends

June 23- Fenrick Family Baby Shower

More Fenrick Baby Shower

June 28, 7:00 p.m.- Piper Anna Fenrick is born at OU Medical Center in Edmond, Oklahoma, weighing 7 pounds, 6 ounces.

Perfect.

I meet Piper for the first time.  The face says it all.

Dad meets his angel.

Our new family.  (Too many visitors at the hospital to post pictures!)

June 30- We get to take Piper home to Norman.  (Our case worker, Bonni, is on the right.)

July 4- Piper's first holiday

July 24- "Mr. Conner" and "Miss Amanda" (Piper's birth parents) go to court to terminate their parental rights.  We love them to pieces.  Now that they have done this, we are allowed to acknowledge Piper's existence on social media.

July 28- My Flower Mound friends (Mandy, Whitney, and Katherine) throw the perfect shower for P.

Flower Mound Shower

August 3- Hicks Family Baby Shower for Piper and her cousin, Andrew (born one month apart)

Andrew's momma

Piper meets her "Nana" (great-grandmother) at the Hicks Family Shower

October 19- Andrew and I run in the "Orphan Love Mud Run" to raise money for 10 different adopting families in Oklahoma, of which we are one.

October 31- Piper's first Halloween with Mom the Princess (and Dad the Frog).  Not that she cares.

November 28- Piper's first Thanksgiving.

December 25- Piper's first Christmas

Christmas Eve church

Christmas morning

December 30- Grace C-H goes to court and becomes Piper Anna Fenrick.

Family

Finally a Fenrick

 Big day

We love you, angel!

The judge

Hicks Family

Fenrick Family

Heck of a year.  Here's to 2014!

Choose kindness.

You might be sick of hearing about the Duck Dynasty controversy, so if that's the case, you can just shut this tab.  (I won't be offended.)  In an effort to form my own opinions on the issue, I've not read many blogs in the last couple of days.  I've seen the Facebook posts, and I've read Phil Robertson's interview.  I know what I think about the subject, and obviously, so does everyone else.  Really, though, this blog post isn't about Duck Dynasty; it's about the lost art of choosing kindness.

Let's get a few things straight.

I love Duck Dynasty.  Some of the humor is manufactured, I'm sure, but I still find the show entertaining.  I'm a country girl at heart, so I love guns, fishing, home-cooked meals, four-wheeling, and everything outdoors.  Like many Southerners, and like the characters on the show, I also love God, family, and tradition.

But I think Phil Robertson is wrong.

He isn't wrong for standing firm in his beliefs, but for being careless with his words.

No one should be surprised that Phil is against homosexuality.  However, there is a definite difference between saying, "I don't agree with that lifestyle" and essentially, "What kind of sick, twisted idiots live that way?!"  Phil's statements pridefully placed himself above others, forgetting the fact that he and the rest of us are just humans in need of kindness and grace.  Phil's beliefs may be valid.  His general point about Christians wrongly minimizing sin may be, as well.  But he lost all credibility when his commentary became crude and cold-hearted.       

I teach Pre-K, and a common scenario in my classroom is that one student will hit or kick another.  Inevitably, the victim will come running to me immediately, exclaiming, "Mrs. Fenrick, he hit me!"  Then, almost always, the perpetrator will say, "But I said sorry!", expecting to avoid the consequences of his actions.  (It never works, by the way; he's still in trouble.)  In the same way, Phil Robertson (and people in general) cannot avoid the effects of words and actions by tacking on an "it's not my place to judge" statement to the end of a dehumanizing rant.  

As you may or may not know, Hobby Lobby has a case concerning the Obamacare Birth Control Mandate that is going to the Supreme Court.  (I am probably much more aware of this issue than the general public because my husband works for Hobby Lobby, so the company's decisions directly affect us.)   Here, I think we could all learn a lesson from David Green, Hobby Lobby's founder and owner.  Whether or not you agree with Green's principles or stance on the issue at hand, his handling of the entire situation is noteworthy.  Unlike the Chick-fil-A scandal of this summer and the current Duck Dynasty affair, Hobby Lobby's case has not become highly offensive.  I would argue that the reason lies in the way that David Green has handled himself.  So far, he has been able to stand firm in his beliefs without alienating others or putting himself on a pedestal.  He has been kind.  Hats off to you, Mr. Green.  

No one ever changed anyone's mind about anything by being mean.  Choose kindness, and choose your words carefully.

Yes, I do have a real job.

When I taught special education, no one questioned the legitimacy of my job.  "My goodness, you must have the patience of Job," they'd comment.  "You must work very hard!"  they'd exclaim.  Or, "Oh, I could never do your job!"  Now that I am teaching Pre-K, I get a lot of, "So it's basically babysitting, right?"  "What do you even do all day?"  Few things irk me more than these questions and the fact that early childhood teachers are not respected as just that: teachers.

