treasure in a field

Great Expectations part 3--doctors

2012-01-13T23:24:00.000-08:00

I never expected to have to become such an expert on my children's bodies. I still trust that we are blessed to be near as good a facility as Vandy Childrens Hospital, and we have received excellent care from many talented folks there. At the same time, I am so glad to have answers for YoYo's care that I could not get before now.

I had no idea it was possible to be so thankful for the wisdom and compassion of a doctor who knows. We had a long day at Johns Hopkins last month with YoYo, starting with his outpatient cystoscopy, leaving recovery to visit a pediatric GI, grabbing lunch in the cafe, and returning to the urologist's office for a final consult. YoYo was a great sport throughout, patting my back as I teared up and said, "God brought you here to rescue you before Baba and I even knew you--He took care of you until we could bring you home." Dr. G marveled at YoYo's mobility; apparently, most children with his condition are only able to walk with assistive devices, if at all. He marveled at the odds YoYo has beaten, and his next words were humbling.

"You know, here we have all kinds of sophisticated equipment to see children in utero, and when a child is seen with hernias like his, with everything exposed, the pregnancy is terminated. But they don't have all that equipment in China, and those children are born, and they get the chance to come here and we get them fixed up as best we can and they have a life. This child is a gift from God."

"They get the chance." That's another post for another day. I am thankful beyond what I am clever enough to say for my two sons, that they were given a chance to live. I am thankful I get the chance to be their mother. And I am thankful for good doctors.

Here's a video of Dr. VB, FuXia's orthopedist, discussing arthrogryposis and his philosophy of treatment. While I don't expect you to watch all three parts of it, it's worth a glimpse, if you like, and I thought it worth posting. What I treasure most is a moment when he describes the turning point in a patient's treatment, when a child who has screamed in pain in clinic at his hands comes back and seeks him out to eagerly share the latest accomplishment or achievement, be it walking or kneeling or straightening a leg. And he begins to cry as he thinks about it, musing that, "These children teach us so much."

That is a man of peace. That is the doctor I want for my child.

Great Expectations, part 2--Teach your children well

2012-01-10T23:17:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I was excited to see familiar faces at Shriners. Several tables were pulled together in the cafeteria, teeming with families who came to arthrogryposis through adoption. The fellowship of, "Ohmygosh, I KNOW! We get that at our house, too!" is a mighty one. So much talk centered on adoption issues with children in various stages of treatment. It was so energizing...and challenging...and saddening...all at once.

Treating and managing AMC, arthrogryposis multiplex congenita, is a marathon. The rude awakening is the day you and your child realize that the miracle of walking does not signal the end of the pain and surgery. You each have to find ways to pace yourself, and as always, adoption becomes a big variable.

In our first year of AMC treatment, here are the things I did not expect to have to teach our adolescent:

--It is okay to cry out when the doctor hurts you. It is okay to say, "Stop."

--It is okay to cry or tell me that you hurt. I want to know. I want to take care of you.

--Wake me if you hurt or need to toilet at night. I will come. I want to take care of you.

--It is ok to wake me up at night. I will not be angry.

--It is ok if you have an accident at night. I will not be angry.

--It is ok to throw up. I will not be angry.

--It is ok to tell the doctor you hurt. He will not be angry.

--It is ok to be afraid.

--Even if you don't walk, I still love you.

--Even if you have a crooked body, you are beautiful.

--It is ok to be angry with me.

--If you fight when I carry you, you will fall and get hurt.

--If you fight when I carry you, I still love you.

--It is not okay to hit me.

--If your body hurts, I still love you.

--Your wheelchair is not the reason I don't spank you.

--You are fearfully and wonderfully made.

I never expected to have to give an adolescent child permission to hurt. We are working on communicating pain using the 1-10 scale, and he seems embarrassed to admit to anything over 5, as though he has failed. He tries to give the doctor the answer he thinks the doctor wants. We practice making lists of questions for the doctor, and we ask them, even if I already know the answer. I outsource walking and exercise battles to our PT, because then his anger and pain don't become baggage or weapons in our relationship. I resist fury and choose to be glad when he admits, "I don't believe you," because then I at least know where I stand with him, and he has talked about it and told me the truth without fear. Each facet of that last sentence represents an emotional milestone.

I never expected to struggle over whether a wet bed was an act of revenge, a nightmare, an attempt to control at least some aspect of one's body, anxiety, or lack of sensation from anesthesia. Suddenly, I find myself back in a position of reminding my 6th-grader to toilet every blessed few hours--a thing I haven't had to do since the first few months after we got home, when he was still adjusting to not having toilet times dictated. Is he trying to make me be responsible for his toileting, or is he fighting his own body?

There are other moms in this boat. One did not expect her daughter to still need permission to say she hurt after two years being home. Another did not expect her son to be surprised at her presence when he was in hospital--he thought he was a bad kid in China, because the "good kids" got visits in hospital. Another was completely surprised when she heard, "We wet the bed at night--after it got dark, nobody was there to hear us call for help."

So many of our children are model patients, but the reasons are sad, perhaps tragic. The high pain thresholds are from years of learning that nobody will come and tears are futile. The fear of beatings for vomiting, wetting, or crying are real fears, because many of our children have seen and felt terrible things. The avoidance of eye contact is because they've heard they are worthless, again and again.

Each time we cycle through the same battles, I am reminded that the survival instinct is one with deep and primal roots, and the child who has lived starvation and poverty and misery, the child who has lived without hope of love or medicine or lack of pain is a child who has years of unlearning to do. Each time we cycle, we are a little farther than the time before, and we are a little closer to whole. I am thankful, in ways I did not expect, for the power of Love to uphold and restore and heal.

Great Expectations, Part I--Family

2012-01-04T23:31:00.000-08:00

Last Thanksgiving, a strange thing happened. Someone showed me an online listing of waiting children from China.

You know what happened next. The wish that is never too far beneath the surface, the desire for a little girl, stirred, and of course I saw a picture and blurted, "She has arthrogryposis!" I couldn't believe how mild her condition was. In the arthrogryposis spectrum, FuXia is sitting pretty; most of his challenges stem from lack of treatment in early childhood. This little girl's arms and hands aren't even visibly affected.

I began to imagine what it would be like to begin again. I told Shane that if it needed to happen, God knew what we needed--medical bills, tax rebate, miracle wad of $30K for another adoption, a different house. The list was impossible, but so was the idea that we'd receive an anonymous gift of $25K for FuXia's adoption in 2010--and that SO happened!

With December, we received several gifts and cleared all but one medical account. As we checked into RMH two weeks after Thanksgiving, the IRS called--at 10:30 pm--to approve our rebate. I began to wonder.

The next morning, I learned FuXia needed more fixator hardware--this month's surgery. Bone will be cut, and following that phase, another surgery will remove the fixator. FuXia will likely need a pelvic osteotomy this summer with a different kind of fixator to correct hip dysplasia--surgery to install, surgery to remove. And yes, that does come to five surgeries in a year.

Days later, I learned YoYo also needs a pelvic osteotomy--a more intense one. He'll have tissue expanders to create skin for scar cleanup, and he'll have what's called a "midline reconstruction." He has to gain 5 pounds--our greatest annual gain so far is 2.5 pounds--and we have to learn more about his heart murmur. He takes a new antibiotic 3 times daily to combat the bacterial overgrowth that's a result of his short gut, and he has to avoid simple sugars (table sugar, fruit, sweets, juice). We're waiting for samples of his fancy smoothie drink. I can't imagine what it will be like to try to keep him immobile for six weeks while his devices do their work.

I'm eager to get started on these things, to move through them and marvel at the what life holds for my boys. That means the idea of another adoption is a dream deferred for now. Not only am I at my limit for traveling to the specialists the boys need, but I'm also stretched to be aware of the boys as people, in a parenting sort of way. When Shane's working late-night rehearsals for a show, the routine is homework, cook, feed, bathe (both need help with this), toilet (both need help), dress (help), antibiotics for all, tuck in, add pull straps to FuXia's AFO, prayers & kisses. Getting ready for bed sometimes takes over 2 hours; bathing alone involves putting chair and stool in the tub for FuXia, carrying him to the toilet, helping him undress, carrying him to the tub, setting up his shower supplies, cleaning his pin sites afterwards and drying him, helping him get his pjs on, carrying him back out of the bathroom and into his chair, emptying the shower of chair and stool and rinsing it down, putting YoYo's floormat in, getting YoYo in and set up, and prepping YoYo's ostomy supplies while he showers. It is so easy for the teacher within to check things off a list and not be aware of where my little people are living and feeling and hurting or cheering. The parenting part of parenting, as opposed to the caregiving part, becomes deliberate--it takes work--and I really have to be aware of that, because meeting physical needs without interacting relationally is no better than institutionalized care, and we're trying to grow people.

I'm realizing, in this, that this is our best for now. I can still say, without hesitation, that I love this life we have as a family together. I love my boys, I love my husband--I am blessed with so much joy, though the work is h.a.r.d. It's good--and we are the four of us right now.

Great Expectations-an Introduction

2012-01-04T23:24:00.000-08:00

As a recovering teacher, I feel it necessary to preface the next few entries with a word of explanation. My mind has swirled as I've imagined what this year will look like. Expectations are changed entirely. That is not a complaint. At the moment, it's a status.

I thought YoYo was on a steady path, and once we figured out his kidney infections, we could set his development to "cruise." Instead, we're investigating a heart murmur and anticipating summer hospitalization while shifting his diet to combat bacterial overgrowth. Wow-that's an altered expectation.

We knew FuXia would have an external fixator. We didn't know it would mean this much travel or losing control of much that he worked for--and he has at least 2 surgeries before this phase is complete. Waaay different expectation.

While our adoption rebate was sufficient on paper to rid us of nearly all non-mortgage debt, the time that lapsed before we received it saw us amass over $ 4,000 in medical expenses (unrelated to FuXia), and we lived on credit cards we'd held in case of emergency. In the end, even with added interest and enough financial gifts from friends and family to cover nearly all our medical bills, we are clear of half the level of debt we originally expected to put behind us.

2010's changed expectation was the all-time winner--we didn't expect to repair a rotten foundation 5 days before leaving for China to adopt FuXia!

I'm dealing with flux. It messes with my head. I don't know anyone else as divided between right and left brain as I am. The artist in me feels the pulse of a child-centric home, values the unstructured side of my husband and how it allows him to father so well, and doesn't care if I go to bed with dishes in the sink. The list-maker in me wants to reduce the number of things to maintain, is obsessed with organizing medical supplies/schedules/insurance, and resents the recent intrusions of field mice.

When I was teaching, I once took a personality test. The high schoolers took it, and it was neat to see them react to the results. Our learning services teacher, who orchestrated the whole thing, shook his head when he gave me my results. "I don't get it. Usually, it's not a big deal to see a kid so evenly spread out across the spectrum, but as you get older and mature more, certain tendencies and pathways are naturally supposed to become more dominant. You don't really have a dominant pattern." I actually teared up. I had hated taking the test; I couldn't stand the "either-or" situations it presented, because all I could think of was how things don't fit into boxes like that or how nobody responds in the same manner every single time or how everything represented such a Western mindset. UGH. I kept answering, "It depends," in my head, and those words were never an answer options.

So I'm fighting myself, with a needle and thread in one hand and a label maker in the other. I'm looking at my house, my artspace, and the way our boys are evolving, and I'm finding changed expectations. I'm going to do in writing what I do with sewing or knitting. I'm going to spread the words all out on the table, like so many charm squares and yarn, and I'm going to look at every single thing and touch it and turn it over. And when I stack it all back up and shove it onto its shelf, I'm hopeful that even if it doesn't make any more sense than before, at least I'll have looked at it and named it. Naming every living animal was, in the Biblical telling of creation, one of the first tasks given to the people made in God's own Image. I wonder if that was to make Adam feel safer, like a stakeholder or someone of worth within his environ--if part of his identity, or his conceptualizing of his identity, was bound up in naming the identities of and caring for other living things.

Expectations are legion, and I'm going to name names. I'm actually looking forward to the idea--much more than I would anticipate making resolutions.

Goodbye, 2011

2012-01-01T22:05:00.000-08:00

This year was the most demanding year of my life. I'm fairly certain I can say that without exaggeration. I am compelled to look over the year, both in thanks and in awe that we all survived!

January--We started on the road, driving on our 17th anniversary to Philly. At Shriners again a week later for FuXia to have his tenotomy. Then YoYo had a kidney infection and ER time.

February--FuXia stood and learned he would be able to walk! 3 out of 4 weekends were trips to Shriners--and they started flying us and covering travel costs. YoYo took the whole month to recover enough to look like himself again, and he got the flu.

March--FuXia took his first steps at the parallel bars during PT. From then until September, we went to PT at least 2-3 times weekly, and he got his AFOs. Shane was diagnosed with Meniere's Disease, and has since not recovered hearing in the left ear. YoYo was accepted into CPA and we received financial support for that!

April--We stayed in Philly for most of the month while FuXia did a PT intensive program. By the end, he was spending a lot more time in the walker. YoYo watched way more TV than he should have, thanks to hours on end in the PT waiting room. And my computer crashed. We also filed our tax return, expecting a fully refundable adoption rebate of $17K+. Didn't know at the time we'd have to wait 8 months to receive it.

May--We became chicken farmers! And then Dr. vB blew us all away when he said our treatment goal with FuXia was for him to be able to walk without a walker at all.

June--We had one visit to Philly, and YoYo went to day camp. I had lunch with a Mom-friend, and she said my family had been through hell in the year previous. Hahaha!

