Adoption for Dummies

My husband and I have decided it is time to steal a little more nectar for our corner of this world. We have been actively trying to naturally make one of those precious joys people call babies, but we are still not pregnant again. I think I know the reason for this. I imagine our tiny cells screaming at each other, working hard not to merge because, in their magnificent memories – handed down millions of generations by now – they remember the horrific outcome of this summer with losing our sweet Adam Gabriel. As our patience dwindles with every confusing temperature charted, proactive pill swallowed, and guilt-laden glass of wine finished, we have committed ourselves to kicking patience and fate square in the nuts and moving right passed.

This move is called adoption. In our case it will be international, and will take place in Haiti. We don’t know when, we hardly know how, but we are diving anyway. We need Adoption for Dummies (and a quick Google search showed me that the book does exist – lucky us!), but we are quickly realizing, so do many of our friends. We all don’t know the right terminology or every detail of the process, but I still find myself a little defensive when I have to remind someone that there is quite a good chance my adopted child will NOT be a drug addict or serial killer, or that I don’t get to pick my child like I picked my designer dog, Hollywood. I am not going through glossy magazine photos and saying, “Oh that one looks cute! I think I will just surrender myself to months of paperwork, years of waiting, and heavy financial commitment because, you know – that little one will look PERFECT in the family holiday photo!” 

I could say a lot more, but this following article featured in the Huffington Post does a pretty good job summing up what I have been thinking about lately. Many of these don’t apply to me and my husband (yet), but – surprisingly – quite a few do. I don’t expect anyone to be perfect; I am certainly not. But, there seems to be so much confusion with international adoption that I thought it might help to provide this short article so that people stop forgetting we are not simply selecting a toothpaste or losing our minds (entirely). Loving questions welcome. Narrow-minded opinions, stories, or advice are not.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wymsel-/dear-friends-of-waiting-adoptive-moms_b_3795132.html

 

 

When in Costa Rica…Don’t Forget Your Colombian Massage

It was anniversary #8 and my sweet husband surprised me on vacation saying, “5:00 – massage at the villa. Enjoy!” I was already quite relaxed from spending days on a mountain top with sun, wild toucans and monkeys, and an infinity pool overlooking an oceanview…but I know when to just say thank you and enjoy a treat.

Echoed many times, life – and massages – are not always what you expect. At 40 minutes after 5:00, a tiny Colombian woman found her way down the short path from the clubhouse to our jungle villa. With the help of my husband translating, we quickly realized she spoke little to no English and I spoke little to no Spanish…and then he left us, a little reluctantly, to start our session.

Stumbling through our communication as we got started, she signals that she wants to set up her table on the front porch instead of inside the more private doors of the villa. She simply pulls the veil of the mosquito netting to surround the area while I pray that people will pass by on the path below on their way to dinner while I am still clothed.

The masseuse – I’ve decided to call her Gloria since I don’t actually remember her real name – gives me a Colombian hard candy and puts the smell of lavender under my nose and, when I nod in approval, she strokes the oil onto my nose, cheek, and other cheek with her index finger, while looking into my eyes. Then, she lights her incense. As I awkwardly bite down on my candy, listening to it crunch in the silence between languages, she offers yet another layer of aromas: cocoa or chocolate spray massage oil (I choose the cocoa as it was the less acute of the two smells).

Now it’s time to undress: down to my underwear, she motions, as is normal. Not ordinarily, she stays right where she is as I shed my dress and bra, tucking them politely into a corner of the patio couch, and pseudo-confidently take my place on the massage table, burying my embarrassment under the provided sheet. Just as I’m trying to get my shoulders to shrink away from my ears, she ruffles my hair and – after more ruffles and half-words between the two of us – I realize she is insisting on the necessity of a hair tie. I obey, get off the table and proceed inside the villa without a robe or a protective sheet, pleading that the glaring lights over the front porch do not give me away to those on their way to the clubhouse.