Four-year-olds are wonderful.  They're intelligent, inquisitive, creative, funny, and helpful.  I can understand where a person's experience with one or two of them at a time would lead him to believe that being a Pre-K teacher is easy because honestly, four-year-olds are easy to love.  Try having 15 of them in a room together and then see what you think.  I'm not complaining; the fact of the matter is that I literally have seven kids pulling on my clothes at times and am trying to somehow help the other eight who are asking fifteen different questions and smashing Play-Dough into the carpet.  People who teach early childhood are generally overworked and underpaid; they do their job simply because they recognize the importance of molding young minds into something great.

We've had multiple unexpected snow days here in the past week.  Children everywhere have been cooped up inside, and parents everywhere have been pulling their hair out.  Even if teaching early childhood was just babysitting (which it isn't), I think that most people would recognize after these long days, that taking care of small children is actually a big task.

So, what do I do all day?

We make things.  We make messes.  (I clean them up mostly, but they help).  We make crafts.  We make memories.

I blow noses, blow whistles, tie shoes, tie sashes on dresses, put on Band-Aids, put up crayons, and put on a circus to keep their attention.

I teach.  I teach letters and numbers.  I teach them to write their names.  I teach them to read and to love it (yes, four-year-olds can learn to read).  I teach them about safety and health.  I teach them new vocabulary (sometimes to replace the colorful language they have learned at home).

But more importantly, I teach them manners.  (Jude, cups are for drinking, not for putting on our heads.)  I teach them patience.  (Wyatt, you can have that puzzle, but Owen gets to finish it first.)  I teach them kindness.  (Ellie, your friend's face says that she is sad because you pushed her down.)  Every moment can be a learning experience.  Thus, teaching early childhood is not simply a matter of common sense; it is an art.  Contrary to popular belief on the street, an early childhood degree isn't a load of bologna.  (And don't get me wrong- I've still got tons to learn myself.)  

I'm a parent as well as a teacher, and so for a large portion of my day, I turn my own child over to someone else.  I know that she is in good hands, but I still worry.  At the end of the day, I believe that I am ultimately responsible for her education, but I pray constantly that her early childhood teacher is caring for her as I would.  In these formative years, I want my daughter to learn basic skills and to have opportunities for positive social interactions, but I mostly want her to love and be loved.  I think every kid deserves that, and I know that not every kid gets it at home.  That's really why I teach.

I teach four-year-olds.  I don't always love it, and I'm not always good at it, but it's always important.  And it's always a real job.  

Searching for significance

Thanksgiving has come and gone once again.  Once again, I ate way more than I should have, spent too much money on Black Friday, and didn't do anything semi-productive.  My list of blessings this year is a mile long (as it is every year), but I don't feel thankful.  Most days, I don't feel anything.

I've got a beautiful home with more clothes and food than anyone needs, a good job, a precious daughter, a hard-working husband, and amazing friends.  On paper, I've got everything I need and want.  Yet, I'm numb.  And I'm in counseling.

It's hard to explain, really.  I can't exactly tell you why I resent the fact that people think my life is happy all the time.  Sometimes it is.   Sometimes there are real moments of inexpressible joy.  But those moments are fleeting.  I'm not angry.  I'm not depressed.  And I definitely don't want you to feel sorry for me.  I just want to feel alive.  In the depths of my soul, I want to feel beautiful...and significant.

I get tired of the old Christian cliches, particularly, "Find your satisfaction in Christ."  I know people mean well when they say that, but I'm sorry- I have no idea what it means.  I have a hard time wrapping my mind around ideas that aren't tangible.  Show me, practically, how to "find my satisfaction in Christ," and I'd love to listen.  Otherwise, it seems like that's an easy, automatic answer to an issue with deep and twisted roots.

Life is short.  I've been especially reminded of that in the last couple of weeks as my childhood friend was diagnosed with cancer.  He's 26, and the cancer has spread to his brain.  In my mind, cancer isn't supposed to happen to people my age.  But it can, and it does.  Cancer is no respecter of strength or youth.  Neither are car wrecks, plane crashes, or freak accidents.  Life could end or be drastically altered at any moment, regardless of whether you are 24 or 104.

My counselor tells me to hold onto the things that seem the most real, the experiences and people that make me feel alive, while at the same time recognizing that some of the most real things require a leap of faith to believe.  In light of the fact that life is short, I want to find those things and then to hold fast to them, refusing to let go.  I'm convinced that there is more to life than what I'm experiencing.  I've seen glimpses of it.