July--We had a vacation and got to stay with the GOURS! YAAAAY! After we came home, YoYo got infection number 2, went into seizures, and ended up in hospital for the weekend. We came home on a Sunday, and 12 hours later, a TV crew showed up at our house with a country singer to film a reality show and landscape our yard. That was one weird month.

August--FuXia walked into school, and it changed everything. YoYo started kindergarten, and he thrived under the guidance of an incredible teacher. Shane and I had A DATE-we went to U2's Nashville concert. And we celebrated our one-year anniversary of being a family of 4.

September--The most normal month of the whole year, capped off with a visit from the Gours!

October--We were guests at the Nashville Shriners Circus. Our TV show premiered, we made the front page of the Williamson Co. section of the Tennessean, and we tried to prepare for FuXia's external fixator.

November--Travel in earnest to Philly began again. FuXia's surgery to get an external fixator. We were welcomed graciously by the Weaver family for Thanksgiving.

December--Two visits to Philly for FuXia and a second surgery scheduled. A huge visit to Johns Hopkins for YoYo, where he had an exploratory surgery and I learned so much more about his body before we talked turkey about surgery to come for him in 2012. We finally got our tax rebate the day before Christmas Eve. And both sets of parents and my sister (Yay!) came over Christmas Break.

So here it is, 2012. You're here. I already know I can count on you to hold two surgeries for FuXia and one or two for YoYo. We'll have a lot of travel together, you and I. Just know you don't have to try to out-do your brothers 2010 or 2011, okay? I respect your potential, and I'm just trying to wrap my head around how to even navigate a personal goal. We'll stay in touch.

And 2011? Goodbye. Thank you for stretching us all. You were very adventuresome. Now please go home.

Lovely feet

2011-12-28T23:38:00.000-08:00

FuXia's knee has improved steadily over the course of fixator treatment. This stage is called "distraction," and I marveled at the irony of potentially having to distract my son from the pain it would cause. Remarkably, he's had little pain from the fixator. Most of his discomfort has been related to the shrinkage of his new muscles from disuse--it is incredible how quickly our bodies can grow accustomed to walking every day, and how intensely they can complain when they are denied that exercise. Each time we've attempted to stand in the walker, FuXia's quads bounce like rabbits and continue to spasm long after he sits back down. I am hopeful, though, because his body adjusted to walking inside of 6 months of treatment after years without ambulation.

Post-op fixator

We may well be finished with the distraction phase before our next visit to Philadelphia. Surgery January 25, and we'll hear what happens next. I am learning the difference between the times that a lack of forthcoming information is because the doctor's plan is dependent on FuXia's responsiveness to treatment and when it is because he just forgot to tell us what to expect. This is a frustrating lesson to learn, but I hope I am getting better at discerning.

2 weeks after surgery

When FuXia came home last year--has it really just been sixteen months now?--we wanted so much to let him feel valued, to help him find his identity and place within our family. YoYo's first preschool teacher, one of the most old-school Southern Saturday-hairdo fixin'-a-ham-for-Thanksgiving women I've ever known, spoke gently to him, "You are fearfully and wonderfully made." I cried the first time I heard him say, "I am fearfully and wonderfully made," and I knew he held that in his heart with joy each time he said it. One of our favorite times was bath time, and he would dance in front of the bathroom mirror wearing nothing but his pouch, delighting in himself and declaring himself wonderfully made while he was laughing at his nakedness! We hung a long mirror on his wall next to his changing station, and each time we cathed him, he would watch the mirror and watch us care for him. How could we find this for our FuXia?

3.5 weeks after surgery

Seems the answer is the same--we weren't the ones to find a verse for YoYo, and it was a dear friend, Lao T, who wrote to FuXia the day before the fixator was installed. FuXia was feeling particularly talkative that day, and he mentioned how he would like to go back to China with his walking legs and see all the same places he was before he could walk, as well as the places he couldn't go in the chair. That night, Lao T emailed from China. He said, "Have courage. Trust in God working through your doctor. 'How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!' I know someday you will come back to China...I know it will be painful for a little while, but for the rest of your life you will have beautiful feet. I know God wants you to have that. Have courage." FuXia read his email out loud to us, and his entire face was full of his smile.

5 weeks after surgery

How beautiful indeed are those feet, and what good news it is, that a child cast aside because his body was twisted has a chance at walking, a family filled with love, and a head slowly filling with dreams. What good news is hope!

One tired Mama...

2011-12-27T09:52:00.000-08:00

I have lots to write, a houseful of people, and a fridge-ful of gingerbread dough, and legos on the couch-more soon when I get my head above the water! Hope everyone had a Merry Christmas!

Differences

2011-12-18T21:50:00.000-08:00

We've an appointment at Shriners later this morning, and FuXia will get a fixator adjustment. We'll talk about the next surgery, currently slated for January 26. This will mark the beginning of Stage 2 of the process. Another family on this journey shared that they are waiting in line for surgery, most likely until this summer because of the enormous demand for Dr. van Bosse's skill. And just like that, we're worked in for five weeks from now. The unspoken urgency implied by that fact shakes me a little. At the same time, I'm a little giddy, because I received my first impulsive kiss on the cheek from my sweet boy as I tucked him in bed. That only took 16 months!

Shane and I went on a date Friday night, our first one alone in...yeah, I don't really know. We talked about what the next six months might look like. I am still marveling over the timing of our tax refund news. Yes, this is exactly the time we need to climb out of old debt. As we shed the debt of changing the house and buying--and largely restoring--a van, plus the year's medical bills, we step boldly into a new year of surgery and extended hospital stay. I must pause in my conviction that others must be cautious in adopting multiple children with special needs long enough to realize that perhaps my conviction exists because it is the one necessary for me to navigate the family I embrace.

It struck me last month, as I worked to schedule YoYo's time in Baltimore, that his situation is so different from that of FuXia. FuXia has a very obvious physical disability, one which branded him "deformed" for many years. He has also been very visibly responsive to appropriate medical treatment, and his courage and determination have moved the hearts of all who know him. He is verbally and physically reinforced daily, exhorted hourly, with acknowledgement of his progress and the strength of his character and the miracle of all he has overcome. While he will likely struggle his whole life with physical challenges most of us will never face, he has also reaped a measure of reward and satisfaction--confidence--that most of us will never realize in our own lives. Just a year ago, he would not look up into the face of another adult unless I told him to, and even then, only briefly did he comply. Now, he initiates conversation, a bold smile dashes across his face, and he is learning to dream, to set goals, to imagine for himself what life might be like when he gets to the next phase of treatment.

YoYo has a far more life-threatening disability. It is hidden from almost everyone in his daily routine. While surgery offers the prospect of some aspects of normalcy, namely that of fatherhood, his body is unlikely to change much, and he will probably always rely on maintenance antibiotics and a specialized routine for his body to function. The details of his condition are not widely known, because they involve the most intimate areas. He has achieved a remarkable milestone earlier in his life than most of his peers affected by exstrophy, in that he can self-catheterize, describe his output, and tell me when he is running low on supplies at school. He initiates grabbing a handful of supplies many times when we leave the house, just to make sure I have them. His school nurse is amazed at his maturity in this. But he will not have praise for this from his larger community that is nearly comparable to what his brother enjoys, precisely because nobody knows what he has to do or how incredible it is that he takes ownership of it already. He is assumed by almost anyone who doesn't know his story to be "normal," and I often hear the question, "How were you able to adopt a boy from China who doesn't have any special needs?" He has always enjoyed approval from others, primarily because of his beautiful appearance and vivacious personality.

Two brothers, both with significant special needs that could easily have cost them their lives. One looks disabled, but has the prospect of getting "better," and enjoys the cheers of all who bear witness to his progress. One looks "normal"--"beautiful," even--but has no chance (shy of spontaneous organ regeneration or unexpected medical breakthrough) of getting "better," and enjoys only the cheers of a select few who know the nature of his disability and his maturity in the face of it. I turn this over in my mind, and marvel at the balance I see both boys navigate. The balance I navigate is to help them know they are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that they must love their neighbors AS they love THEMSELVES. The prayer I dare to hope is that they would delight in their own bodies and not fear dancing naked with silliness when alone, abandoned to the sheer joy of life.

Quick update!

2011-12-16T22:43:00.000-08:00

A few short words-I expect I'll have more time (and hot tea) in a day or so...

All went well for FuXia's visit to Shriners last Friday. His knee improved from a 90 degree angle of contracture to a 60 degree angle. This means that he could expect four to six weeks more of this stage of distraction--in other words, we're halfway through the first part!! We'll go back Sunday for an appointment on Monday Dec. 19.

FuXia will have adjustments Dec. 19 and Jan. 9, and then he'll have another surgery January 26 to begin the second stage--something about cutting bone and adding hardware. Seriously, they lost me at the "cutting bone" part. My brain glazed over--didn't know that was possible.

For YoYo, the time at Johns Hopkins gave many answers, all good, some challenging. I'm still getting my head around it. I've said many times that cloacal exstrophy is a 1 in 400,000 birth defect. Dr. Gearhart maintains it is still the most severe birth defect compatible with human life. YoYo's case is more unusual in that he has one kidney, and he falls in the 5% of children born with exstrophy who don't also have spina bifida. In short, he may be the only child in the world with his physiology. Yeah, I'm still working on that one.

Turns out, he also has a heart murmur. We have to get an echocardiogram now. It also happens that YoYo's pelvis is not growing in quite the manner hoped for. To avoid many complications, he needs a pelvic osteotomy. But unlike the urologist here, who wants to wait until YoYo is 11 or 12, Dr. Gearhart wants it to happen this summer--with a hospital stay of 6 weeks. They'll cut the pelvis in two places, add a fixator to the front to manipulate the bones, and then install a metal bracket to make it all permanent. Then there will be some plastic surgery and skin grafting.

Meanwhile, his intestine is too short. He has an overgrowth of bacteria. We've a new medicine to suppress the bacteria, and he'll begin drinking a supplement to boost his caloric intake and treat the bacterial overgrowth. The goal is for this child--who gained 2.5 lbs this year and 1.2 lbs. last year--to gain FIVE POUNDS before the osteotomy in MAY. Oh, and the drink costs $170 for a 24-pack case.

SO! I have to say that I am SO incredibly thankful for the prayers and the enormous financial support we received going into this particular trip. I am thankful to tears--ok, to sobbing--for the care and work of a team of doctors in a place that knew my baby's footsteps before I knew he was alive--I could not stop thinking, as I stood in any office at Johns Hopkins, of how my little boy was carried in by a loving ayi while he struggled for life just four years ago. And this week I carried him back. We received such good feedback, answers to our questions and fears, HOPE! for much more than we'd thought would be possible for YoYo, and understanding of his body and its challenges. We also received a huge challenge. Where I thought that he was more or less finished with surgery, we find he's in need of a big procedure. If you're game, search the internet for photos of pelvic osteotomy. Gasp. Then pray for our little one.

YoYo's ostomies will remain unchanged. What we're addressing is the health of the rest of his body, and to my delight, we are blessed to have found a doctor with a loooooong-range vision in place. He actually tapped my son's body on the operating table and looked up at me to say, "This is where your grandchildren will come from someday." That, friends, is a doctor who is also a healer, to speak words of hope and vision to a parent.

This was not quick, but it is much briefer than what swirls in my head and heart just now. When I can make words again, I will write more.

Gearing up

2011-12-04T22:44:00.000-08:00

FX & YY with J on the last trip to Shriners-
we have some special friends up there!

Well, it's that time of year, apparently. Time to pull out the tree and the decorations and hop a plane to Shriners Hospital for Children. I look back at last year, and I am thankful, and I laugh to think that part of my thankfulness just a month ago was that we were finally finished with so much back-and-forth travel to Philadelphia. I don't know what I was thinking! I guess I assumed a fixator would only need once-monthly adjustments. I actually thought, just before we made our surgery trip, that I don't know what I'd do if I had that kind of crazy travel-every-other-week schedule again.

It got worse for just long enough to let me know that every two weeks is better than it could be! Dr van Bosse suggested that we'd need to see him weekly, and I could not fathom how we'd fly up every Sunday and return every Tuesday. Three days out, four days home, three days out, four days...There was no question of staying up there, though many suggested it, from several nurses to the folks at the Ronald McDonald House. I just figured I would have to make it work so that I could substitute teach on the three school days each week that we would be home. I also know that being away from YoYo for any time longer than a week would be very hard on him, and I want more than anything for our boys to both know in their hearts that family is a safe and stable place.

This Thursday, I'll head back north. I'm dragging my Daddy along this time, since Shane has to work. We'll go on our grand tour of the faded post-industrial Eastern seaboard. Philadelphia will be our first stop, with an appointment for FuXia on Friday and his first ex-fix adjustment. We'll head south on Sunday to Baltimore, where YoYo has a series of appointments at Johns Hopkins before his brief outpatient procedure on Wednesday. We'll pack up and head home again, home again, lickety split for YoYo's Christmas program at school.

Then, if I'm still functional at all, I'll think about shopping for Christmas. I'm hoping there's some time for stitching and knitting as we travel and wait. So odd to think that so much travel and organization would have to proceed just a few hours (relatively) of medical attention. I struggle sometimes to make sense of the disproportionate amount of resources we use to do this. That is the humbling part--to think that of all the people in the world, we would be able to seek this kind of care for our son, and not only that, but we are able to pursue it with no fear of the financial hurdles this type of care might pose. Once again, our Sunday School class and others have rallied around us to support us on this stretch of the journey, with food and finances and help towards Christmas. I know with each gift what time it would take me to earn such an amount, and I feel the cost of what it is to many to help us as Christmas nears and the economy stretches a little thin. And thankfulness wells within.