When I finally settle back into the massage table, hair securely on top of my head and face down, she begins. She kneads my back, my shoulders, and my neck. She contorts my limbs and laces my fingers with hers as she pulls me like her marionette. She rolls her arms down my body like a rolling pin, leaving ligaments and cartilage throbbing with pain and taking the breath out of me. Without hesitation, she yanks my underwear up to my hips, tucking it in my buttocks, and grabs and pounds the muscles, her skin on my skin. Replacing the sheet momentarily, Gloria takes her hand, aimed like a knife, and slides it between my lower cheeks. She locates a part of my tailbone no hands have ever touched, deep within the crevice of my buttocks, and rubs the bone in a circular motion with two fingers.

Gloria signals me to turn over after afflicting every part of my back side. She puts a cloth that smells like someone else’s sweat over my eyes which half keeps the bright lights above at bay and half nauseates me. Taking off the protective sheet that usually stays upright in massages while you lay on your back, she instead places it by my hips and lays a flimsy hand towel over my breasts. She kneads my stomach in a swirling motion, making suggestions I don’t understand when discovering different intestinal organs. Her cell phone rings and she quietly leaves my side to answer it five paces away, speaking her native language at an ordinary volume. After a 3 minute conversation, she returns to my side with no fanfare.

She grabs my ribs and reaches around and inside them. She takes one tiny hand and reaches between my breasts and under the hand towel, rubbing from my neck – passed my sternum – and down to my belly button in one swift, but repeated, motion. Gloria plays the piano on my face, rubs each molar outlining my jawline, and plucks-plucks-plucks at my eyelids with pinches of skin between her fingers. She massages my nose with such long strokes that I am anxiously deciding whether to keep holding my breath or succumb to open-mouthed breathing. She takes out the hair tie. She tousles my hair.

With my underwear still up around my hips and my hair wild, she communicates that we are all done. By this time, my husband has already wandered back into our villa, so I quickly dress in front of her and retrieve him to help close out the session. With no time to explain anything privately to my husband, he asks how it was and she beams with pride as I say how much more thorough it was then a typical American massage. He gives her a hefty tip and she packs up quickly and heads back to wherever she came from earlier tonight. I look at my husband with shock as I try to process and relay the details of the last hour of my life. If not a gift of relaxation, it was definitely a gift of amusement and life experience. As the saying goes…when in Costa Rica, do as the Costa Ricans do…and don’t forget your Colombian massage.

Dangling Carrots

Karma, dangling carrots, and the unlucky 2013. I have been wading through quick sand for what feels like a century, yet somehow it has only been a calendar year. My heart once again feels like a sponge being squeezed, oozing all my hopes like blood to a place never to be recovered.

If I wrote a memoir, this year would fill a vast number of pages. I started the year out jobless, scurrying anxiously to find swift employment. Then, right when I found my footing with my new career role, I found out I was pregnant. Fake-drinking at parties and re-cataloging what the next year would look like proved to be challenging, yet fun, actually. But, as soon as I mustered the courage to make the BIG announcement, reality quickly crumbled in front of me in the hospital. And now, after spending many years dreaming about how my family could settle back into the city we fell in love with almost a decade ago, we had to turn down an opportunity to do just that. (As the saying goes, not all opportunities are GOOD opportunities.)

I have learned a bit about staving off desperation. I have learned to only count hatched chickens. But, with that said, I can’t deny that is still hurts to have life reach inside, to the deepest parts, and kneed them frantically and haphazardly. Like dough, it has taken my dreams and twisted and turned them, making them unrecognizable. I have to believe this wet, gooey feeling will translate into nourishment and life-giving. I have to believe that all surprises aren’t destined to be slashed into nightmares. I have to believe in a good Creator, a wise Lover, whom is in ultimate control.

So if 2013 has taught me anything, it is that a) I am not in control and b) that’s all I know for sure.

Made of the Scraps

I am quite aware that my labradoodle, Hollywood, has a better pedigree than me. He came into this world and swiftly was written into his lineage that includes official papers confirming the sturdiness of his hips and the sharpness of his eyes. I, on the other hand, didn’t find out I was deaf in my right ear until I was four. At age ten, my eyesight started to dwindle. At fourteen, my shins sprouted splints and stress fractures from running, at twenty five I was diagnosed with a thyroid disease, and recently it’s been confirmed I have a rare blood clotting mutation and low progesterone.