One of the greatest gifts God gives us is the ability to start over.  I can't change my circumstances (and in most instances, I don't want to).  But tomorrow I can wake up and "reset."  I can choose to laugh louder, love more, and hold more tightly to the people who are important to me.  I can choose those things even when I'd rather not.  Then maybe, just maybe, those choices will make me feel again.

Oh, and counseling is helpful for everyone.  More on that another day.

A Case for Domestic, Open Adoption

Adoption isn't for everyone.

That isn't what this post is about.  You need to do what's right for your family.

Lately, I've had so many people ask me questions about our adoption, either because they're just being nice, because they secretly want to adopt but are afraid to mention the idea to their spouse, because they're trying to decide between international and domestic adoption, or because they've talked about adoption for years but have never known where to begin.  Whatever the reason, I'm going to attempt to debunk a few of the myths I've heard (and believed myself) about domestic, open adoptions.  Adoption is important, and I think that more people would do it if it wasn't so intimidating.

Myth #1:  Adoption is too expensive.

Okay, let's be real.  Adoption through an agency is expensive.  But it's not too expensive.  Our daughter's adoption ended up costing more than we anticipated (over $18,000), but we made it.  We aren't millionaires- our combined incomes are far less than even six digits.  Whether or not you read anything else on this point, please read the following: If you wait until you have all of the money to adopt, you'll never do it.  We have been very blessed with supportive family and friends who helped us tremendously, but adoptions are still possible without those things.  There are adoption tax credits, employee adoption grants, odd jobs, savings accounts, low-interest adoption loans, garage sale fundraisers, reduced trips to Starbucks, grants through adoption agencies, and other options.  Normal people (not just wealthy people) can adopt. Throughout our adoption process, I have found myself in tears, humbled by the grace of God and the generosity of others in helping us bring home little Piper.  We have certainly found it to be true that "He can do infinitely more than all we ask or imagine."  And in case you were wondering, our little girl is more than worth every penny.

Myth #2:  The birth mom will change her mind.

There actually is some truth to this one.  A birth mom can change her mind and decide to parent up until the point when she terminates her rights (within a month after the baby is born).  This has happened several times throughout the past year at the agency we used.  Think about it, though- wouldn't you maybe consider doing the same?  All of a sudden, the baby that you've carried for nine months is very real and very beautiful, and it would become very easy to justify your situation and believe that you could take care of him or her.  I constantly worried that Piper's birth mom would reverse her decision.  But at the same time, I knew that I would be okay if she did.  These birth parents aren't crazy, y'all.  They're pretty amazing people actually, and I love Piper's birth mom so much that I genuinely wanted the best for her in that period of uncertainty.  Adoption, like most things worth doing, is risky.  The birth mom really could change her mind.  And you really would be okay.

Myth #3:  The birth parents will try to take my child away.

After birth parents have terminated their rights, they legally cannot take the child from you.  In Oklahoma, birth fathers can sign their rights away before the baby is born.  Birth mothers, as I mentioned before, must appear in court within a month of giving birth to terminate their rights.  After both of those situations have occurred, only the state can take the baby away from you, which would never happen unless they found evidence of you being abusive.  Birth parents aren't going to come knocking on your door to steal your child.  Give them a little credit.  

Myth #4:  Open adoptions are a pain and I don't want my child to be in contact with his/her birth parents.

First of all, there are varying levels of openness for domestic adoptions.  Our agency requires at least a semi-open agreement.  Minimum obligations are sending letters and pictures (via the agency) to the birth parents monthly for the first year, and then twice a year after that.  If you are hesitant to send letters and pictures, I urge you to consider the reasons why.  Your child will always consider you to be her parents, but the desire to know who the birth parents are is innate in every adopted child.  You owe your child honesty.  

I also ask you to put yourself in a birth parent's shoes for a moment.  If you had given birth to a baby, you would always want to know that that baby is okay.  You would probably think about him all the time and wonder how he is doing.  You would ask yourself, daily, if you had made the right decision.  Now back to reality.  When regarding the tremendous gift that your child's birth parents gave you, doesn't it seem like a small task to update them every once in awhile?  

Finally, I urge you to contemplate the caliber of people who choose to give their babies up for adoption.  While it is true that some are not excellent role models, that is not the case in most instances.  Piper's birth parents are exactly the kind of people who I want her to know.  They are selfless, brave, and generous. My husband and I are hoping that they will be involved in Piper's life.  We text with them every so often just to check in, and they're not ready to see Piper again yet.  (It has only been three months.)  You don't have to start off an open or semi-open agreement by giving away your phone number.  Our relationship has evolved to the point where we felt comfortable with that, but yours wouldn't necessarily have to be the same.  A healthy sense of caution about birth parents is acceptable; an irrational, judging fear is not.  Be skeptical of your skepticism.