I think I know, sometimes, why Mary had to store things in her heart. I daresay it must have been quite a challenge for a young woman to travel so far from her family for the first time to embrace marriage and childbirth, to try one's best to make it all work out somehow, to balance giving birth in a trough with priceless gifts from foreign ambassadors and visits from nomads and fleeing like refugees. Wondrous and strange, the mixing of impossible miracle and bewildering hardship. There is no time to make sense of it as it happens, only to take the next step and the next one. It is only in the still small hours of an evening that I can try to lay out some of it and look it over, and even then, I know that I can recount this moment and that, stringing them and restringing them like beads in patterns as I try to make order of it, but my efforts are barely a precursor to any understanding. I sort and re-sort, then wrap my thoughts away again. I hope my ears and heart are listening still.

finding normal

2011-12-01T18:22:00.001-08:00

The surgery went well, the post-op pain management surprised all with its ease, and "the boy who could" made it home. The boys were both delirious with delight as we drove through Tennessee in the early morning. It was snowing--big, wet flurries that blew about and melted on landing, except where they made a few slick spots on the Cumberland Plateau.

Now we are home, and the work sets in. FuXia is in the tub, Shane is at school with a performance tonight, YoYo is playing with his cars while he waits his turn in the tub. Every night FuXia has to shower or bathe to clean his pin sites. Each of the fifteen "pins"--some slender wires, some 1/8" posts--enters his leg from the fixator, and each has to be cleaned individually every night to avoid infection. MRSA, or staph infection, is a risk with this type of appliance, and it can travel with alarming speed from an infected wound on the skin's surface down the length of the wire to the bone. Staph can actually colonize on the wires and pins inside the leg, much as with a knee or hip replacement. For this reason, FuXia is now on a maintenance antibiotic twice a day. His appliance, being steel, would easily tear holes in our tub, so I've lined the bottom with interlocking floor mats (created for exercising) that I found in a sporting goods store.

We have a loaner wheelchair, with footrests that raise to keep the fixator leg elevated at all times. We rest the leg on a pillow so its weight doesn't agitate the pins in a manner that tears his wounds larger. I'm told that as his femur is coaxed into growth, it will respond at a quicker rate than his layers of skin will be able to expand, so his progress will be measured in part by torn skin around the upper pins. When we travel, I put the pillow on a small cooler just in front of him, so he can elevate his foot. In bed, he lies flat on his back, foot elevated on a pillow, a blanket roll propped in between his legs so the weight of the fixator doesn't tip sideways and tear his skin or put undue pressure on the pins.

He sits sideways at the table. There are two pair of pants he can currently wear, both gray basketball-style pants with snaps, a full size larger than his non-exfix pants, to stretch around the appliance. The three pins in his foot prevent us from using a sock. I'm fiddling still with a piece of fleece generously shared by Chris, the incredibly hospitable friend who opened her home to us for Thanksgiving. More on that story later. I hope to fashion the fleece into a soft shoe-a kimono slipper of sorts, especially for the mornings like this one, when we rolled out to school in 25 degree frost that looked like a dusting of snow.

FuXia tires easily. Today he went for a full day of school. Yesterday, he tried a half day, and by the time evening came, his pain had gotten ahead of him, and he requested morphine for maybe the fourth time since he left the hospital. A few minutes later, he threw up. He was asleep by 7 pm. This afternoon, I suggested a nap as I rolled him through the door, and he didn't protest. Though he slept nearly two hours, he was glad to be back in bed by 9, weary after dinner and his bath.

This is our new normal. For a season yet undetermined, we will find a new rhythm and lean into it. I am so thankful for Christmas on the horizon. We are marking Advent with the children for the first time, and the anticipation of it alone has been therapeutic. I feel the excitement of Christmas will help ease our hardest days. As I drew the flannel quilt around him tonight, FuXia indulged in a rare moment of confidence, grinning shyly, his eyes dancing.

"Last Christmas I had surgery, this Christmas I have this, but maybe next Christmas I will be finished with the surgery. Maybe next Christmas I can walk without the walker. Maybe I will be taller. Maybe I will even be tall enough for the star on the tree..." and here he motioned topping the Christmas tree with our glittery silver star. I tried to speak and found myself crying for joy and hope, perhaps the first time I've not been able to contain myself with him. It was all I could do to hug him close, and he giggled at my tears and threatened to tell on me.

If I feared that I was not close enough in heart to mother him, if I worried during surgery that my heart was still too strange to him to instinctively know how to comfort him or ease his pain or give him courage, the fear is gone. I am this boy's Mama forevermore, and he is my little boy. That is a good normal, I think.

Packing up

2011-11-27T21:54:00.001-08:00

I always have trouble getting to bed the night before we come home from Philadelphia. I pack, repack, and run over the happenings in my mind, trying to make sense of the current leg of the journey, searching for anything I may have left out in conversation with the orthopedist, praying that my boy feels mothered, weary for lack of exercise in this space.

Shane joined me for what is often a nightly ritual at the Ronald McDonald House. Once the kids are soundly asleep, their mothers trickle down to the kitchen one by one, never present all at once, but arriving and departing, ebbing and flowing. Each gathers her water or tea or milk, perhaps a nibble of this or that, and a tiny congregation forms around the kitchen island or a table in the dining hall.

These are the misfit mothers. Their children come for treatment of cancer, or hypoplastic heart, or arthrogryposis, or spina bifida. Sometimes, strangely, there seems to be a higher concentration of one issue, as was the case last summer, when five mothers were pregnant with babies diagnosed with spina bifida, and they lived in the Ronald McDonald House while awaiting surgery in utero. Tonight, there are at least six families with children who have arthrogryposis, one with a tiny baby with a heart transplant, two whose babies have ill hearts, two preemies, one chemo patient, a beautiful girl with one leg, and an older girl with cerebral palsy. Miracles and tragedy, side by side, room by room. Women come from all over the world with their children. Now there is a family from California, one from Oklahoma, one from Colombia, one from England, one from Peru, one from Puerto Rico. This summer, there were families from Iran and Guatemala and Mexico.

Sometimes the children are talked about of a night, standing round the island in pajamas. But often, the talk is about normal things, what husbands are doing and what foods are favorites, what local adventure was had when someone tried to find a store and got lost in a scary side alley. This is strange community, strange communion, breaking of bread, reminiscent of a prophet long ago exhorting, "Come, and let us reason together." We empty and reload the dishwashers, we take out the trash, we clean the sinks, we do any little task that might seem annoying at home but somehow here brings peace to one's heart. The Spanish speaking mothers gather around little bowls of rice or soap operas and the miles between their countries vanish as they hold one another steady.

It's strange how those moments, stolen away in little pieces while children slumber, their bodies struggling to mend, are held close in my heart when I return home. There, every mother's child has bent or missing limbs or broken bodies. There, no mother can pretend her child is normal, or that everything is fine. There may be fear of loss, but there is no fear of what others will think, or how others might stare. We are all here and aware of our brokenness, and it invites a peculiar sharing of work and hope and friendship. I am thankful for this community of the broken, for freedom from expectations, for freedom to hope and to stand together in quiet knowing. I will climb in bed soon, but tomorrow I will take this place with me, in my heart, with thanks.

National Adoption Month

2011-11-20T21:00:00.001-08:00

Two refrains I have heard sound again and again on this journey recently.

"You adopted them--do you have any children of your own?"

"You are special people to have brought those boys home--they must feel lucky."

I like well-meaning people, and I hope to love them better. Sometimes the person who speaks these words is reaching for a way to connect, to bear witness, to affirm that family unfolding and blossoming is good. Sometimes a person doesn't have a file for what she sees--two Chinese boys, one with a walker, with white pudgy parents who smile too much.

Every day of this journey to family has required change of me. I love that, embrace it, run from it, shake my fist against it, all at once. I never imagined that mothering could be so hard, and I have never felt so free. But the mothering part is not made harder because we chose to adopt "Waiting Children." Mothering is just hard. And we are not wonderful because we have brought home two boys whose bodies require that our lives just now are spent more inside the waiting room than outside. What mother has given birth and found her child struggles with health issues, or cognitive challenges, or learning delays, or allergies? What mother has loved her child and suddenly found him a stranger? What mother has loved and given and lost her child to tragedy, no matter what age, or faced a grim diagnosis? Those moments are not often marked as wondrous or singular in their requirement of grace, mercy, or peace. And yet they happen, they spill out, as does life, with no regard for sentiment or legacy or justification, and they demand grace, mercy, and peace to survive. Nobody deserves to watch her child die. Nobody works with the hope that her efforts will pay off in seeing her child struggle with pain management. We sought our boys knowing their challenges in part, as much as any mother desperately searching her ultrasound printout for telltale signs knows in part. And we adopted freely, knowing that not every nation in the world has infrastructure well organized enough to cull most children with special needs (and yes-I say that in recognition that our nation encourages most parents to consider culling children with special needs in utero).

We adopted our sons because we were changed. My heart was made open despite my best attempts to keep it shut and safe. I wanted to keep life orderly, to organize my home with a RealSimple magazine in one hand and Mary Engelbreit in the other, to out-Martha Martha herself at Christmas baking and handmades, to re-interpret Southern Living for my own generation.

Instead, I am Mother to these wonderful boys, who are brave and funny and smart and kind. I wish people could come into a hospital and see how few guarantees there are in life, that no matter how safely you play it, your child is your child and he will have his struggles! Every day you have together is precious and worth the cost. And then I wish people could look into a foster home and see how many children languish for want of a family because their feet curl inwards or their eyes cross or they drool when they mean to speak. What wealth of minds and souls lie within these children, who ache for lack of love!

Adoption is not for everyone. We are thankful, in this week and month of giving thanks, that it is woven into our family's fabric. I hope we are grateful enough, and I hope that our boys feel as though they have parents of their own.

regrouping

2011-11-19T06:48:00.001-08:00

It is not surprising that feeling uninformed going into surgery causes anxiety. Nor is it surprising that it kindled the Mama bear fire. FuXia was so afraid of the pain. I have tried to coach him through pain at times, and when he's bottomed out--as he did one really hot day in summer when he found out he was expected to use his walker at school--I've had to learn when to talk, when to listen, when to give him space. I found him hesitating to talk about his fear, and I wondered if he was trying to gauge whether talking about it would lead to a "sit-in at the driveway" moment again. We tried to give him room to talk, and eventually he did...the night before surgery, at the table in the family dining room at the Ronald McDonald House.

Surgery went well, and FuXia has found himself in a lucky group of kids whose worst post-op pain is managed with the epidural. He had an epidural cath and some other pain med through his IV, and it wasn't until after they had him sit up in his wheelchair for a half hour yesterday that he asked for any additional pain medicine. He's simply felt very little pain. I am so thankful for that. I know there is pain to come, and pain management to come, but I am so thankful for the mercy he's had in this moment. He began to eat yesterday, too, and he was much more alert. But when I leaned in and whispered, "Do you feel like FuXia yet?" he smiled and shook his head. "Not yet," he whispered back.

We hit the Lego store just outside Philly after the PT appointment the other day. We were surprised before leaving Franklin with several gifts of money, and so we set aside a little for each boy to pick a Lego set. FuXia had his eye on some massive $300 robot set that he's been saving his money towards, but we put him off for a little longer, laughing at the idea of the robot's wires getting tangled with his own in the hospital bed. (UPDATE: Just so you know, he's getting the robot. We've been working towards it, $5 a week, for almost a year now. Throw that with his $, and we're in!)

And that brings me to the biggest hurdle we have at the moment. FuXia is doing so well. YoYo has been incredible. We couldn't ask for a smoother journey thus far. The social worker arrived yesterday to ask about our home's setup and where we would be able to put a hospital bed. She breezed through the scenarios we should be able to manage, waving away my protests and drawing out diagrams of the little rooms she hasn't seen. There's more to the discussion, but I was nearly in tears by the time she was done, and the PT was ready to have FuXia transferred to a wheelchair. His fixator is much larger and more complex than we expected, so his new chair is too wide for our hallway and I can't imagine how we'd get him in the bathroom or his bedroom. Praying and thinking of Lego skills in my mind...

I have to head to the hospital now-after I feed this little munchkin at my arm. Here's to hope!

the next step

2011-11-16T21:40:00.001-08:00

That's my boy, grinning proudly, with his incredible PT. I had no idea how deeply a physical therapist can impact the life of a kid, but Heidi has managed somehow to fill our son with hope and strength every time she works with him. She has affirmed his dignity, laughed at his humor as well as his attempts to cheat, pushed him harder than he thought he could work, and motivated him to push on no matter what. She has welcomed him, has valued his opinions, has been patient with his mother, and has taken him seriously. What gift could beat that?! For Heidi, this season, I am humbly and profoundly thankful.

Tonight, I am dragging out the inevitable call to sleep. In four short hours, I will be awake, readying for FuXia's surgery today. He is receiving an external fixator, a device designed to shape and stretch the bones in and around his knee. It will, by many accounts, be inordinately painful. He fears this pain. I can only respect that, and though I may try to ease the anticipation with telling him about pain management and medicine and time, I would do him a remarkable injustice to minimize the pain he faces. He will face it head on, will cry and protest at points, and he will overcome. He has done so every step of this journey.