My body has a history of failing me to say the least. I desire certain things that it does not have the fortitude to provide. Maybe I want to go camping without lugging along pills and contact lenses. Maybe I want to train for the fastest race of my life without getting a bone fracture. Maybe I want to hold a breathing baby that will grow into a rambunctious kid that takes too many risks.

I belong to a sibling group of five. I am number four. I am made of the scraps. This is not a secret. I have made sure my mom knows my plight (although she rolls her eyes and says, “Baloney!”). Baloney my ass. I love her to pieces anyway, as she loves me anyway. I also love my smart puppy whom rings a bell to be let inside, can distinguish the meaning of full sentences (when he knows the key words), and knows it is treat time when he hears the wine bottle open.

Swimsuit Palooza

photo credit: http://24.media.tumblr.com

photo credit: http://24.media.tumblr.com

So, I have just bought between $800-$900 worth of swimsuits. Really.

No, I am not wealthy. No, I am not manic or a hoarder. I will return all but one, really! I just happened to be gaining weight after a misfortunate event and am a tad out of control these days, in more ways than one, and have never had a reason to own a one piece suit until now, until I got a little more sensitive about my body. Let me back up…

Yesterday I would have found out if my husband’s and my first child was a boy or a girl. We were going to go to dinner to celebrate and then start selecting nursery items (flamingos or sailboats, perhaps). We had names picked out. We had cleared the back bedroom for the baby’s arrival. At three months, my parents announced the arrival of their 10th grandchild at their 40th anniversary party with more than 150 guests. I had waited 4 months, but then gave in and made the pregnancy “Facebook official” with a cute announcement with a tiny, stylish baby carriage. Against all odds, we found out we were having a boy 3 weeks earlier than we expected to receive the news.

I went for my 16.5 week check-up. My husband and I decided he didn’t need to come since it was just a routine check-up. Afterall, we’d seen the baby and its heartbeat at 8 weeks, and then again heard the heartbeat at 12 weeks. This is when I realized sometimes you fall into the 1%. Sometimes your baby’s heart just stops. You’ll never know if you were sleeping, running, working or laughing, but the little soul inside of you just slipped away quietly.

The details could take hours to divulge, but here is the short version. The ultrasound tech looked at me with tears in her eyes. The doctor sat beside me and explained it wasn’t my fault – I couldn’t have protected the little one against fate. I called my husband. I called my mother. Somewhere in there the reality started to sink in and I allowed myself to cry. I packed a bag for the hospital without diapers, a tiny onsie, or the baby blanket my sister gave me less than a month ago.

I received the staff’s stares when I checked into the labor and delivery floor because they were all expecting me and were curious about this girl, this couple, having to deliver a dead baby. I was poked up and down my arms until, on the fifth try and third health professional, a vein was found that would accept the IV. I spent 4 days in the hospital with drugs being delivered, by people I had just met, through my arm and between my legs, largely consisting on ice chips, popsicles and pain killers.

I cried, I slept, I accepted love and prayers from visiting friends. On the third day I asked if I could please shower, and my husband had to come in with me since I couldn’t bend one arm, compliments of the IV entry. On the fourth day, I delivered a healthy-looking baby boy at 5-6cm dilation, moments before the doctors would have to make the difficult choice to put me through complicated surgery to remove the contents of my uterus.  My husband and I held him. We prayed with him. We gave him away forever.

We named him Adam Gabriel. Afterall, he is our first son and is quite literally an angel now. We put all his things in the back bedroom that my husband can’t enter anymore without getting choked up. I kept bleeding and crying as we accepted visitors, meals, flowers and notes. I went back to work. I started running again. I stopped bleeding and, mostly, stopped crying. Then, I bought swimsuits.

