LADDventure

Autumn Equinox

Summer can be a difficult time here in the desert. It feels relentless and unforgiving. We took our first San Diego beach vacation with the girls at the end of June, and it was a break from the heat and real life. But, in that small beach house with no errands to distract me and concentrated doses of family time, I came face to face with who I had become and just how outside of myself I had been for the past few months. It was a struggle to relax, a struggle to enjoy what I wanted be able to. At this point we were waiting on a decision on the birth parents' appeal to terminate parental rights, and assuming we wouldn't know anything until late in the year. But then we got an email from our lawyer that the birth parents' second appeal had been thrown out. I cried in relief at the leopard shark tank at Sea World when Jeremiah showed it to me on his phone, unable to even believe that this agonizing part of the process was over. There would be no more chances, no more appeals, and now the adoption could truly move forward. 

My parents came to visit about a week after we got back. During their visit, we heard about another potential bump in the road, and I lost it completely. I was at my end and could not handle another unexpected complication.  I couldn't see the good anymore. I felt wrung out and cried alone in my room leaving my parents and Jeremiah at a loss as to how to comfort me. I was just done. The potential complication ended up being a non-issue, but I remember feeling profoundly that I had let this whole process steal the joy of being a family from me completely. I read my parents this quote from a fellow mom who had adopted from foster care. For the first time, someone had accurately captured how I was feeling and how this process had deeply affected me:

"I cannot sugar-coat it.  The process was very difficult for me personally.  I don’t know that I can ever adequately describe what it was like to raise (him) as my own son for three years and wonder every night as I put him to sleep if he would stay in our family.  It was an extremely painful and stressful time in our lives.  As a new mom, that cloud of worry affected how I learned to parent, and caused me to detach in many ways. I am still working hard to overcome some of the parenting habits I developed during that season in order to cope with my fear of loss.  Adopting in this way was not hard out of inconvenience.  It was so much more than annoying social workers and intrusive home inspections.  It was emotionally traumatizing."

Kristen Howerton

When I should have been relieved, I was hanging on to the hurt, the fear, the relentless nature of this adoption process, and it was time to put it to rest. We were moving forward. We would be able to actually adopt our girls for sure, and I needed to move forward too - out of the guarded state of limbo and into my best self as a mother, wife, person.

Autumn always feels like a fresh start to me. This fall was no exception. As school supply aisles filled with fresh notebooks and football returned, I felt invigorated to set some new goals and take control in a new way as we entered my favorite time of year. As soon as the temperatures dip ever so slightly it's time to put summer to rest - to trade blazing long days for cozy predictability and a fresh perspective.

Fall is beautiful, but the crazy thing about the gorgeous colors is they are literally only visible because the leaves are essentially dying. The bright green chlorophyll fades away, and we get to see the bright golds, oranges, and reds that were there all along; unbelievable beauty made from dying leaves. Autumn embraces the fact that there's not enough water or sunlight to thrive and turns it into something amazing. It embraces dormancy and reminds us there's even a time for brittle brown leaves to be beautiful. You can be breaking down and still vibrant. It's ok to show up and be your most brilliant self, not in spite of your brokenness, but because of it. Like a tree, you just keep living until you're alive again. It is time to put the unrelenting heat of summer to rest. It is time to see the beauty, and love things just as they are in all their bright, brisk imperfection.

The Rock in the Room

There is this rock in the room of our family. It is the rock of this complicated adoption case. It sits smack in the middle of the room, has been here for over a year, and in all likelihood will be there for months to come. Weeds of resentment and discontent grow around it, threatening to strangle out the delicate seedlings of this brand new family. It’s huge, and heavy, and it’s not going anywhere anytime soon. At some point, it will be moved, but we don’t know when and we can literally do nothing about it on our own. But, here’s the thing. Sometimes I pick up the rock and carry it around, obsessed with it. Sometimes I examine every little nook and cranny for a weakness or crack in the rock that might make it easier to obliterate. It’s in the way of a lot of things. It’s really more of a nuisance, but always there and something we all have to acknowledge and walk around.  I often kick and punch it in resentment and end up with nothing more bruised fists and stubbed toes. I'm just barely able to lift it, enough to fool me into thinking I can actually do something about it. I pick it up and try to move it. I heave it across the room in exhaustion, but it takes all of my effort and energy to do so. I can’t carry anything else when I’m carrying it. I can’t pick up my kids or even have free hands to help them, hug them, nurture them. I can’t write when I’m busy carrying it around. I complain to my friends and family about the rock. I blame it for all kinds of things. I use it as an excuse for not living the life happening all around it.

Sometimes I'm actually able to forget about it. I am strolling blissfully through the room of our family, feeling normal and whole and legit when bad court news, or a home visit comes up, and I stumble blindly over the rock again, reminded rudely of its unwelcome presence in our house.