One year ago today, we climbed--that is, I was loaded in via stretcher and he was lifted into--a twin-prop plane piloted by two volunteers with Angel Flights. They took us through the bumpy cold to Philadelphia, where we made our careful way to Shriners Hospital for the first time. I only hoped to see an orthopedist whose work I'd found online after attempts to connect with the American doctor who saw FuXia in China failed. When Dr. van Bosse suggested serial casting for FuXia, I assumed his goal was to straighten our son's feet to keep his contractures from worsening and causing him great pain. It wasn't until several visits later that I learned his goal was for FuXia to walk.

One year ago, we made halting progress towards parenting FuXia. With serial casting and procedures I would have preferred to put off for the sake of bonding with my sweet boy first, he has somehow learned to trust me, and lately, he will even lean into me or reach for my hand. A mother dares to dream of finding her son's love when he joins the family after years of his own life. A mother dares to hope he will feel loved and will cherish family.

I flinched today. I insisted on visiting the hospital a day early to check in with the PTs here in Philly and to let them observe FuXia's recent gains. I learned that this fixator thing is a lot more complex than I even imagined, and that I was not appropriately informed and educated. I learned that we'll likely have to begin our Philly commute again, coming every week--every other week if we're lucky--for adjustments to this contraption which stretches painful wires all the way through my boys bones. I was very thankful that he wasn't at my side to feel my fear, to sense--as he does with uncanny ability--that I was faltering. I thought, "I can't DO this."

How gentle and kind it is that if I had to hit that wall, it would be the day before the anniversary of our first trip here, so I could remember how far we have come, how this was never supposed to happen, how no other orthopedist thought this possible. FuXia used the wheelchair to go anywhere, except when he dragged himself or rolled across the floor. He sat to brush his teeth. He could not wear shoes. He couldn't fasten his pants. He needed help to get around at school.

Now he walks. He can lift his legs. He can climb steps. He can use crutches for brief stretches. He can stand independently of support for 2 minutes. He stands to brush his teeth. He walks out the door, down the steps, and down the walk to climb into the car on his own every morning of school. He can stand to prepare his own snack. He can dress himself, stretch his AFO straps at night, walk all day at school. He can use his walker to get into our back yard all by himself and still have the stamina to return to the house. He can get the mail. He can get up off the floor from his knees and stand into the walker.

Of course we can do this. Look at what God's grace has brought us to already. I am thankful for the galaxy that whirls within our lives, a symphony of faith and science and medicine and hope. Heck--I'll bet we'll even bring ourselves to smile (somehow) along the way! I will laugh at myself for taking me too seriously, I will smile gently at today's fear, and I will wake up in a few hours to walk with my sweet boy as he takes the next step. And the next.

Countdown...

2011-11-11T19:39:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving is coming. A few years ago, I was blessed enough to sit at my Aunt Mary's table for Thanksgiving pie and coffee with my parents and my cousins and their kids. Where we once spent every Black Friday at Nana's house eating turkey leftovers, being able to get even part of our family together now is rare and precious. We laughed and told stories, remembered good times. I wonder what Thanksgiving will look like for my boys. I don't know if Uncle Craig will make it in from Russia every now and then, or if talk will center on the Thanksgiving that FuXia was in serial casts or the one we celebrated at the Ronald McDonald House in between his and YoYo's surgeries.

Our next visit to Philadelphia looms near. Last night I shopped for snap pants to accommodate the new brace for FuXia's leg, and I found myself buying suncatcher and melty-peg ornament kits for the sake of having something normal for the boys. A little kid was having a meltdown at one store, and I nearly joined him, thinking, "I know, buddy, you're so right!"

FuXia had his teeth cleaned. We had to address that this week so his white cell counts would be normal enough to proceed with surgery next week. His dentist talked with me about time he spent in the Middle East, and I reminisced about our all-too-brief time in Iraq--it seems like another lifetime. He asked how we came to the place of decision where we changed from wanting to stay in Iraq, working with coed schools and refugees, to zeroing in on one child and starting our own family. I told him of the time when we hurtled along rutted roads with an AK-47 bouncing around under the passenger seat and Kurdi folk tunes blaring, when I saw herd after herd of nondescript sheep across the countryside, guarded only by dogs or donkeys.

"Why would anyone look for a lost sheep there? If you lost one, thank God that you only lost one, and move the others to safety," I recalled to the dentist. "But the parable sends the shepherd after that one, even at the peril of the rest of the flock. He doesn't know if the lost one is dead or eaten or findable." I carried a good enough dose of guilt-mongering to feel selfish for wanting to start a family when there was so much need. But in that moment, the reminder of the pointless odds of finding one sheep in a desolate landscape proffered me the weirdest peace. I can't presume to have the final word on interpreting anything in the Bible, but there is so much of human dignity and worth and life affirmation in that story.

We face more change than we know. FuXia will wear his traction brace for several months, depending on how long his bones take to respond. We'll stay in Philly fifteen days. There's a borrowed portable folding wheelchair ramp on our steps now for the new chair we'll bring home with its platform that will keep FuXia's leg raised. Not sure he'll fit through the hallway or his bedroom door. Not sure how school will work, or loading him into the van. I'm worried about the pain he'll endure and the discouragement. I hope he can hold tightly enough to the gains he's made so far to find hope. I'm thankful that this is happening as the Christmas season begins--it's his favorite time of year, and he loves to be immersed in making paper chains and presents and drawings and decorations. Somehow, Valentines Day lacks the same power to distract.

So here we go again. The recent call memory that reads, "Anesthesia NP, nurse care coordinator, pediatric GI, Anesthesia NP, YoYo's surgery scheduler, YoYo's nurse care, FuXia's coordinator again, pediatrician, pt clinic..." The list that reads, "Take the dog to the Joneses, stop mail, tune up car, haul the trash..." Somewhere in there is packing and planning and hopefully, making a way for the boys to feel like kids who have choices and Thanksgiving stories worth remembering. Stopping at the grocery store two days ago, I laughed at the MOD that I didn't have a life, in reference to my being there so late in the evening.

"You do have a life--those boys--and that's a beautiful life." I have to agree!

Working Mama

2011-11-07T12:47:00.000-08:00

Well, I just dropped off the face for a minute, didn't I? While we wait for the taxman to answer the phone, so to speak, I'm working when I can. I've had a lot in the last 12 days. Three days of subbing, one of housecleaning, and two running my booth at a craft fair--not to mention mad prep leading up to the fair. Oh, and a volunteer gig for YoYo's class, a pumpkin farm field trip, a sick kid day, a kid-needing-Mama-cuddle day, and maybe I was inadvertently voted into a garden club.

Seriously? This morning, FuXia was home sick, and I stayed in bed until 10. Gasp! I soooo needed it. The three days leading up to the craft fair saw me with maybe 4 hours of sleep. Last night, when I finally thought I'd get to bed early, sicky-boy was up until 1 am with the pukes. Blegh.

Now a new run begins. I'm reloading my etsy shop. I'm writing and rewriting our stories. We leave for Philly in 8 days (oops!-Chris W, I need to email you-I haven't forgotten you! Sorry!), and we're there through November. All four of us are going. We'll have Thanksgiving together at the Ronald McDonald House, which is great! The boys are delirious with the idea they might see snow.

We'll go to Johns Hopkins in December for YoYo's exploratory surgery. After our scares in January and July, I was on high alert. Our urologist wasn't. He and his NP acted as though kids like YoYo stroll through their doors all the time. I was told in the ER, "Kids with his condition come in here every 2 or three weeks with infections." I assume the doctor saying this--she saw us for YoYo's infection-seizure combo in July, during her 5th week of pediatric urology fellowship--meant that such children experience infections every 2-3 weeks of their lives. Did I mention our urologist never came, and that he's never followed up? Before this year, we took YoYo to the ER for an infection once--once in three years--for what was likely a kidney infection. This year, we've been there twice for much more dramatic episodes. YoYo is one of three Asians with his condition treated by Johns Hopkins--the premier hospital for cloacal exstrophy--since 1965. One of three--in forty-five years. And he's the only one of the 77 total at JH with cloacal exstrophy in that time span with a single kidney and failed correction attempts. Dear Vandy uro team and 5th-week fellow, I have more hands-on experience managing a kid with YoYo's physiology right now than you will in your combined careers. I am not a doctor, but I am an expert on my child's body.

I called Johns Hopkins and asked them if I was crazy. The head of their pediatric uro team, the doc who saved my baby's life before I knew he was even born, said, "You're exactly right. Come on up here and let me look at that boy." So we're going. Don't know what will happen next or how we'll afford it. And that's ok.

It's harder with YoYo, sometimes, precisely because he doesn't look as though he has any issues going on. He looks like a perfectly normal wild little Kindergarten boy. He doesn't have the options that his brother has. Every day his brother astounds us with new skills--walking with arm crutches, standing independently for 2 minutes, pulling himself up from the floor from his knees to a standing position. He can walk where there was once no hope of that. YoYo's body, barring miracle or medical breakthrough, is what it will be his whole life. I wonder if and when he'll become aware of this. I wonder how to help him make peace with this and choose joy.

For now, I work when I can, as much as I can. We still haven't received our $17K tax rebate. The taxpayer advocate won't help unless we have a foreclosure notice. Our Congresswoman has not responded in over a month. A direct call to the TN taxpayer advocate was fruitless. Her assistant told us that such a process could take one or two years. We're not the only family going through this, either. I find that pitiful wretched on the government's part.

It is important for me to tell you that we are hard pressed on every side. But we are never crushed. Never. This is our song. And just look at that dahlia! Joy expressed tangibly.

What's in a Name

2011-10-30T23:39:00.000-07:00

Last week, I guest lectured for a class at CPA, the school where I once taught art. I told part of our adoption story. In setting it up, I recalled a pivotal moment, and the telling hit me hard, taking my breath. That moment, still fresh, reminds me why ancient people erected monuments and crafted holidays and how doing so (albeit in a different manner) on a familial or community level is important to our evolution--and to our human-ness. It's a way of bearing witness. I have no obelisk or ebenezer, but I do have a blog, and it will do.

We've been asked many times why we chose to keep our sons' Chinese names. Most of our friends who adopt give their children an Anglo first name and incorporate their Chinese name as a middle name. I've heard that within larger orphanages, a child's name is fairly inconsequential. The surname is often determined by location; all children from a certain orphanage in Henan province, for instance, have the surname "Luo." The surname comes first in Chinese nomenclature. The given name is second and is often simple, chosen at random and often quickly. There is a custom within part of the international adoption community of celebrating a child's new name as a metaphor for redemption within the Christian tradition; a new believer is "adopted" as a child of God by way of her faith in His son, Jesus, a process which changes her name and transforms her identity, thus physical adoption is likewise marked.

For us, it was always Tian You and FuXia, though the spelling of YoYo's full name changed from "You" to "Yo," for ease of pronunciation in America. Changing our sons' names was never an option, for many reasons. The biggest reason, though, was set in my heart the same day that I was changed and made open to Special Needs adoption.

It would seem that we visited the Hope Healing Home in Beijing by chance. We traveled to China for the first time in spring of 2006, and in the course of touring several provinces and learning much about Chinese art and history, our host asked if we would mind accompanying him to the Healing Home one day. He had an errand to run, and he was not often in Beijing. We agreed, and within a few hours, we'd made the ride through the outskirts of the city to the moment that would change our lives forever. I was set against Waiting Child adoption, and when our caseworker asked us just a week prior to this trip to consider WC adoption, I defied God to change my mind. As far as I was concerned, we were on the path to adopting a healthy baby girl from China.

We walked into a building that reminded me of my old high school, a two-story structure with a hall flanked on either side by classrooms--or in this case, playrooms, bedrooms, and kitchen. I was intrigued by the goings-on of a medical foster home but detached. I don't think this was deliberate on my part; the visit didn't have anything to do with the rest of our trip, and so I was just an onlooker touring a facility, interested only because of the relationship this organization had with one we had supported financially in years past. So it seemed.

What I saw was children with clubbed feet, cleft palates, Down syndrome, heart defects, exstrophy, hepatitis--there was a wide range--playing together in bright well-appointed playrooms with cheerful murals and an eye towards Montessori theory. We rounded a corner into a large communal bathroom with several sinks and changing stations. Each sink was dedicated to one group of children, with each child's washcloth and toothbrush on a hanger nearby. Each washcloth was stitched with a name in red thread. I caught my breath and asked why.

The director, a pediatric surgeon from Australia, had stitched the children's names on the washcloths...because their names were the one thing under the sun that they owned. God knew their names before they were born, she went on, and to have and own that name, to use it to mark something as one's own, was lifegiving. In giving them that ownership, she was bearing witness to each child's dignity, arguably for the first time in their short lives. She was teaching them how to be people.

Six months later, we learned the name of our first son, and not long after, we learned that his name, meaning "Heaven Protect," or "God bless," was prayed over him when he was but five days old, as his ayis sped him to the hospital and willed him to live. It was both cry of hope and last rite. And he lived. So his name remains.

We learned some time later that FuXia had been called Jian Gong for many years. Perhaps it was a nickname. But when he began to be called FuXia, he excitedly told his friends at the Montessori school he attended that it was his brand new "American name." It means "Happy Summer." Happy was the day that summer we decided that we could not live any longer without FuXia as a son. His name, too, remains.