Myth #5:  My child's birth mom will have consumed drugs and alcohol during her pregnancy and harmed my child.

It's possible, yes.  But maybe not.  Again, there is much to be said here for being cautious as opposed to being fearful.  At our agency, we were allowed to choose the amount of prenatal drug and alcohol exposure that we would allow for our baby.  None of the case workers made us feel guilty about our decisions or tried to force us to do anything against our beliefs because they knew that we needed to make the best choice(s) for our family.  In the end, we decided that we had to leave Piper's health and well-being in God's hands. Prenatal drug and alcohol exposures can cause problems for babies and children; so can many other factors.

Myth #6:  An adopted child won't really feel like "ours."

We don't have biological children, but I don't know how any child could feel more like "ours" than Piper does.  I can't imagine my heart being any more full of love, nor can I imagine wanting any other child in the world in her place.  That's all I have to say about that.

Myth #7:  There is a greater need for international adoption than domestic adoption.

I have a hard time not getting angry about this myth.  My husband and I hope to pursue international adoption one day and feel called to bringing a child home from Peru because of our attachment to and love for that country.  However, international adoption is not "cooler," "better," or "more necessary" than adopting in the the United States.  If you're going into adoption with the mindset that you are "rescuing" a child, I ask you to consider the thousands of children in your own state who need "rescuing" from foster care...babies who need "rescuing" from a life of neglect...teens who need "rescuing" from juvenile detention centers...birth parents who need "rescuing" from the feeling of having to abort because there are no other options.  And then remember that ultimately, whatever child you bring into your family will end up rescuing you in more ways than you even realized you needed it.  Domestic adoptions are so important.  Look at our foster care system or meet a birth parent, and you will undoubtedly know that this is true.

I'm not trying to convince you to do something that you don't think is right for your family.  What I do know is that I believed every single one of these myths until we jumped into Piper's adoption.  Now that I'm on the other side, I can say that a domestic, open adoption is hard, frustrating, scary, unpredictable, unusual, hopeful, happy, freeing, beautiful, and worth every monetary, physical, and emotional cost.  Adoption is joy. 

A tribute to single parents

I see you walking your kids into my Pre-K classroom every morning.  They look well-rested, and you look exhausted already.

I see you in the grocery store, pushing your cart through crowded aisles and trying to get your son to sit down.

I see you at your job.  You're often the first one there and the last one to leave.  It's killing you that your baby has been with someone else all day, but there is no other way.

I see you at your kids' soccer games, at their parent-teacher conferences, at church, and at other activities that are important to your little ones.

I don't often see you at concerts, at the nail salon, at sporting events, or at adult parties.  I don't see you at activities "for you."

I love my daughter "to the moon and back," as the old children's book says, so I understand why you do what you do.  It's because you have to.  Because you wouldn't have it another way.  Because their happiness matters more than your own.

This post began with me bragging on Piper's dad.  Truly, he's wonderful, and I'm incredibly thankful.  Then I started thinking about how I should write about more than my husband.  I couldn't do all of this without him.  But, single parent, "without him" or "without her" is your life- every day, every moment.  

Here I have to apologize.  I used to look at your kids and blame you when they misbehaved in my class.  "Their mom doesn't spend enough time with them," I thought.  Not long ago, I would see your daughter with boogers in her nose and wonder why you didn't grab a tissue on your way out the door.  I noticed your children having a hard time standing in line in Wal-Mart but failed to see the helpless look on your face because sometimes, kids will just be kids.  Here's the worst one of all: I had no sympathy for you because I didn't take time to listen to your story or care about your circumstances.  Then I had a baby of my own.  I get it now, and I'm so sorry.

I'm alone with my daughter for about six or seven hours each day before her daddy comes home.  There are days when those hours are pure joy, and then there are days when she screams.  And screams.  On the screaming days, I can't wait for my husband to walk in the door.  He lets me go for a run, grab a cup of coffee with a friend, or get a pedicure.  I know that those aren't usually options for single parents, bless you.  I'm run ragged half the time, and I'm not in this alone.

Your infant is never going to thank you for changing his diaper.  Your daughter probably forgot to give you a hug after you took her to dance practice.  Your son didn't show his appreciation that you took off work early to be at his football game.  Your child's teacher didn't realize how much you had to sacrifice to be at that meeting.  Your boss didn't care that you stayed late...again.

So to the military wife, the single mom working two jobs, the husband whose wife always travels for business, and the single dad who wakes up at 4:30 to get it all done, I hope someone looked you in the eyes today to say, "Thank you."  And I hope you listened.  Lord knows you've got lots on your plate, and you're a rockstar in my book.

    

And we made it.

I'm only about twelve weeks into this parenting thing, and it's already tempting to start feeling like a failure.