Finally, defeated and out of options, I cry on it and plead with it, but it’s unyielding. It offers no comfort and when the tear stains dry, the rock remains. It doesn’t fit out the door and at some point someone will come with special equipment and the authority to lift it out. One day it will be permanently removed. But, until then, when I find myself getting worked up about it, I consciously make a decision to walk away from the rock. It's a choice, and it takes everything in me to choose not to pick the rock up because my hands, mind and energy won’t be available for other things. It’s a choice.

Where I've Been

I have not posted here since February. I've changed so much since then that this space feels foreign. Am I that girl in the headshot anymore? I should rework the whole site - rebrand, redesign. I could get tangled in waiting until I have the perfect platform and perfect vision of hindsight to say the things I need to say, or I could just let it evolve naturally, sometimes painfully, as I go. I don't know how to catch everybody up other than to share with you some raw thoughts directly from my journal the past few months. I want this blog to be our story as it unfolds - a place to write and breathe and connect again. But, I don't think I can explain where I am currently without showing you a bit about where I've been. So here goes...

March 2016

I don’t even know where to start other than here at this keyboard. I know I need to write again, force my mind and fingers to form words, but I feel physically numb other than hot tears rolling down my cheeks and tightness in my chest. I went to my first counseling appointment today. Everything’s not fine. I’m not ok. I don’t recognize myself and have a hard time being in the same room as my family sometimes. I don’t know how to not make their every negative emotion my own. I don’t know how to walk away when they follow me. I don’t know how to not be completely thrown off by a great week followed by an epic meltdown. Things are not funny to me like they once were. I can’t seem to just grin or shrug my shoulders.

Here’s why:

This adoption case is never-ending. For the second time, I am filing a petition to adopt them. It all seems like a cruel joke and an exercise in futility. It is very difficult to imagine ourselves at the finish line as it's pushed further and further away from us. This has all left me with no reserves. I don’t have the patience a mother might normally have for a tantrum-throwing toddler when the tank is already depleted. I am not the capable mature adult and loving parent everyone thinks I am. I am slowly unravelling from the inside out and desperate for something to give - either the tantrums, or the bathroom issues, or the court dates, or the home visits.

I’m answering questions at preschool about whether or not my daughter can be included in the class picture because of safety and privacy concerns, and which last name they should teach her to write. It's heartbreaking. I obsess over their outfits and hair because at least then we'll all look together on the outside when I don’t feel it on the inside. What is a mom supposed to feel like? It’s been a year. When does this get better? 

I will feel surges of pride and disbelief that they are mine, but then I remember that they’re not officially yet, and the flood of anxiety and injustice returns.  Birth family visits are hard, because it’s a both a reminder of what everyone has lost and the physical connection and history we’ll never share. We get together with the adoptive families of the girls' siblings. They are a source of support, but it's also complicated - like having a third set of in-laws to navigate. 

I desperately want the girls to be mine at the same time as finding it difficult to be in the same car with them, or to hear another word or chewing noise from them. I spent years envying pregnant bellies and baby showers, and now I’m in the supremely unfair position of even envying those in the adoption community who have met, brought home, and finalized adoptions all in half the time we’ve had the girls. Foster care adoption stories either terrify me or make me jealous. I was hoping to be an advocate and a member of this adoption community, but I'm too in it. It's too raw, and I feel I don't fit in. We are more than foster parents but less than adoptive and didn’t plan on any of this.

April 2016

What lies am I believing right now?

I’m not enough and can’t do this. This will never be over and I’ll never get to adopt them. Nobody understands. I don’t have time to do the things I want to do. This is too much for me. I’ve changed so much and become too much to handle. I cannot stay calm. Everything is out of my control. I have to pretend like I have it all together because I chose this.

May 2016

It’s the week before J's 3^rd birthday, and we have ear infections and broken garage doors, and all of the things. They’ve felt horrible, and I’ve been horrible. When I’m feeling like the worst mom ever, I realize I feel a compulsion to do the things I’m good at all of a sudden. I’m good at shopping, and decorating, making their rooms tidy, and their little corners of the world cute.  I order birthday presents and picture them piled up on a new tiny picnic table. I email the art museum about her party and order lollipop sticks for rainbow fruit kabobs. I buy watercolor party favors and order a cake. I do the one thing that I’ve got - the thing in the moment that comes naturally to me when all of the rest of it feels like a struggle. And maybe it’s a superficial thing. I buy them multiple 50% off swimsuits and sandals. I braid their hair and put it in ponytails dripping with curls from yesterday’s twirly buns. I dress them in bright dresses and watch them twirl in circles as I try to remember that I am enough, that what we have here is enough.