Both boys know that they may change or abbreviate their name to sound more American, should they so choose, someday. Secretly, I hope they don't change them. For me, the keeping of their names is bearing witness to every single day that God cared for them when I did not know they were even alive. Before I mothered them or gave a thought to their well-being, they survived against impossible odds. Keeping their names is a small way, and also an unsmall way, to honor and respect the places from which they have come and the long road each has traveled to become our son.

Whose story?

2011-10-25T15:05:00.000-07:00

We're all out front and in the news again! Our story was on the front page of the local news section of the Tennessean. You can find it here. I say "our story," but specifically, I mean "part of Older Brother's story, with a little backstory about him and Younger Brother." I was very touched that Freedom Intermediate School would reach out and support our son in the way that they have, and it was a complete surprise to arrive at the assembly and find a reporter waiting for us.

The story was published today, and there was a bit more detail than I expected about YB's condition. Everyone around us seemed to receive the story well and to take it purely as a testament of the great things that have happened in our boys' lives. For that I am very thankful. At the same time, it fans the embers of a question that is always at the back of my mind: whose story is it?

When we attended our first adoption parenting class, the agency director cautioned us to keep private the stories of our children at whatever cost. "It is not your story to tell," she declared. Later, I saw a segment on a morning show from across the country, in which a couple discussed intimate details about their Chinese daughter's condition, and I understood why. For that child, there exists forever on the internet at least one link to a video where her father and mother talk about the reconstruction of her genitalia and the grief they felt on her behalf and cry about how happy they are now that she is "normal." I know-I KNOW-how intense the emotions are about that--but I fear, too, what the girl's life will be like when she is old enough to date, when she blossoms into womanhood.

It is difficult, with our boys, to draw exact lines compartmentalizing which part of the story of our family belongs to whom. And at the same time, those parts of their stories which involve being adopted and enduring the challenges of their bodies are but another side of the coin that is my story and the places where I am desperate to learn not to be afraid and not to pity but to love.

The dilemma is part of why I've avoided using their names on the blog and instead use OB for Older Brother and YB for Younger Brother, as if by doing so I'm able to tell the story of a family. But that's not true. It's not as though we are anonymous to the friends and family who pray for and hope with us and encourage us every step of the way. I haven't written once for the sake of posterity--it's been for community and for working through all this. When we've been able to dare to consider the possibility of walking, thanks to Shriners; or when we've been able to begin family, thanks to ShowHope or Gift of Adoption or LifeSong; or when we've been able to stay at the Ronald McDonald House, sharing our story, or part of it, has been not just a way to say "Thank you, here's how you have helped others," for the sake of any person who gives or helps those organizations. It has also been a way to share the word about the good work that those organizations do, a way to speak hope into hard places, a way to teach my sons that it is good to know and to thank the people who help them along their journeys, that doing so is a way of being community.

I hope there is a way to tell the story of our family with care and yet preserve the privacy and dignity of all involved. For me, it is a matter of saying, "LOOK! Here is a family to whom both good and hard things happened, and here is the grace in their lives, and here is the hope, and see what can happen when any person chooses hope against fear, when any person dares God to change her heart. The Kingdom is at hand! And we are thankful." That is good news. And I think a good story is worth telling.

C'mon, Hope!

2011-10-21T23:04:00.000-07:00

It is the weekend, and I feel weakened. Two themes swirl in my head continuously just now, but I think I'll out one first. I am full of awe and wonder at the story unfolding in our lives, in our family. The best that I can do is...I don't know what the best that I can do is. Hmmm. That might be an ok answer. For now, I will tell our story, in shades and tones, and say thanks be to Love.

And on the other hand, I will be resolute and a little defiant. When we adopted, our government offered a tax rebate for adoption. While this was not a motivator for us-think of it as a fraction of the total cost of adoption-it was certainly something we counted on. The rebate--$11K for Younger Brother and $13K for Older Brother--would absorb stuff like travel for surgery, the van we bought to accommodate the wheelchair, the copays, the ostomy supplies.

But the IRS balked this year. President Obama made the adoption tax rebate fully refundable, meaning that while we had claimed only enough to reimburse our annual taxes in the last couple of years, this year we had to claim the full remainder. In our case, that meant a little more than $17K. What the President and the IRS failed to take into account was that they would face nearly 80,000 families claiming nearly $900 million in adoption rebates. Ours is small by comparison: some families with multiple adoptions were eligible for $60K in rebates.

We didn't receive our instructions for how to file until March 2011. Our taxes were in by April 12. Then came the wait. We were asked for documentation proving both adoptions were completed. We sent that. We were asked for them again. We sent them a second time. Then we were asked for receipts documenting adoption related expenses equivalent to the amount of our rebate claim and past rebate claims, plus a third-yes, a third-copy of that adoption proof documentation.

I played it conservative and sent in $34,000 in receipts to support out $24,000 in total rebate eligibility. The IRS disagreed, and said we only were eligible for $5000. They rejected the rest of our receipts, explaining in their letter only one $200 expense that they disagreed with and categorically refusing to recognize any of our receipts from China.

Tuesday evening, I sent a second set of receipts--this time, more than $40K worth--and a FOURTH set of adoption proof documents. Each time I've been able to stay on the phone the two to four hours it takes to speak with an examiner, I'm told something different. Send only receipts. Send cancelled checks. Send bank statements. Call the Chinese government offices with which you had transactions and ask them to fax proof to the IRS. Hire a Chinese translator to translate your China receipts. Send only the Hauge adoption certificate as proof. Actually, send the adoption certificate and the adoption decree. Send the certificate, the decree, a translation of the decree, and a passport. Also send a Social Security card. And a certificate of Citizenship. Send with all those other things your child's new American-originated birth certificate. Wait-you don't have one of those? Why? That might be a problem.

I contacted our local Congresswoman. I'm told it will take her office 30-45 days to hear anything. Meanwhile, we are at last nearing the end of our credit cards. We have nearly $10K in outstanding medical expenses. We're trying to sell our Nissan, planning to use the 13-year-old station wagon we've been trying to resurrect. I don't know if the transmission will last us 2 weeks or 2 months. We are refinancing our house. We are trying to schedule surgery for Younger Brother--the Johns Hopkins urologist who saved his life just two months before we even knew Younger Brother existed has confirmed that his body seems to be changing, and we need to find out what's going on. Meanwhile, OB is scheduled for surgery next month for the next phase in his treatment.

I am asking for prayer. I think I may be asking for hope, too. I am NOT asking for money from anyone (save the IRS). This is far bigger than asking a friend or a parent for a loan. The Author of the Universe, who I believe and hope spoke this world into being and created us in His own image, imparting to us with just a breath more dignity than we could hope to ever imagine, knew each of my sons before they were born. While I struggled with the desire to have children and lay awake crying at night for want of a baby, He steered our boys through impossible odds. When my Grandmother lamented, a year before she died, that she wished I could have been a mother, my older son was rolling across the yard outside his orphanage as fast as he could to catch the warmth of the sun. I have no control in this story, and that is as it should be. I am stripped of the ability to sentimentalize and pretend to myself that I have some say in the story of our lives. I don't have to believe that it's up to us to choose whether one son walks or the other one lives. That is incredibly freeing.

And at the same time, it is incredibly hard. I have resisted--and I mean--telling this, because I do not want to diminish the story of hope, the telling of the good. How trashy, to muck up the telling of the miracle of a child with an impossible birth defect finding a home and life and his friend reunited with him as brother, who was given legs to walk, by lamenting mere money?!

Baloney. I've told the story of the IRS-and ours is not the only family struggling with this situation. But what will last and last is that Love made a way for these two boys. And we will move forward with both surgeries, just like their foster homes did before us, and I will know that we will find a way. I will dare say that we are more blessed than we have brains to conceive. The Kingdom is at hand, and my limited vision at this moment--the gall in my throat that tastes of bureaucratic duplicity--is insufficient to mar the shine of this day.

I want someone to bear witness. If I have learned anything these last three years, it is that when we are here, when it seems there is no way to take the next step--that is when hope shows. Truth will out, hope will show. I set my heart against adopting a Waiting Child, and I found out I was the child waiting. We tearfully concluded, the night before our adoption agency was scheduled to call with a yay or nay, that there was no way we could adopt Younger Brother, even if they approved us for him, because it was just more than we could take on. Thirty minutes before they called, the urologist who saved YB's life called me out of nowhere, while scrubbed up in the OR, to say, "There's a reason this boy was born this way, and there's a reason he came to me when he did. Y'all are part of his story." We were approved to adopt Older Brother and ran out of money before we even submitted our dossier--I joked, having read another mom's blog, that nobody was going to show up and press a check for $15K into our hands--and then an anonymous donor showed up with even more than that, to send our dossier and finance the rest of the adoption and pay for some of the changes to our house. Nobody expected Younger Brother would live--his name was prayed over him as a last rite. Nobody expected Older Brother to walk. He took his first steps down from our porch for the world to see.

Hope will show.

Wow! What a weekend!

2011-10-17T23:09:00.000-07:00

Ok, ok! I know I should have written by now! I have a really serious little post with a big big question just waiting in the wings, but first, I just have to say that this was one! wild! weekend!

It started Friday, when Shane met me at OB's school for an assembly. No pictures? Well, of course not-I would have had to put the memory card in my camera for that! We walked in, fully knowing OB was being recognized as an "Outstanding Student" for the big strides he's taken this quarter (pun fully intended-oooh, I'm so clever!). So I was all prepared to boo-hoo, until...a reporter from the Tennessean walked up to greet me with her photographer!

What in the world!?

OB said later that when the district representative began to talk about this boy who had so many surgeries and so many doctor visits, he thought, "That boy is kind of like me...OH! It's me!" with the epiphany coming just as his name was called. The photographer jumped out to snap pictures, and OB's friends began to chant his name...and then I heard the chant sweep around the entire perimeter of the gym, until all the students and parents were standing up cheering my sweet brave boy! I hope and hope that he holds it close in his heart, that he knows how loved he is. I am amazed at the power a school has to speak community into being like that--in that one moment, a feeling of camaraderie galvanized that will ebb and flow, to be sure, but one that will certainly carry those kids with a special bond through the rest of their school careers in Franklin. I am so thankful for our school.

Then, on Saturday, we were special guests at the Shrine Circus in Nashville! I actually remembered the memory card. The boys were each given a tiny fez and then whisked away in a dunebuggy by a clown named "Mater Juice." I can't make this stuff up.

Then we all rode an elephant-because we needed a new family picture for our social worker!

And we were swarmed by clowns and Shriners--I was astounded at all the work that had to happen to get that production up and running! Those Shriners sure love their kids!

And Sunday? Oh, yes, Sunday! Well, that was the day of the show, y'all!

And it blew my little mind. I am so thankful to Charley Redmond, Jeanette Jolley, and Laryssa Emeigh for sharing and producing and editing our story--and the way in which Rodney's story intersected with ours--with such grace and dignity. My biggest fear the whole wait through was that their story would unfold with pity or somehow diminish the boys--but I can think of no better way to have woven our narratives together in this storytelling than the way that Charley, Jeanette, and Laryssa did! Thank y'all so much for grace and hope.

As a fun little aside, just in case you'd forgotten what a weird place we live in, YB has a good buddy at school--whose dad happened to help Adam start Monarch Landscaping. Who knew? And at the end of the week, I got a strange message from a dear friend from church--turns out he works at GAC and was editing video and thought, "I know these guys!" (We've only known each other 15 years, Chad!) He dropped by our house Sunday night to drop off a DVD he made especially for us, just in case we didn't have a way to watch the show! THANK YOU, CHAD!!

We did have a way, though! Friend-who's-really-like-a-sister Lisa Landers said, "Hey, head over to my house," so we did, and some of the regular Sunday night crew joined us for the show and laughs and BBQ--because really, what else could I possibly serve for dinner the night of our GAC debut than smoked pulled pork, collard greens, molasses-glazed turnips, and butternut squash spoonbread? Really, people!

Of course, I had to finish our interview for the Tennessean this morning.

And then I took the boys to get their teeth cleaned, got a nail in my tire, and came down to earth really quickly when the chickens got loose and hid their eggs in the grass. There is nothing so awkward as chasing down a chicken to set the world back into perspective, haha!

Who knows how we'll live up to this next weekend! (I probably should be afraid to say that by now.) Thanks for the emails and messages--so much of the fun of this whole dang thing has been the feeling of friends by our side--we are so blessed.

Story in a story: Rodney Atkins

2011-10-13T23:44:00.000-07:00

Actual photo taken inside Rodney's brain while working in our yard in 1 billion degree heat

Rodney Atkins was placed for adoption as an infant. His nineteen-year-old mother had experienced what he calls a "traumatic first date." Though his fragile health was more than the first few families with whom he was placed could bear, he was eventually adopted by a couple from East Tennessee. He grew up playing little league baseball, while unknown worlds away, his birth mother married and had another son.

When Rodney got his break in country music, he talked about being adopted, even becoming the spokesperson for the National Council for Adoption. Strangely, people began to approach him at shows with bags of hair, asking for DNA tests, speculating about his birth family. It was time to find his birth mother. When they finally met, she apologized repeatedly, and he was overcome with the knowledge of what she must have carried so many years, not knowing what happened to her son, whether he was even alive, hiding even the knowledge of him from her mother. He found himself grieved for her lonely secret, and he felt compelled to thank her again and again for choosing adoption.