Sometimes I look at the piles of laundry sitting in our bedroom and think about how they never existed just two months ago.  Before baby, I could get all of our laundry washed, folded, and put away in a day.  Now it takes me that same amount of time to take care of one load.  Never mind that I haven't made dinner in weeks (I'm not counting Stouffer's lasagna).  I blame it on the fact that the little one doesn't take naps for more than 20-30 minutes at a time.  (Did I mention that I also failed at BabyWise?)

I look at the other babies being dropped off at daycare and admire the tiny Ralph Lauren logos printed on their onesies.  I think about how we can't afford designer clothes, and I try to forgive myself for letting her run out of diapers last week.  

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wonder when I started wearing messy buns every other day instead of fixing my hair.  Then I feel sorry for my husband, who didn't think he was marrying a slob four years ago.

Right now, she's just a baby, but soon the time will come when Piper is off to her first day of kindergarten.  And I won't be the mom who makes her a cute themed breakfast or cuts her sandwiches into dinosaurs.  There will be moments when I wish I was.  But for one, my "heart-shaped" pancakes look like aliens.  For two, I'm struggling to get both of us out the door on time now, and all I have to do is buckle an infant in a car seat.

I'm not SuperMom like I had hoped.  The house isn't as clean as a whistle every minute anymore, I'm a hot mess 90 percent of the time, and we can't give our baby the absolute best of everything that the world has to offer.  On the days when I'm feeling defeated, I remember how I grew up.  I am reminded of the way that my parents raised my brother and me, and I know that everything will turn out fine.

I wore hand-me-downs through at least elementary school, maybe longer...

...and I made it.

Sometimes we ate amazing home-cooked meals, but sometimes when we asked Mom, "What's for dinner?", she would tell us to go look in the refrigerator...

...and we made it.

We didn't eat gluten-free, sugar-free, or any other kind of "free" that otherwise restricted our diets (although eating for free was always good)...

...and we made it.

Occasionally, Mom was running behind (probably because she was doing something for us), so I would be late to gymnastics practice.  I would have to do extra push-ups and crunches...

...but I made it.

There were times when a friend of mine would come over while the laundry was still sitting on the couch in piles.  My friend and I would joke about "whitie-tighties" and "granny panties" and then we would move on with our lives...

...so obviously we made it.

I drove a mini-van in high school and didn't get a cell phone until I was sixteen.  100 percent not cool all the way around...

...but I made it.  

We lived in a one-story house for our whole lives, and my brother and I always shared a bathroom.  I hated that he left water spots on the mirror, and he hated that my hair got stuck in the shower drain...

...but we made it.  

My parents couldn't afford to send us to the most expensive private schools where we would get the very best education.  Regardless, my brother was a National Merit Scholar...

...so you can see that he made it.

The thing is, I'm probably going to keep feeling like a failure, but only as often as I let myself.  My mom and dad weren't perfect, but they did a darn good job.  So, at the end of the day, there will always be parents who are doing all of this better than me, parents who can provide more for their children.  I can't do it all and I can't be everything I want to be.  But I know the One who can.  And I know that because her life is in His hands...

...she is going to make it.

Acceptance.

A couple of weeks ago, I returned from my fifth trip to Trujillo, Peru.  Every time is a little different, yet a lot the same.  Every time I hope to come home changed, and every time my hopes are confirmed.

Sometimes I learn simple lessons in Peru.  Don't eat the lettuce or drink the water unless you want to spend your trip in the bathroom.  Speaking of the bathroom, always throw your toilet paper in the trash.  (Gross, I know.)  Never pay full price for anything in the market, and definitely never hop in a car with a random taxi cab driver.

Sometimes the things I learn are deeper.  After a week of hard manual labor, I come to appreciate modern machinery...and construction workers.  I am also reminded that it is okay, and often good, to disconnect from technology (on these trips, I don't really have another choice).  As I view the extensive poverty and corruption, I consider how blessed I am to have so much.

Humility.  Selflessness.  Acceptance.  Joy.  Kindness.  Strength.  These are the greatest lessons, the best reminders.  In trips past (and on this one, too), I have truly come to understand the meaning of these words through the people who live in Peru.  This time, I learned their meaning through my people.

On my four previous trips, I have traveled with excellent teammates, but all of them have looked very much like me.  2008 and 2010: All college students.  2011: My husband.  2012: All 20-Somethings, some married but none with kids.