I bought swimsuits that might help me forget that my body has been through war but I don’t have Adam to cuddle and kiss. I bought swimsuits that would leave me less rigid at the upcoming bachelorette party as I try to hide the layer of fat left on my stomach – and the pain threatening to roll down my cheeks – that reminds me something happened.

Dearest Adam Gabriel, our angel baby:

I have faith in our Creator that you lived the life of your soul’s purpose. I have faith you were warm and know you were loved by so many, so many whom cried with us in between patients at work, cried with us at the movies, or cried with us at the grocery store when they heard the news. I fervently worry that you struggled to breathe – to let someone know – but know that won’t do either of us any good at this point.

I feel great pain at your absence, but I need you to know that you gave me immeasurable happiness in the time we had together. It has been a hard year – and of course now I have this new struggle with your departure – but you provided me with 4 months of joy, excitement, hope and love. You provided me with 4 months of stealing sweet, unbridled nectar. You will always be the one child who could do that for me in pregnancy. You will always be the first born, the first light. Please be well, visit often, and wait for me and your daddy. We’ll meet you under better circumstances once again.

White Picket Fences

We envision the life we see ourselves having, and I’m not sure if we are lucky or not if we get that life. I guess it depends on the wisdom of each dream, or dreamer. Anyway, most of us have some illusion of white picket fences. Not literally, of course, but the idea that we will be happy if we have X or Z and that’s all we’ll need. But, as you get closer to X or Z, one might realize the choosing is harder.

Do we stay at home with our children, work full time, or something in between? Do we learn how to cook to please our in-laws, friends, or (god forbid) husbands? Do we try a juice cleanse or give up gluten? (I know, very 1950’s housewife examples but that’s what is on my brain…)

A friend recently told me she thinks the harder choice is always the right choice. I’m not sure if I agree, but I am thinking about it. Does that mean we are wired to resist what is right for us? Does that mean, since we gravitate to whatever our white picket fence is, that it is incorrect for us?

I think the goal is to ensure we stay flexible. Maybe we’ll get that fence, but maybe we won’t. Maybe we fall short of other people’s dreams for us (so what?). Life’s challenges are going to arrive precisely when we are NOT ready for them, so all we can do is stretch ourselves farther than we think we can, be kinder to others than we think we can, and breathe deeper, more often than we think we need.

It seems to me, my dreams get closer – then farther – then closer. It seems I get that snow storm in May, but as soon as I am just about done heaving that snow off the proverbial driveway, the snow melts away on its own. 

I won’t wish my next struggle upon myself, but I also don’t regret having to use my grit to get to where I am. It makes my feel happier with whatever white picket fences do finally come my way…and appreciation is always a good thing.

The Art of Slowing Down (Without Slowing Down)

I am happy. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the presence of this elusive thing, but it found me. After so many months of turmoil – not all of it behind me by any means – I’ve found the ability to take deep breaths again. I’ve found the ability to wake up without panic, sadness, and the sharp pangs of devastation.

This could be because, on recent days, the sun comes through the windows and makes my eyelids red with warmth when I close them in its direction. It could be because I know I get to sleep in my own bed (enjoying to-die-for linen sheets, my sweet husband’s warm body beside me, and my little pup sleeping with his head on my feet) for at least a week straight – without hosting any overnight guests – for the first time in what seems like ages. Or, perhaps, I am happy because I’ve stopped fighting the unknown (at least for the moment).

Ambiguity has become such a constant for me. One of my dearest friends recently told me, “I’ve known you for almost a decade now, and there have been rare times you haven’t been in transition.” That hit a nerve. I hadn’t realized it was true until she said it. On one hand, I cannot deny I’ve been living a full, emotions-on-end kind of life. On the other hand, I’m exhausted. So, I’ve tried to perfect the art of slowing down – to steal nectar – when life won’t let you really slow down.

How is this done? I am still learning every day, but here are a few things people have told me lately that I am trying to incorporate.

-Exercise every day, but keep it easy. (I am used to exercising but of course I push my limits. Wouldn’t it be nice if I did more of it, but remained gentle with my body instead of using that time to, once again, mentally push myself? How nice to use it as a break instead of as another stressful, achievement opportunity.)

