We might not get a white baby.

There, I said it.

People seem to have very roundabout ways of asking us the same question: "So, did you put any preferences on race?"  "Are you uh, adopting from another country?"  "Is there any kind of baby you wouldn't take?"

Or sometimes it's totally direct: "You're getting a white kid, right?"  Usually that question comes before anything else- before even questions about gender or age.  Nobody has been rude to us, and my feelings haven't been hurt at all.  I'm just not sure I understand the preoccupation with the color of our future child.

Truth be told, we didn't mark any race restrictions on our application.  We could get matched with a white baby, and we would gladly take one.  Chances are good that we might not, though.  We marked what we felt would be best for our family, understanding that what is a good fit for us is certainly not a good fit for anyone else, or vice versa.

I may end up having to learn a lot about another culture, or needing to ask for help on hair care (Lord help that child; I'm not even good with my own hair).  I'm just convinced that I'll have to learn a lot any way that this thing goes down, as every new parent does.

I think that what most people want more than anything else in this world is to be fully known and simultaneously fully loved.  No one wants to hear, "I love all of these things about you, but that one thing makes you less than desirable."  I'm glad that my parents didn't do that to me when I was born.  I'm thankful that my husband didn't do that to me when we got married.  And I'm forever indebted to my God, who didn't do that to me when He chose me before the foundations of the earth.

We get a lot of questions about the practical aspects of adoption, and I am glad to answer those.  But I don't talk often enough about the why's of adoption.  There are times when the process is lengthy and painfully frustrating, but at the end of the day, I have to remind myself that this is all a picture of the gospel.  Andrew and I are going to display a pretty terrible picture of it, but I hope that it is a picture nonetheless.  To us, this whole thing is about looking at a child and saying, "Of all of the children in the world, I want you, exactly as you are."  Like Christ did for us.  Even though we share his name ("Christian," which means, "Christ-like"), we are not like Him at all- and He welcomes us into his family anyway.

Who we were before

In the next few weeks or months, our lives are going to change...a lot.  Probably more than we even realize.  Among other things, we'll be getting less sleep, carrying a car seat around everywhere, and slowing down our crazy schedule.  But in the midst of this whirlwind of changes, I pray that we stay true to who we were before kids.  

I'm not meaning to be rude here, but you've all seen them- the moms (or sometimes even dads) who only ever post pictures or statuses about their kids on Facebook and Instagram.  Often, their children are genuinely cute or funny, but I still find myself wondering, "Who are they apart from their children?  Do they even know the answer to that question?"  Being a parent is unbelievably important and valuable.  I just hope that my role as a mom doesn't completely change my primary existence as a person.  

In the 2+ years that we have tried to start a family, I have had plenty of time to observe what other people are like as they start theirs.  Had I gotten pregnant right away, I probably would have been one of those moms who slowly and often unknowingly let her world revolve around her child.  Maybe I'll still be like that to some degree.  I do remember the recent pain, though, of reading a pregnancy announcement, seeing 1,200 ultrasound pictures, and then watching five billion shots of babies appear on my NewsFeed, often from the same few people.  I know that they only want to share their happiness with others, but these were and are the people who lead me to click the "unsubscribe" button because their lives have become their children.  

I had an amazing childhood.  Our home study case worker has asked us both so many questions about our lives growing up at home, and I can't help but reflect on how very blessed I was.  The reason?  I always knew that my parents loved me to the moon and back, but even more, they loved their Lord and they loved each other.  For a span of several years during my childhood, I would ask my parents who they loved more- me or the other parent.  If it was my mom, she would always say, "I love your Daddy the very most.  But you're not far behind."  My dad would give a similar answer.  I used to hate those answers because (surprise!) I wanted to be number one to everyone.  Looking back on all of that now, I wouldn't have had it any other way.  My parents were unbelievable parents because they never forgot their first love.  

Another thing that I appreciate about my parents is that their lives never stopped when they had my brother and me.  Their lives changed, yes, but they never stopped (and I wouldn't have wanted that).  If Mom and Dad were going to hang out with friends, by golly, Tim and I were going, too.  When we were babies/toddlers, Mom and Dad would bring the Pack N' Play and put us to bed at the friends' house.  As we got older, we brought bags of toys and books with us and learned how to entertain ourselves.  Never once did I think that my parents were being selfish.  Only lately, though, have I realized that they were being good.  Allowing us to be the center of their universe would have built up a sense of entitlement in us and set us up for failure in future relationships.  Loving God and each other first made my parents love us better.

At the end of the day, I want to remember that I am and always have been more than a mother, although that role cannot be understated.  The love that I already have for our child is overwhelming, and I can't wait to be Mary Rachel the Mom.  But for the rest of my life, I hope to also still be the Mary Rachel who I have been until now: the wife, the daughter, the sister, the runner, the friend, the teacher, the writer, and the girl who loves country music, sprint car races, and good books.  I hope that Andrew is still the husband, son, friend, brother, OU fan, hard worker, and lover of Raising Cane's, sports, and board games that he always has been.  And I pray that we are still that goofy couple who cries together, laughs together, prays together, and loves being together- in spite of not "having it all together."