This was the 2013 team, age range of 58 years, in all stages of life:

-My brother, Tim: 23, single

-Ben: 30, single

-Jack: 55, divorced

-Ted: 75, married but traveling without wife

-Chase (grandson of Ted): 17, high school senior

-Sam: 25, married (to Sarah)

-Akeilah (daughter of Jack): 25, single

-Whitney (daughter of Jack): 28, single

-Aimee: 22, recent college grad

-Sarah (wife of Sam): 25 (and obviously married)

-Me, Mary Rachel: 25, married with baby but traveling alone

Seems like a recipe for conflict and disagreement.  It was actually the blueprint for something beautiful.

I saw strength as I watched Ted push wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of dirt into the street without a complaint (and consequently learned humility as my own stamina paled in comparison to a man 50 years my senior).  I understood selflessness as our flights to Trujillo got split up and people willingly offered to spend the night in the airport, skip dinner, or take the last flight.  I experienced kindness when Ben lugged around my camera all week and consistently made sure I was surviving without my six-week-old baby.  I heard joy in the voice of my roommate, Aimee, as she tried to sing along to the words of a Spanish hymn in church and then laughed at her own futile attempt.    

Mostly, though, I returned from the trip with a whole new definition of acceptance.

As we all sat around the fire on our last night in Trujillo and shared highlights from the week, Akeilah recounted her experience.  And I cried.

"You know," she began, "Dad has been part of City Pres for awhile now.  I came to church with him when he became a member, but I haven't been involved in a church community in quite some time.  Being with all of you this week made me realize how much I want that again.  You are all amazing.  In many places where I go, I feel judged, and I don't feel that at all here.  You actually love each other and you've made me feel welcome."

This isn't a tribute to me and my awesomeness (I'm not awesome).  It's really just thankfulness for my church, which I don't talk about nearly enough.  You see, a year and a half ago, I was Akeilah.  Because while many churches proclaim that "everyone is welcome" and that you should "come as you are," what they often mean is that "everyone is welcome to become our project" and that you should "come as you are but don't come back if you have any major issues."  In the past, I've felt trapped into being someone I'm not.  What I have experienced at City Pres is something different entirely, something rare.  I feel free.

I've realized that church doesn't have to be what I always thought it was.  In this place, community is real and not forced.  I hang out with church friends because I want to, not because it is an obligation.  I'm being honest with people, with myself, and with God for the first time ever.  I've been angry and I've said things I shouldn't have.  And I've been loved anyway.

The diversity of our team to Peru and the unity that we experienced throughout the week reminded me of just how accepted and encouraged I've been over the past eighteen months- in spite of my crazy self.  Sometimes it takes a trip across the world to make you realize what has been right in front of your face all along.

I can't convince you to come to my church, or even to come to church at all.  But I'm suggesting that maybe you try.  Perhaps church doesn't have to be what you always thought it was either.  

Our team, minus Jack

The Mom Club (and why I don't want to be part of it)

All my life, I've wanted to be a mom.

Since I was old enough to walk around with a stroller, I would load up my baby dolls and push them around to "school," "the grocery store," "church," or "Dr. Teng's office" (AKA various spots around our house).  I found so much joy in taking care of "my kids."

Today, as I load up my actual baby and take her to "school" (daycare), Sprouts, City Pres, and Dr. Fields' office, I find that same joy, but even a thousand times stronger.  I love being a momma.  What I don't love is "The Mom Club."

"The Mom Club" isn't an actual club, but as I explain it, I have no doubt that you'll know it exists.  In this "club," members leave behind all other roles that once mattered to focus on the only one that apparently does now: motherhood.  I don't undervalue that role in my life; however, I believe that my roles as a wife, teacher, and friend (among others) remain fundamentally important.  I don't want my whole being to revolve around my child.

The ways in which the motherhood role is exalted in "The Mom Club" are various.  One way is that moms always and only talk about or post pictures of their children on social media.  I do want to see people's children on my Newsfeed sometimes, and to hear about what they are doing.  But constant posts about one's kids can give the impression that life outside of parenthood is meaningless.

Another example of motherhood being elevated beyond what it should be is when "club members" begin to define grey matters as black and white.  "Oh, you are employed outside the home?  Oh dear.  Don't you care about your child?"  "You don't use cloth diapers?  Well, let me tell you about why they are the only way."  "BabyWise didn't work for your daughter?  You must not have followed such and such principle."  The thing about black-and-white-parenting is that every baby is different.  Grey matters really aren't worth discussing because they are matters of opinion, but "The Mom Club" seems to have endless reasons to offer "advice" (mandates) about them.  "Mom Club" members are not better or worse than other moms, because there are far more ways than one to successfully parent your children.  Your kids are yours, and only you know what's best for them.