My parents saw Rodney in concert three years ago, when he toured with ZZ Top. We saw him for the first time in our driveway, the day he came to revisit his landscaping roots. We'd been home from the hospital less than 24 hours, and we were all tired. It was one of the hottest days of July--nearly record-breaking. I didn't know what to expect--we've met lots of folks, some in studios, some at church, some at the Ryman backstage. Rodney was by far the most unassuming, soft-spoken and careful with his words. We met briefly, posed for a few minutes of video and a photo, and then we were whisked back inside. In a strange twist, we watched this country artist perform heavy manual labor from the window of our air-conditioned living room...until the production crew shooed us away and closed the curtain on our surprise.

All I know from there is that he worked as hard, if not harder, than the landscaping crew. Charley brought some Show Hope shirts, and several of us wore them for the shoot. Rodney started with one, then soaked it through. He worked on, oblivious to the shirt, until the producer stopped him to offer a fresh one. I don't know how many shirt changes he went through that day to keep a fresh shirt, but I do know that he had his tour bus around the corner, and he only visited once--to call his family and check in. It was during lunch--our house is so small that the producer quickly realized that her original plan to use our kitchen for craft services (ie, food & drink) wasn't going to work, and some tents were hastily pitched outside. Chairs were fetched, and some tables, and the crew ate outside...mostly in the same hot sun they'd worked in since 7 or 8 that morning. Rodney asked if he could visit his bus, and the producer gave him an hour or two of leeway.

He was back in less than 20 minutes. Back to work he went. I think he must have used every available tool: the bobcat, power tools, shovels...I have never met a musician so willing to work in such dirty unbearable heat with so few breaks or attention or perks. He was incredibly kind, and he was completely suckered in by YB--of course. I think his contract probably stipulated that he only had to be there six or eight hours...but he stayed on, working, and never went to his bus again until the crew wrapped the day long after 6 pm.

Rodney, being interviewed in a fresh shirt while leaning against our fence (still in 1 billion degree heat)

For weeks after that day, Middle Tennessee was gripped with history-making heat and no rain. I stood in the yard for two hours a day, carefully watering everything and crying. Every time, I thought of our summer in Iraq, and how precious water was. I remembered needing a male escort, even if it was only my neighbor's three-year-old son, to walk down the street to the corner store to buy bottled water. Tap water was undrinkable; we'd been warned against even getting our faces wet in the shower. In China, we fared the same. Hotel bathrooms glued small placards above the bathroom faucets; "tap water not safe to drink," the generic font cautioned. We bought bottled water for everything, especially since we'd been advised that all YB's care had to be carried out in as sterile an environment as possible, to avoid life-threatening infection. Yet here I was, pouring out gallon after gallon of perfectly drinkable water on the ground, torn with knowing its precious value to so many of our friends elsewhere.

I watered anyway. Though I grieved the loss, the green living things struggling to take root were a trust, a labor of love given by a whole crew of people who worked tirelessly one epically hot day, some paid out of their green-thumbed employer's own pocket, some out of a hope to help children from hard places...and for one, out of a desire to give of talent and knowledge long dormant so that another adopted child--a chosen child--could walk out of his house and into every morning with dignity.

Story in a Story-Show Hope

2011-10-11T21:12:00.000-07:00

The story of our relationship with Show Hope (formerly Shaohannah's Hope) goes back to before Younger Brother came home. Waaaaaaay back when we first moved to Nashville, we joined a church that challenged us to consider all manner of things made new. We volunteered to work with kids (of course!), and somewhere along the way, we met Emily Chapman, then the 6th-grade daughter of none other than Steven Curtis Chapman. This is where my life experience as a Southern girl from a town of 2,000 was insufficient to imagine how surreal a town like Nashvegas could be.

A few years later, I was hired by CPA to teach high school art, and on maybe my first day of inservice, who would recognize me and seek me out but Emily Chapman, who had suddenly become a freshman.

"Have you and Mr. Caudill ever thought about adopting a child from China?" She was direct. It was the beginning of a campaign on her part, a relentless advocacy for children from hard places that led her parents to adopt from China. Her timing was hard. I was following the unfolding tragedies of the AIDs epidemic in Africa and the genocide in Sudan, as well as the spike in numbers of "abandoned" children in China, and I was wrestling with it all. Shane and I were talking seriously about adopting from China. We were also seriously considering teaching in Iraq or China for a year.

We committed to adopt. The first hurdle of financial preparation took several years to clear. As Emily made her way through CPA, followed closely by her brothers, I would occasionally cross paths with MaryBeth Chapman. "Is your homestudy finished yet?" "Where are y'all at at this point?" "What agency are you using?" "Is your dossier ready yet?" "What is taking you so long????" She was always excited for us, always encouraging, and somehow, her hope always came at just the right moment, when it seemed we'd never be able to do it. Chinese adoption requires certain financial milestones--at the time, $80K in assets and employment at the same place for 3 years. Time was the only remedy for one, and the other? Well, we could only meet that requirement by buying a house. And until we began working at CPA, the most we'd ever made in a year was $18K. Combined.

If it wasn't for ShowHope's support, we would not have been able to bring home our sons. If it wasn't for the work ShowHope has done partnering with medical foster care in China, I would never have seen first-hand how UNscary special needs could be. Until I stood in H. Healing Home, holding a washcloth lovingly cross-stitched with a little girl's name, I saw a list of brokenness. That day in Beijing, guided by a friend of ShowHope, I saw little ones full of dignity and grace. I owe to these very special people an enormous debt of gratitude.

We have a story of family. Our beginnings find themselves woven with a loving community. When ShowHope asked if we'd like to be a part of this show, it was not difficult to say yes. If our story can help them continue their work of reaching out to children from hard places and bolstering their families at so many points along the journey, if it can help awareness grow of forgotten children languishing for want of medical care we'd consider rudimentary, then it is all we can do. We are glad to share our hope with and for the folks who so gladly showed us hope.

Story in a Story-Adam

2011-10-10T21:15:00.000-07:00

The manner in which life tends to overlap stories and weave paths reminds me of the limits of my imagination. Adam Chesney started his landscaping company, Monarch, back in 2002, just a few years after I started teaching at CPA. He designed and installed a beautiful alphabet garden around the entrance to the Elementary School, and though I didn't know at the time who created it, I was enthralled. Sometimes, after classes ended, I would slow down to take in the alphabet garden, and it was enough to recharge my creativity and soul.

Mind you, a garden is to me a thing of beauty and respite. You can rest in a garden, breathe in a garden. My garden to this point has been strung together of stories...black-eyed Susans from my Grandmother's back yard, bee balm and shasta daisy from my mother's garden, daylilies from a 19th century farmhouse in its last days, iris from my 90-year-old piano teacher (whose father gave them first to her mother as a wedding present), columbine from our first apartment. We added a Japanese maple when we brought YB home--a family tree. We'll add a peach next, for OB, a Chinese symbol of longevity. You would not know this to have seen my garden in June. I was traveling with OB frequently to Philly, so time at home was catchup and survive...not garden.

Adam was the landscaper called in for our episode of "Day Jobs," in which Rodney Atkins would return to his roots as a landscaper for a day. Of course, I didn't know Adam from...well, Adam, until the Friday he showed up to prep our yard for The Big Shoot. Turns out, we'd even gone to church together for a few years without ever meeting one another's families. As he and his team worked in the (insufferable) heat outside, YB brought on enough of his own heat inside the house to have a severe seizure, and so we headed to the hospital in the middle of the excitement.

And then something remarkable happened. OB was shaken; he'd been alone with YB when he knew something terrible was happening to him, and he was powerless to help him. He knew I had to rush ahead with YB to the hospital without him, because it would take too long to load him and his wheelchair into the car. Now Shane loaded him in the van to follow us, making apologies to Adam along the way. Adam, who'd met us just six hours earlier, insisted on following them, saying that someone would need to sit with OB at the hospital.

This incredible man, whose path I'd crossed without knowing, whose art had already had an impact on my life, was right in the middle of a lifetime opportunity. HIS company had been chosen for this show! This was his chance to prep everything to make sure the crazy pace of doing an impossible job with a video crew and a country musician within eight hours would go perfectly. At stake was his company...his reputation...his livelihood...and everyone would be watching.

So he dismissed his crew, called it a day, and followed my husband to the hospital, where he sat with Older Brother and made small talk with him while we watched the ER staff stabilize Younger Brother.

As if that wasn't enough, two weeks after the shoot, while I watered the yard, he dropped by to check on everything. He inspected everything his crew had created. He asked questions and made an offer for maintenance help if we should need it.

In short, Adam Chesney is a man of integrity. I hope his work continues to grow...in our yard, of course...but also in the yards and lives of an increasing number of folks.

Four Years Ago...

2011-10-09T22:09:00.000-07:00

On October 16, 2007, we saw a tiny outdated photo of the boy who would change our lives forever. We had committed to adopting a "Waiting Child," and we tried to imagine what needs we could reasonably handle. Clubbed feet? We thought we could handle that. Cleft palate? No, too much surgery--think of the speech and occupational therapy involved! How could we commit to years of rehab? We didn't have that kind of money! As we perused our agency's "checklist" of special needs, I was filled with fear and maybe wonder at the weirdness of the process. I kept balking. There is not a way to go through this process and not feel like a jerk.

Our agency gave notice that a new "batch" of children's files would be emailed to prospective parents, and we'd have 24 hours to research and to seek medical advice before making our request. I don't know if you've ever tried to cold call a pediatric GI about a child who isn't your dependent or his patient and ask questions about foreign diagnoses. Our request would be an essay on why we wished to adopt a particular child and our knowledge of her condition. We were actually encouraged to request several children from the list to increase our odds of being matched with one. I. Kid. You. Not. The essays would be sorted by child, one request would be drawn from each child's "pile," and the parents would be notified two weeks later.

Tuesday morning found me home from work. The list came, and I began a frantic online search for all manner of special needs. Then I saw one little photo near the bottom of the list and clicked. I looked up the little boy's condition, started crying and couldn't stop. I was overcome with knowing that nobody would ever want him. He was born with the most severe birth defect compatible with human life, occurring in only one out of over 400,000 live births: cloacal exstrophy.

We ran to him with arms wide open--after Shane asked if I'd gone crazy to make the leap to maybe the most complex physical issue on the whole list. But I was haunted. I didn't--couldn't--eat or sleep for four or five days. The little boy's face was constantly before me. And a song I had prayed to understand echoed in my brain.

"When there's all kinds of chaos, and everyone is walking lame, you don't even blink now, do you, don't even look away...I can't wait any longer, can't wait til I'm stronger, I can't wait any longer, to see what you see when you look at the world."

Whoops!

2011-10-08T19:11:00.000-07:00

Ok-so somehow, in trying to link my old blog with my new blog, all my pictures disappeared! How hard is it to try to read this with these great big black squares in the middle? And the exclamation points-good grief! It looks nuclear around here!

Please bear with me-clearly this whole thing has gone to my head-I'm trying to fix my pics!

October

2011-10-06T07:33:00.000-07:00

If you still remember at all, we had quite the ruckus here at the Caudill homestead back in July. On one particularly scorching day, the view from our windows was liable to look like this...

It was all incredibly exciting and...surreal. We'd only been home from the hospital with YB 16 hours when the first crew arrived. By 9am, our yard and house were swarming with at least forty people! 20 yard guys, 2 sound guys, a tech assistant, 2 camera guys, a producer and a line producer, 2 craft services folks, 2 reps from the record label, the musician, his assistant, Charley Redmond and Melissa Wheatley from Show Hope, and about 6 other Show Hope volunteers.

Oh, and also us.

I don't know if you remember, but our house is a little shy of 1000 sq. feet. Our dining room became a production command center, with computers and camera links, our backyard became the green room, and our one little 5 x 8 bathroom? Public toilet.

I was all smug. I knew what to do. After all, we've been around the industry (in ways that only Franklin/Nashvegas residents can be) for 15+ years now! Not to mention the theater. So I was a good little girl, and I pulled my hair back in a ponytail and put on ONLY mascara, in anticipation of whatever the production crew wanted to do to my face.

Except they didn't do anything! They did give me a Show Hope t-shirt, one that fits more closely than the rest of my uber-modest wardrobe. (Please-my biggest dress code admonition to high school girls for 9 years was, "With great power comes great responsibility.") But after three nights of no sleep hovering over my sweet baby who'd just gone through severe seizures, EEG, and awfulness, all I had on my puffy little face was mascara. For the entirety of the taping. I'm not going to apologize. Rather, let this serve as a warning, should you watch.

Oh, and Younger Brother? Well, just 20 hours before his first television interview with a particular country singer (hint: our guy's near the end), YB looked like this.

That would explain why, if you see him run off during an interview, I didn't stop him. I may have worried the whole time the experience would prove too much for him.

And Older Brother? Well, if I showed any of his images, it would give away too much of the story! You'll just have to watch for that!

What? Oh! I almost forgot! When and how can you watch our debut, you ask? Well, glad you did! OCTOBER 16 at 8pm EST/7pm CST on GAC (the Great American Country channel)!!!! Check this out for more details.

Excited? Umm, OF COURSE! Let's say that what they did was AMAZING, and it has had a SIGNIFICANTLY positive impact on OB's DAILY life!!! About the show...nervous, maybe a little twitchy around the stomach when I think of it. It's a reality show, people, and my very own sweet family is in it--and that is just dang WEIRD!! Let's hope we come off like drama queens and have to be soothed with bonbons and our own tour bus...or not.

The philosophical take on this whole thing? That will have to wait. Suffice it to say that when Show Hope gave us a call, we agreed, because even though we have our own two boys at home, we still hope to advocate for children from hard places in whatever ways appropriate. This was a good one, and it serves as a way to tell the good work that Show Hope has done for so many families.