-Worry less, drink more. (This was my friend’s advice on getting preggo. I love the irony in it and the laidback, not-in-your-head-analyzing approach that is implied. She is classy, never drinks too much, and put a smile on my face by her assessment of what needs to happen next since it was unlike her to say, but such stress free advice.)

-Don’t do what others expect. Do what is necessary. (I know we’ve all heard this, but to really live it is challenging…and yet freeing.)

There is a lot of good advice in this world. I struggle to incorporate most of it. I’ve learned, though – if I can turn off my mind – sometimes I can hear the birds chirping through the open window a little clearer.

Humble Pill

“I want to ask a favor,” Francis told them. “I want to ask you to walk together, and take care of one another. … And don’t forget that this bishop who is far away loves you very much. Pray for me.”

Regardless of your love, hate, or indifference to all things Catholic, we’ve got to admit that this quotation from the new pope is quite beautiful. This is a stunning example of servant leadership. It makes me want to be more like him.

If we all took care of each other, imagine what you life would look like. So much support, so much ease in your decisions because you would know other spirits were journeying with you. We could all afford to be humble because we wouldn’t worry about being knocked down by someone else. We could all afford to love fully because we wouldn’t be emptied by others’ greediness with our gifts.

So, I am going to pretend we all walk together, pray for each other, and support each other already. I am going to take a humble pill and try to make my decisions based on my soul’s growth needs instead of how it might look on paper. Because, in the end, what do we take with us besides our souls?

As I do this, I ask you all to pray for me, too.

Soul Searching

So, I’ve been completely MIA on the blog for a while, but I’ve been busy soul searching. This is exactly when I should have been writing everything down but – instead – time gets lost in thought and emotional exhaustion. Some updates: I turned 30 (and the world is still humming about as if nothing has changed!), I started a new job, and I am still Keeping up with the Kardashians even though I know I should value my time more than that.

While I am contemplating how to extract the most positivity from my days, they are passing like wildfire. Here are some things I’ve learned in the last few months.

1. People don’t care what you do. They care about you. And, that’s it.

2. People are nosy. They can’t help but feel entitled to all your happenings.

3. People don’t need to know all your happenings. You still have a choice whether to tell all.

4. #3 is only true if the people in question aren’t your life preservers. The six or so closest people to you need to know everything in order to help you (and, refer to #1).

5. Rock bottom is a dancing line. It changes positions as you get stronger.

6. Your body really does protect and feed off your mind. Sickness & sad vibes go hand in hand. Protecting your soul will protect your body’s health (and vice versa).

7. A little sunshine and great friends will go a looongggg way.

Well, those thoughts aren’t mind-boggling, but sometimes your life gives you proof that cliques are usually true – and it makes you feel like you are relearning everything you already knew.

Be gentle. Be kind. Move your body. Drink red wine and dark chocolate and tell yourself it’s healthy because of all of those antioxidants. Serve others whenever possible.

I don’t know what my life will look like in a week, a month, or a year. This planner is out of her element, but I’m learning to ride the waves better than previously. I am growing, however challenging. I also am counting my blessings.

Done Good

Okay, so I’ve changed it, but a few posts ago I originally wrote about having “done good” enough. This is a loaded phrase for a few reasons. One, my high school running coach always said, “Girls, you’ve done good.” That was the ultimate compliment. He said it with a twinkle in his eye. He knew we actually “did well” but preferred to keep it simple – almost more pure in a way – and say we’d “done good.”

Well, the second part to it is that I now live in the deep South, where everyone “done good” or “ain’t bad” or “don’t care to” and we just “bless her heart.” I don’t have an ear for grammar anymore. Period. So…unfortunately, my life is going to be peppered with these mistakes while I live here and I just hope that, one day – when I escape “God’s Country” – I’ll find my grammar ear again. Until then, I hope you all (well, the five of you or so that know about stealing nectar!) can just overlook and enjoy! 🙂