The most defining characteristic of "The Mom Club" is that it is exclusive.  You'll immediately know that you're conversing with an affiliate if you feel left out and have nothing to add to the dialogue (monologue).  This is true regardless of whether or not you have children.  When people only talk about one thing, or a variety of things relating to the exact same topic (my child's poopiest diaper, my child's latest and great milestone, why I make certain decisions for my child, the number of green beans my child ate today, etc.), others not only feel bored, but unimportant.  I believe that there is immeasurable value in developing friendships with people in all stages of life.  That college student doesn't want to hear about your baby vomiting on your new shirt; she wants you to ask her how her boyfriend is doing.  Your elderly neighbor doesn't care that your son likes to kick his legs in the bathtub; she just needs a Scrabble partner.  Oh, and your married friend who has been trying to have children for years certainly can't handle listening to you jabber on about the one subject that causes her such pain.  Only spending time with people who are exactly like you is dangerous because it not only clouds your vision, but it creates a bubble that blocks out everyone else.  I don't want to be part of any group that ostracizes others.

All of that said, I do believe that there can actually be groups of moms which meet together yet aren't "Mom Clubs" (I went to one this week).  Groups which encourage one another and allow honesty are not only beneficial, but essential.  The problem enters when those groups lose sight of the viewpoint that they were created to have and focus on only one thing.

The other problem is that joining "The Mom Club" is not a definitive moment in which a mom pays her dues on a certain date and then is a member for an allotted amount of time.  Any mom can, unknowingly, become a member at any point in time.  I realize that I am just as much in danger of joining this club as anyone else.  I constantly must ask for perspective.

I'm watching my daughter sleep in her chair right now, and the feeling of contentment that she brings me is indescribable.  But she isn't my everything, and I pray (for her sake and my own) that my world never becomes so small that I forget who I am aside from being her mother.  Lord help us all.

A letter to my daughter's birth parents

Dear Amanda and Conner,

I have no idea if you'll ever read these words, but I have to write them.  I have to hope that, even if you never stumble across this blog or open the card that we sent on your court day, you somehow know the way that we feel about you.

I remember getting the call that you were at the hospital, Amanda.  It was June 28th- the day that we would meet our girl.  I had simultaneously anticipated and dreaded this day since May 16th, when I first heard your voice on the phone.  Although I was grateful to be allowed in the delivery room when Piper was born, I was also unsure of myself.  Would I say something stupid?  Would I pass out since I'd never seen a live birth before?  Would I be able to convey my excitement about bringing home Baby Girl without rubbing salt in your wounds?  At least our case worker would be there to help us know how to navigate this situation that most people never face...

Except that when Andrew and I arrived at the hospital, you only wanted the two of us back there with you.  Panic.  I was honored that you and Conner trusted and loved us enough to let us experience something so special, but up to this point, we had depended on Bonni to help us know what to say to you and how to act.  Andrew put his arm around my shoulders, and I quickly prayed for the kind of strength and wisdom that could never come from me.  Please don't act like an idiot, please don't act like an idiot.

When we walked in the room, my fears were gone, and I immediately felt at home.  "Hey guys!" you grinned.  Even in labor, you looked beautiful and seemed calm.

In a few minutes, the nurse came in to see how far you were dilated.  She looked at Andrew and me, hinting with her eyes that we should step out.  We took the clue and started to leave the room when you, Conner, looked at her and said, "No, it's okay.  They're family."  I wonder if you know how much those words meant.

Time seemed to stand still as we spent the next hour or so talking with both of you and trying to wrap our minds around this huge thing that was about to take place.  Though we had met you before, those moments in the delivery room were especially precious to me as we actually got to know the parents of our little girl.  In the moments away from the agency, the paperwork, and the caseworkers, you became my friends and not just the couple who had chosen our profile book.  Conner, I learned that you, like my husband, hate making decisions about restaurants.  Amanda, I learned that you and I are both somewhat obsessive about using the Weather Channel app on our phones.  It was the little things in that hour-long conversation that made you both seem more real and made me love you more.

When the nurse came back later, it was "go time."  Andrew and I stood awkwardly at your head and stroked your hair as we tried to think of something to offer other than, "You're doing great!"  Conner, you were a natural.  You knew exactly what to say and do to help your girl.  And Amanda, wow.  You made labor and delivery look like a walk in the park.  I honestly expected so much anger and frustration, but all I saw in that situation was love.  I wish there was a way for you to have stood back and watched the scene like we did.  Your relationship with each other is inspiring, and your affection for a baby who you bore for someone else is, frankly, earth-shattering.  Those words that Conner whispered as you pushed, "Come on, Amanda, this is the last thing we can do for her," melted my heart in more ways than you'll ever realize.

Just 30 minutes after you started pushing, Piper was here.  I cried the happiest tears of my life as I took in her thick hair, her chubby cheeks, and her perfect little body.  Then I watched as the two of you held her, and my heart broke.  This was the reason why I had been so afraid of our time together in the hospital.  You clearly loved her as much as I did, yet you knew that she wasn't yours to keep.  You said that we deserved her, and I knew that wasn't true.