      

Confessions of a Minimalist

Since Andrew and I are both planning to run the OKC Memorial Marathon at the end of April, we have recently begun training with a running club called the Landrunners.  On any given week, there are between 100 and 300 people who come out to run part of the marathon course together.  While I definitely appreciate the convenience of having water set out for us every few miles and the motivation of actually getting out of bed on a Sunday morning because so many other people are there doing the same thing, I have come to one big conclusion that applies to far more things than running:

People tend to live with far more than what is necessary, or take a good thing and get way out of control with it.

This morning, my personal running plan was to run 16 miles.  That's what my schedule said, and if you know me well at all, you know that I'm all about sticking to a schedule.  The Landrunners were doing 20 miles (which, by the way, is very ambitious at this point in the training schedule...and they are planning to do two more 20-milers in the next seven weeks).  I thought to myself, "I'll just turn around at some point to do my 16 miles and let everyone else do what they want to do."  The problem was that NO ONE turned around, and I would have been completely lost trying to figure out how to get back to the starting line.  So I ended up running 20 miles, fuming and miserable during the last four miles that I hadn't prepared to do.  When I got back in the car after the run, I looked at Andrew and asked him when we got so crazy.  Maybe I'm in for a huge surprise on race day, but I have run three marathons before, and this Landrunners schedule seems like overkill.  Yet, I felt compelled to do it because everyone else was.

Ugh.  The straight face says it all.

Another thing... I ran in my marathon finisher shirt today, not because I want to brag on myself for finishing, but because it is one of three long-sleeved running shirts that I own.  Shirt #2 is also a finisher shirt (both of which I got for free), and the third is a $6 Danskin shirt that I randomly found at Wal-Mart.  I also run with my iPhone 4 (so last season, I know) because I found a Nike+ running app that tracks my distance and pace. Aside from that, I throw on a pair of shoes, my one pair of leggings, and I'm good to go.  Simple works for me.  However, when I get around huge groups of runners, I am suddenly convinced that I need that fancy Brooks shirt, the earmuffs with headphones built in, or the $200 Garmin watch that does the exact same thing that my phone does.  Nobody is rude about their stuff, and no one gives me funny looks for my lack of running gear, but I somehow feel like I am not a serious runner because I'm not "keeping up with the Joneses" (sometimes literally in this case).

Oh boy, and now let's talk about babies.  There's a good thing that gets way out of control.  Babies R' Us would have you to believe that you need at least 786 items on a registry.  I might be in for a huge surprise on this one too, but the minimalist in me likes to think that a baby really only needs a few things.  After all, people have been having babies for thousands of years, and babies back then grew up just fine without Baby Einstein, boppies, and bumbos (or whatever you call them).  My mind keeps going back to the quote that Andrew's mom keeps out in their house:

"Happy people don't necessarily have everything, they just make the most of everything they have."

Confession:  I can be pretty prideful about living simply.  I don't like a lot of "stuff" because I feel like it clutters not only my house, but my mind.  That said, people need to do what works for them and I need to stop judging.  After all, I'm pretty sure my world is about to rocked when Baby Fenrick arrives and I suddenly realize that the bassinet or the special kind of thermometer weren't such bad ideas after all.  

Not lovely

(Please excuse the bad grammar.  I know I'm not supposed to say "they" when referring to one person; however, I'd like to keep this as anonymous as possible.)

In the history of great weeks at work, this one did not rank among the top, unfortunately.  I had meetings four out of five days after school and practically drowned in paperwork.  Then there was that dangerous blizzard on Monday afternoon that snowed all of us in with its four-foot drifts.  Oh wait.  That didn't happen.  I might add that we didn't even have one snowflake stick to the ground here in Norman.  Because everyone ended up having to come to school after the Great Snowpocalypse of 2013 had been forecasted, spirits were down among teachers and students (that's an understatement).  Probably the hardest thing, though, was when I spent over an hour in the hall with Student while they kicked, punched, banged on the walls, ran away, and screamed every hateful name in the book at me...all because Student's other teacher and I wouldn't let Student play video games at school.

As this was happening, my normally low blood pressure was through the roof, and I was fighting to hold back tears.  I felt so frustrated and defeated, and in the moment, it took everything in me not to give that child a piece of my mind.  Then the other teacher in the hall with me said, as calmly and genuinely as anything, "We love you, Student!"

That was the last thing on my mind.  I did not love Student just then.  In fact, I would have been so happy if Student had gotten suspended for their behavior.  I don't think Student could see my anger because I never raised my voice to them, but I was inwardly seething.

After taking the evening to detox and reflect on what happened, I came to a few conclusions:

1.  Every day is a new day and a chance to start over.  Thank goodness for that!

2.  Student's behavior is exactly how I act when I don't get my way.  Oh, I may not kick, scream, or punch people, but I'm also not five anymore.  Now that I am 24, I have learned more socially appropriate (but equally destructive) mechanisms of dealing with my anger and sense of entitlement.  I have my own ways of "throwing tantrums" at the people who stand in my way or at the God who actually knows what is best for me.  "You're not going to let me have things the way I want them?  Okay then, I'll just be manipulative and not talk to you until you change your mind."    

3.  Everyone deserves love, even (and especially) when they are not lovely.  What if we all only loved people when they were nice and appreciative?  Yikes.  I think about all of the times when I am not nice or appreciative (which is most of the time) and am so thankful for the grace that has been shown to me in my ugliness.  That kind of love is what can melt hearts of stone, and Andrew and I have been humbled by the amount of it that we have received lately.  Today, more than ever, I am grateful for the fact that real love isn't given based on whether or not I deserve it.