Meanwhile, I'll ask you a favor. I can't tell you how many times I've been told I need to write a book about the amazing journey our little family has taken since that day in October 2007 when I saw YB's face for the first time on a "Waiting Child" list. I think it may be time to do this. But-I am really not good at getting the word out. Things that I've thought were super-pushy self-promotion of my art or our story moments in the past didn't really make a ripple, something that I'm just now learning.

So-I'm asking you please to spread the word about our story. Link this blog and spread it around, if you will. I have in my mind a certain number of Followers and FB hits-and I know the next thing is probably to make a FB page just for this purpose-and if I reach that, then I know there is enough support to merit spending the serious amount of time that preparing a book to pitch to a publisher will take-plus it would give me some numbers for said theoretical publisher. I hope that doesn't sound all weird or offensive. Just now, I have one confirmed surgery for OB in Philly next month and another one to schedule for YB, who needs to go back to Johns Hopkins because of the new things going on with his body this year. Writing is a serious commitment. And we're selling our car to keep pace with it, since the IRS has us still hanging on for our rebate.

So! To sum--amazing journey-wires to YB's brain-reality show-change for OB-no makeup Mama-"Night at the Opera" scene at my house-stomach churning-yay ShowHope-PLEASE help me spread the word if you want me to do anything with this whole "book" idea.

And thanks. Thanks for reading, thanks for writing encouraging words in the comments or on my fb page or by email-this year has been the hardest I have ever lived through, and without the love and words-good sweet words-of friends, I would have come apart at the seams by now, because I am not a rock, I am not an island.

I am a thirtysomething Mama shot through with hope.

A Breath of Fresh (Charleston) Air!

2011-09-30T05:52:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I got a surprise. Chelsea Gour sent word that her hubbo had to come to Nashvegas for work in September, and could the rest of the fam maybe tag along to see us?

Oh, HECK yeah!

The result was that a little less than 48 hours after OB and I got back from the latest Philly trip, we saw this in our driveway!

I will tell you, packing 7 more folks into our 1000-sq.-ft home was a challenge--let's just say there were bodies everywhere! I wish I'd gotten photos of the bodies on the kitchen floor, the bedroom floor, and the livingroom floor, but I couldn't! I was trying to figure out how to feed a small army! Even with a menu all planned out, I couldn't get dinner on the table in less than 3 hours--my Dad would laugh at this knowledge. They brought with them gifts of NC apples (freshly picked by their own hands!), Amish butter, and 4 loaves of homemade bread (baked with wheat Chelsea ground herself-because that's just amazing).

But we had a blast! (At least I did. And I know my boys did.) There were poker games...

and more poker games, and more poker games, and a water fight (of course!)

and a train ride...

and a girls' afternoon out, and a brave boy who got a new bike (thanks, Al Menah Shriners of Nashville!).

There was also a lot--a LOT--of late-night Mama-to-Mama talking, about everything from our babies and the challenges of their bodies, to arsenic in apple juice and cyanobacteria in tap water, to why we should move to Charleston (peer pressure), to a shout-out to how deeply--DEEPLY--loved our family is in this strange little town of our sojourn. We went to a Shrine dinner, had dessert with friends from our Sunday School class who dropped by, took the never-ending poker tourney to some friends' house, looked for eggs every day in the chicken coop, spent an afternoon at the park, ran a puppy's legs off, gained some graffiti on a bedroom wall, and watched the littles of the group play play play.

And though they swear they stayed a week, all too soon, it was time for this...

As soon as they left, the house felt bigger than it ever has, and so very quiet. I made tea and wondered if this is what having kids leave home was like. I wish we could have had just one more day together, but even so, to get to talk to (and listen to, sometimes) another Mom who is walking this journey and wrestles with the same things that nobody else would understand--THAT is restorative. She's traveled back and forth to a Shriners Hospital, she's heard the folks in Chin@ say her child would never walk, she watches now as her sweet girl walks every day, she's done AFOs and caths and UTIs and kidney reflux...I can't imagine that we'd ever have so much in common!

But I am SO very thankful we do. And I'm thankful for the sweet family with the mischievous twins and the drama queen (j/k Is!) and the tiny co-conspirators and their enormous van. Who'd have thought sharing a travel group in Chin@ 3+ years ago would become such a rich friendship?!

OH! And just so you know, THIS is YB's "betrothed." She says he'll stay home with the kids while she works as a doctor (they'll have three kids, and they'll probably be Chinese, she says).

Yeah, YB's not putting anything over on THIS one!

helter skelter

2011-09-19T19:27:00.000-07:00

Last night I was thinking about my boy. Older Brother had allowed me to snuggle up to him in our little room at the Ronald McDonald House. We are back in the Philadelphia area for a visit to Shriners Hospital. He gave me one of those rare glimpses of his person, a story from before us, and he stroked my hair while I told him a story about the time while we were waiting to bring him home.

As I climbed into bed, the thought came to me: "Nobody is coming to save you." For so long, I've thought that the lowest moment of a person's life-the thought, the fear, the knowing. I have ached to think of people-beautiful Image-bearing people--who have no voice, who bend under the knowing that Nobody is coming, Nobody will come. It stirred in my mind again, strangely enough, here, waiting for a day at the hospital. And I wonder if my mind is changing here, too.

I am not sure how to tell this tale, it seems, as I start and stop and start and stop. But the idea that Nobody will come may be the most freeing thought flickering through the cobwebs just now. The faith that I question and press against and try to find is founded on a beautiful symphony of creation gone broken and the life of a man who spoke and lived towards birthing Restoration--Shalom--Reconciliation--ever fuller and fuller. If I think about it just now, for a moment, and I watch my brave boy take the news that he has to endure yet another surgery, and then another, and then two more, perhaps, losing even for a moment the gains he has struggled SO HARD to achieve, the independence and able-ness for JUST ONE MOMENT for himself...I ache, I think Nobody is coming. I hear a small child crying across the hall late at night here, and she is fighting to live, and Nobody is coming...rain falling hard, on just and unjust, on those with hard lives and those who think their lives hard.

And yet somehow, for this small moment, it is good. Nobody is coming. The moment of deliverance, of reconciliation between Image and Image-bearer has already come, and I must not wait for the arrival of any other thing I perceive to embody rescue. This moment is restoration, the presence at all in the world of living and kindness, the birth and growing of living things, the love of two people for each other, the giving of eggs and fruit and animals bound for the table, it is impossible to realize or receive, like thick green grass bursting through cracks in the sidewalk. If I consider the filth creation has endured because of the careless ways in which people live--and I have in mind careless consumption, vainglorious conflict, deliberate abuse--I am at a loss to understand how we have survived at all. This is certainly not the most harsh of times--I am not at risk of having my husband yanked away in the dead of night to be auctioned off as property to another family or bred like an animal to another woman, I am not at risk of starving in a ship of pilgrims, I am not fleeing a murderous king bent on erasing a generation of children for the sake of destroying one. And yet I am the one hearing that child cry at night, and seeing my son bear the weight of his own anger at this news, and watching another young mother of two fritter their three lives away. I cannot stop any of these things. Nobody will come.

Because He already has come, and the work that all creation groaned towards is here, and we are here in its unfolding, and if I can see it for a moment, I cannot understand it, and I don't yet think it fair, but it is AT HAND. The glimpse of it is freedom. Freedom to love another and oneself, freedom from having to convince anyone. So many songs written speak of waiting on the world to change, or waiting on a savior to come, and I am not waiting, because the person whom I think changed the whole game has already come and declared his work finished. I have no idea what all that means, but I think it might begin for me at the moment with knowing I don't have to--can't have to--make this ok for my son. His body is broken, his body is beautiful. He struggles, I struggle, anyone who ever chose anything over living struggles, and here we are, and we will do our best each day that comes, and we will love, and we don't have to fix it. We can't fix it. If we're watching, we may yet see breathtaking beauty and wonder, because it is all around us, beating and beaming and blooming.

Nobody is coming, so I don't have to wait. I get to live and love now.

redemption song

2011-09-11T00:08:00.001-07:00

Shane and I married in college. We graduated, and after an internship, we returned to our college town. Shane had been drawn to church ministry since childhood, so when his college church offered him a position as associate pastor, we accepted. The senior pastor was young, eager, organized. He and Shane worked well together. The church grew, and the pastor praised Shane’s work at every opportunity.

One afternoon, Shane was called to a meeting with the pastor and two non-governing members. They asked Shane to resign without explanation. Shane, bewildered, agreed on condition that the pastor would explain his reasoning to the church at its next congregational meeting. The meeting came, and the senior pastor dramatically declared, “Shane must resign because he is in sin.” The congregation gasped, but Shane didn’t speak. He was stunned.

It was disastrous. What might have been managed by drafting a job description and contract became scandal. People avoided us publicly or called secretly. One man offered a large sum to start a rival church. Ultimately, the issue was one of differences in organizational ideology. It became destructive in practice because the pastor hyped it as a spiritual issue. The consequences of that choice robbed Shane of the joy and fulfillment he found in realizing his vocation, in addition to the trust of several close friends.

We were devastated. We moved, but our recovery took years. Even after we established ourselves within an esteemed private school, the experience haunted me. Every accomplishment or accolade would vanish in a moment of despair, because I was instantly reduced to the same pile of emotional rubble as when we left that church. Occasionally, when I was weary and discouraged, I searched online for the pastor. I learned that he left the church to return to his salesman roots. Mentally, I paraded our achievements before his memory to prove his misjudgment.

Often, I recalled a story he told of his brief stint at Bible college. His roommate was friend to a musician the pastor judged dodgy, a kid inclined to smoke a pipe and discuss theology. The pastor couldn't reconcile the musician’s lifestyle with study of Scripture, so he rejected friendship and lectured him. After dropping out of school, the pastor married and became a salesman before entering church ministry. The smoking guy became a well-known musician. One night, the pastor took his wife to a concert headlined by Smoking Christian. They sent a handwritten message backstage requesting a chance to catch up, but he never responded. The pastor scoffed, as though Smoking Christian had proven himself irrelevant.

I wondered if the pastor would ever send me a note and how I would respond. I fantasized about the possibilities until one hot afternoon last month, when I was raking my yard. The weather was hot and dry, but I raked leaves so the grass beneath might get more water from the hose. The lawn was a gift I wished to steward well, given by a landscaper as part of our televised reality show. I hadn’t thought of the pastor in months, but suddenly I wondered if I could expect a note.

I walked inside to retrieve the computer. Tracing the old search, I gleaned something new. The former pastor had posted photos on a public site. I browsed them with curiosity. His children were grown, his parents aged. I felt the weight of 15 years.

Then I remembered a much older story. A boy beloved by his father was beaten and sold by jealous brothers. He was taken a slave to another land, where he worked his way to freedom and became a trusted advisor to the King, though it took years.

Famine came. The brothers sought the King’s assistance and were directed to their brother, the King’s man. They didn’t recognize him, though he knew them, and instantly the sorrow of years gone by was fresh as when it happened. He wrestled with the desire to wound them and the hope to be reconciled. He chose the latter and revealed himself.

The brothers didn’t know how to respond. Fear drove them to deceit and distrust. The King’s man was overjoyed to be reunited with his father, however, and a time of peace passed. When the father died, the King’s man gave an elaborate funeral. Afterwards, the brothers’ fear escalated, and they sent their brother a note constructed to guarantee their continued safety.

The King’s man read the disingenuous message and knew his brothers aimed to ingratiate themselves. He wept but received them, speaking kindly and assuring their provision—though he knew his relationship with them would never be whole.

In the photos online, I saw a man with wife and family sharing the holidays, the stuff of fond memories for years to come. And I knew what I’d write, should I ever receive a message. It’s the reply the King’s man gave his brothers.

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of lives.”

Trying to throw your arms around the world

2011-09-09T07:51:00.000-07:00

As expected, working on my art has stirred my mind. I have a certain propensity to think too much, I'm told. That's funny-I know I take things too seriously, and I'm trying to learn how to laugh at myself so I don't scare everyone else away by being all intense all the time.

That is hard to approach when the circumstances of life are so intense. It makes gardening and having chickens a good idea. And making things becomes a good idea, too. Not unlike therapy.

As I work I have found my mind wandering to a story old and familiar to Shane and me. The story revolves around some sad events early on in our marriage, when we were new and hopeful and full of ideas. The manner in which things unfolded caused us several years of hardship, and on more than one occasion when I have mourned our difficulty in having children and starting a family, I have looked back in accusation at those events and the people involved. And I have wanted closure--at first, control--but now, just closure, the knowing that we are becoming us in spite of those long-ago moments when others tried to control our world.

It has all churned to the surface in my mind again, like broken shells in a hurricane-roiled ocean, because of recent events in the church community of which we've been members some fifteen years. We started off working in a church when we first married, and terrible things happened, and we were broken-hearted, and I have struggled to make sense of it ever since. In the last week or so, I've begun to make peace with that moment and those people, to reach more towards freedom than towards sorrow.

I'm still working on the words, but I'll share them soon. Suffice it to say that one has strange thoughts while raking leaves and contemplating reality television.

mission statement

2011-08-31T22:34:00.000-07:00

I have been working, finally, for the first time in what feels like eons, on my own art. At first, there was too much in my head; the prospect of actually having a few hours' time in which to create broke the surface tension on a bubble of ideas. The livingroom, the dining room, our bedroom, all are littered with half-begun stitched pieces and sketches of potential embroidery designs or printed fabrics. It is, in short, a mess.