The nurses came in and out to check on Piper as the four of us bounced back and forth in our conversation between the trivial and the significant.   Andrew and I left for about an hour to pick up some food and to give you two time alone with Piper.  We got back to the room and ate dinner together, and I found myself wishing (though I knew the impossibility of my idea) that there was a way for the five of us to be the little family who lived happily ever after.

The hospital prepared a room around the corner for Andrew, Piper, and me, and we slowly collected our belongings to spend our first night as a family of three.  Before I went to bed, I walked down the hall to refill my water bottle.  Your door was open, and I stopped.  Conner, you were headed out briefly to get some fresh air, so I sat down in a chair next to the bed for some "girl time."  Amanda, as I listened to you share your hopes and dreams, as you talked about your friends, and as you revealed your plans for college in the fall, I felt connected to you in a way that few people will probably ever be able to grasp.  Though we didn't always talk over the past nine months, we were in each other's hearts as we shared this journey.  We have a unique bond: I wanted so badly to be in your place (to be pregnant), and you wanted to be in mine ("established" enough to raise a baby).  There is no way to explain those feelings to anyone else, but I think you know.

The night passed uneventfully, and I began to think about how the two of you would be going home to a new "normal" in just a few hours.  I started dreading those last moments in the hospital.  Finally, around 2:30, both of you came down the hall.  This was it.  Andrew and I stepped out of the room to give you the space that you needed with Piper. We held each other tightly and prayed for the words to say as we waited for you to come out.  About five minutes later, the two of you entered the hall with Piper, and all the tears that I had been holding back came flooding out as I looked at your faces.   I never guessed that goodbye would be so hard.  Amanda, I've thought that you are unbelievably strong throughout this entire journey, so seeing you dissolved by emotion was almost unbearable.  It would have been wildly inappropriate to take pictures in the moments that followed, but the scene will forever be captured in my mind as you handed Piper to me for the last time and as you, Conner, hugged my husband like there was no tomorrow.  In those moments, every word I had rehearsed was gone.  Each of us knew that there was nothing to be said which could possibly convey the feelings we had.  In shaky voices and through blinding tears, we all said how much we love each other.  Amanda, you asked me to "take good care of her," and I promised that I would.  Then the two of you walked around the corner and back to your lives.  I still cannot fathom how a day can be so joyful and so gut-wrenching at the same time.

Andrew and I walked downstairs to the hospital's chapel, where I buried my head in his lap, and we both sobbed.  I have never seen my husband cry like that before.  I had thought that I would be filled with guilt when you two went home without a baby, but really I was just overcome with sadness like I haven't ever known.  I was sad for you because of the difficulty of your decision, and I was sad for us because I felt like we had just lost two people who, in a matter of days, had come to mean everything to our family.  "Be still and know that I am God," the walls of the chapel read, and this is ironically the verse tattooed on the wall of our bedroom at home.  Both of us found it difficult to "be still," because our hearts were so heavy for you.  We prayed over and over for God to give you peace, and I still pray every day that you've found it.

As I got ready the next morning, I burst into tears all over again, and I wondered how many days would pass before I woke up without crying for you.  In the weeks since we have been home with Piper, time has slowly eased the hurt, but I don't think of you any less.  I have never once doubted that you would change your minds about the decision you made, but I have felt an unexplainable stillness in knowing that if you did, I would be okay because as much as I care about Piper, I care about the two of you equally.

Every night before bed, we tell Piper how many people love her, and the two of you are always at the top of the list because you will always be her parents, too.  I can't wait until she is old enough to ask questions about the picture of the four of us on the wall in her room, until she wonders how she got her beautiful black hair, and until she makes the connection that her middle name is the same as her birth mother's.  I can't wait for that day because then I get to tell her, once again, the story of two people named Amanda and Conner who loved her so much that they made the greatest sacrifice two people could ever make.

People say that you can't understand true love until you have a baby.  Although I don't fully agree with that statement, I do believe that I've experienced a fuller and deeper kind of love because I met you.  In your words, Conner, this situation was just "meant to be."  Through our whole adoption journey, I have been the most worried about our relationship with our child's birth parents, and that has actually come to be the most beautiful part of it all.    

You named our sweet girl Grace when she was with you for nine months, and grace has absolutely been the theme of our song.  "Thank you" seems so inadequate for expressing the gratitude we daily feel for your selfless gift- Piper.  Somehow I hope you know just how much you mean to us, not just for giving us a daughter who we could never have on our own, but because of the truly strong and special people that you are.  I love you and respect you both, and because of you, my heart is full for the first time in years.

Love,

Mary Rachel