The big idea, of course, was one which eludes the mothers of children with special needs everywhere, I imagine: find a way to work at home that can help support the family, utilizing the skills I have now and yet remaining portable enough to accompany me on our upcoming surgeries and frequent physical therapy appointments. A tall order. "Write a mission statement!" pops up repeatedly in books about business and art and the business of art.

Sigh.

It used to be so easy to define my mission statement. When I was in 5th grade, I was all too willing to share that I was going to be a veterinarian specializing in equine care, with an eye towards racehorses and jumpers. The idea evolved, until I left high school armed with the goals of medical illustration and equine medicine. Somewhere in college, it became clear that my pre-vet grades weren't going to get me the scholarship offers I'd need to go to vet school.

So I changed majors. I told myself it was God's will. Had I been meant to pursue medicine, the hours I spent studying and struggling would have paid off-literally-I reasoned. And I never really dared to make another mission statement, save to say what I absolutely did NOT want to do: teach art. That's another rabbit trail for another day. For now, here I sit, and I have to say that the experience of teaching and being a Mother have made the idea of mission statements silly. How on earth could I presume to make goals for life and career? The universe is vast, and I am small, and the Kingdom is at hand--any words I put on paper are stories I tell to pass the time-I'm pretending that i don't flicker in a sea of swirling stars.

My mission statement? Keep my children alive. Keep myself alive, so that I can continue to keep my children alive. Learn to listen to the words my husband speaks, to feel and know the richness of the beautiful human being that he is. Love and weep; sew, listen to music, cook, and find wonder in living things; help good grow; snuggle and struggle.

Those are still stories I tell myself-no matter how tangible they seem-but for now, that is my mission statement.

anniversary

2011-08-23T23:17:00.000-07:00

One year ago at this time, we struggled through the Shanghai Pudong airport, plowing hearts-first into a grueling 26 hours of flight and an even more grueling year. Our prize was two sons, the treasures for whom we've traded all our expectations of life and the world as we knew it.

One year on, I am trying to plumb the depths of my vocabulary to form an appropriate expression of gratitude and praise.

I am Anna Caudill. Ever since I was very little, I have been a writer and an artist. I didn't need anyone to tell me so then--strange that I seek my identity in the words of others sometimes now. I have yearned for a family to call my own, and here we are, and I have been thrust headlong--and I do mean catapulted--into motherhood at a speed and intensity I was not aware existed.

Four years ago I served aspiring artists at a beautiful school. Today, I am mother to a 10-year-old and a 6-year-old, both of whom cannot be distracted from running after life by mere physical disabilities. My 10-year-old is learning to walk, and he is learning what family is, and his vocabulary grows daily, and he is utterly dashing. My 6-year-old dances closer to death than I ever hope he knows. The birth of this family has brought the most immense joy and hardship I have ever known, and I feel honored to be called Mother. My world this year has been fraught with extraordinary travel, lack of sleep, hospital stays and surgeries, television and public speaking and appearances in non-profit fundraisers, baseball and chickens, financial hardship and the need sometimes to cling to my husband-soulpartner for fear of it all.

I pause every time I think of the words "called to adopt." I've read the Bible, though I am not a student of theology and cannot play chess. I trust that I am made in the image of a Creator, the I AM, Who transcends my best attempts at a linear construction of time and form. I cannot even know the motives I have from moment to moment, and I dare not presume to say what I AM has telegraphed to me as a manifesto. The best I can say that I know is that I hope to love Him with all my heart and soul and to love my neighbor as myself. I don't know how on earth to fit that into life most of the time-filling up the car or sharpening a pencil or watching cartoons. I think I may have affection for myself and put my needs waaaay before anyone else's, but I don't really know quite how to love myself, not in the sense of Shalom-kingdom-at-hand-growing-ever-fuller, and thus I have no idea, really, how to love my neighbor.

I love my children. I pray that I may learn to love them WELL. Most days here, I am still caught in the mire of Doing Things, because there has been much demanding work to be done. I am not tired, but I am haunted. There is so much in our journey that cries "HOPE!" and I do not want to diminish it with words, just as I don't want to tell myself that I am Doing God's Will and thus ignore the galaxies of restoration that are my sons.

Here's to another year of family, another year of hope, another year to learn to love.

Walk On

2011-08-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

On the occasion of one year since we readied our sweet boy to leave everything he ever knew and made and everyone he loved to pack his bags for some place we called home, I am sharing lyrics from a song (Walk On, by U2) that tells it better than any words I have. It has cost you more than I know, sweet boy, and I love you.

And love is not the easy thing...
The only baggage that you can bring
Is all that you can't leave behind

And if the darkness is to keep us apart
And if the daylight feels like it's a long way off
And if your glass heart should crack
And for a second you turn back
Oh no, be strong

Walk on, walk on
What you got they can't steal it
No they can't even feel it
Walk on, walk on...

You're packing a suitcase for a place none of us has been
A place that has to be believed to be seen
You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly for freedom

Walk on, walk on
What you've got they can't deny it
Can't sell it, or buy it
Walk on, walk on
Stay safe tonight

And I know it aches
And your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on

Home...hard to know what it is if you've never had one
Home...I can't say where it is but I know I'm going home
That's where the heart is

And I know it aches
How your heart it breaks
And you can only take so much
Walk on, walk on

Leave it behind
You've got to leave it behind
All that you fashion
All that you make
All that you build
All that you break
All that you measure
All that you feel
All this you can leave behind

immeasurably more than we can ask

2011-08-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

This post started a week ago.

OB spent part of this summer undergoing testing-part of a series of assessments for learning services at school. I had interviews, too, full of endless questions about OB's early development, for which I don't have answers.

During our last testing day, I let OB use his walker at school. We travel with it so often now that it wasn't out of the ordinary, and it wasn't until we were finished with the eval that I suggested he walk the halls with his brother to try it out. One of the school administrators showed up, beaming with delight over OB's accomplishment. I laughed--it's as though I've begun to take for granted that he can walk and everyone has seen it. Wondrous strange.

I mentioned to this administrator that I should meet with OB's teachers to discuss how we could transition to using the walker daily at school. I could see OB's eyes widen nearby. When we got in the car, he exploded. "I can't do it. I cannot walk at school. I don't want to talk about it any more."

Once home, he refused to get out of the car. I went in the house to give him time, but it was so hot outside, over 100. I went out, then in, then out again. "It's time to get out of the car. You can be angry, but we still have PT this afternoon, and I don't want you to get sick beforehand." I pulled him from the car and stood him in his walker. He ignored me.

I went back in, looking out in time to see him sit on the driveway beneath his walker, hurling gravel into the grass. My heart hurt for him. The journey of adolescence is fraught with control issues, and here he is with no control over his body or family. Granted, nobody I know really has any control over her family (thankyouverymuch!), but he doesn't even have a say in whether he loses his mother-tongue, so to speak, or his home, culture, favorite friends and tv shows and every detail that has given him identity to this point-such a precious commodity to any child but for him, so painfully carved and won.

I carried him water and tissues. "I don't want you to get dehydrated, and I noticed your allergies were bothering you," I murmured, as though someone else might hear us. No response. It took another half hour of negotiations before he came in, but the truth came out when he talked with his father that night.

He was afraid. He was afraid that the children would see him and laugh.

A mother's heart can hurt so much.

So this morning, my brave boy traveled to school with his walker and wheelchair. We'd worked out a plan, with some wise advice from our PT, and the goal was to start today with a walker, knowing that the wheelchair was there whenever needed or by lunchtime, whichever came first. The learning services teacher met us at the door. She fought back tears of joy, but there was something else sparkling in her eyes. I tried to take pictures calmly, wondering what in the world was happening, holding on tight.

OB walked in the door. He walked down the main hall, turned, and headed for his 6th grade team's own hall.

And there they were. The sixth graders lined both sides of the hall in a spirit line, and they started to cheer and clap as soon as they saw my boy. He leaned in, determined, and he walked down that hall through a tunnel of small human hands, amid a din of adolescent cheers and crying teachers. We turned right towards his classroom, and they began to chant his name.

"We're just going to take this one step at a time," his teacher said gently to him, as he walked into her room. Through my tears and words of thanks, I heard his practical voice struggle to maintain normal.

"Mom still has my backpack. Don't let her forget-she has my lunch, too."

I love you, buddy. You are my hero.

This is how the work gets done.

sometimes you can't make it on your own

2011-08-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

We live, as I'm coming to realize, in a strange place. Yet we're surrounded by community-there are so many people to whom I could give credit for helping us bring our boys home and carry them daily. Before we adopted, there were so many others who were and are part of the unfolding lives of these two children.

Every day feels as though I carry a trust. What I do for my boys--cooking or pt or late-night catheters--is part of the work that began in the hearts of others before I knew either son existed. Some day my boys will leave our home to build and speak into the moments of other image-bearers and receive mercy themselves.

That idea carries me often through hardship. Two weeks ago tonight, I cleaned up OB from a round of nausea, while Shane readied YB for bed in the Children's Hospital. The whole day had a surreal quality. A friend of ours from Show Hope had asked if we'd be willing to be part of a reality show, and we'd agreed, hoping to increase the good work they've been able to accomplish by helping them gain exposure and lending them our ongoing story. As a result, we had some workers at the house--I can't say more than that currently, but soon I'll be at liberty to tell more--and they were outside in the blazing heat.

YB had a headache and fever, but it appeared to be nothing more than a cold until he had an enormous seizure. It felt as though it lasted hours, though it was closer to six or seven minutes. We held him still and tried to cool him down with lukewarm water, and he shivered, completely nonverbal, unable to meet my eyes for more than a second. He seized again, and I ran with him to the car, which was parked down the street to accommodate the workers. I drove to the nearest hospital, where they gave him an adult-sized IV and couldn't produce an appropriate catheter. They transferred us by ambulance to Vanderbilt, where we stayed two days. OB was alone in the living room with YB when he seized, and he called out for Shane. The fright of that and the trauma that followed made him physically ill. Sunday's EEG showed normal brain activity for YB, and our scare was apparently all tied to a UTI-the second serious infection YB's had in less than 6 months.

We came home that Sunday afternoon, and less than 18 hours later, a production crew invaded our house for the filming of this reality show. The whole day was a blur. Who knows what we look like on film--probably not much better than our appearance on the Singaporean documentary that filmed us coming to Be*jing to adopt OB, following us with cameras a scant 8 hours after our 24+hour flight from the US.

Did I mention that we're just normal people? Because this isn't normal. And it brings to mind the way individuals pop up in the Old Testament. A person could have lived more than 100 years, according to the Torah, but you'll only find one little sentence about a singular moment in his life. For me, I wonder if the singular moment recorded would be the one where I waited up that third night without sleep, begging God to spare our little one, or when I refused to forgive a former colleague, or when I slid into the driveway of an abandoned house to pick figs & hoped nobody saw. What I trust and hope is that we are part of a larger story, and that I don't have to fix it, and that I don't have to fight for control. I can do the work before me today, the work of growing and loving my boys, as others have done before me and will after. The kingdom is at hand. And wondrous strange how much joy there is to be found in it.

on reflection

2011-08-03T09:08:00.000-07:00

There is much catching up to do. We came home, and madness descended in the way it only can on our family. It is always tempting to fantasize about life at the beach year-round. When I was a kid, imagining minute details of such a life made the ride back home bearable. I could always pretend we were going home to pack up the rest of our belongings and return.

When we traveled to Charleston this time, it felt like coming home in my heart. For the first time in at least a decade, I found myself considering what it would take to work as an artist within the local arts community-I thought of the people who have spoken art into my life since I was little bitty, and how their own work has impacted the arts in South Carolina. And for the first time since moving to Nashville/Franklin, we talked about the idea of moving.

The funny thing is that most of this summer has been spent in reflecting-mentally or verbally-on what a strange place Franklin is to call home. I am about as far removed from the recording industry as one can be, and yet I taught art to the children of many well-known musicians for 10 years, I was featured (doing my best Rosie O'Donnell impersonation) on a children's musical CD, I've met lots of people backstage at the Ryman (Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Peter Frampton, Chet Atkins...), I've even cleaned the homes of people who more than one Grammy on their mantle! And none of it has been pursued--it has all just sort of happened to us. We seem to have stumbled into this world like characters in a Madeline L'Engle story.

That's just weird. It always makes me feel awkward--a little out of place.

Franklin is weird, too. Williamson County is the 17th wealthiest in the country. Shane and I joke that our mission is to keep the per capita income down. Franklin knows how to put on the small town show--the parade where the children ride their bikes down Main Street, 4th of July fireworks at the old horse farm, the grand opening of the renovated theater with everyone turning out to swing dance on the square...you could totally forget what decade you're in. And sometimes it's wonderful-like when you go to the theater to see Mary Poppins at the Saturday matinee and you suddenly realize the entire audience has lost itself singing along with "Let's Go Fly a Kite," or when the high school kids in the neighborhood walk door to door in the thigh-deep floodwaters to check on their neighbors and see if anyone needs help. But sometimes I feel like I'm in a movie.

I'm not complaining. We are part of a strange and lovely community in a profoundly broken sad world. I am trying to understand how it is that we got here, particularly in light of this past month. It has been no less than a whirlwind, and it's left me feeling a little displaced. Give me a week, and I'll tell you about hospital stays, reality shows, and canning peach salsa.

But first I need some hot tea!

our grand week out

2011-07-20T00:58:00.000-07:00

It started with a chicken killing. What good vacation doesn't?

Poor Dumpling. It turned out he was a he, not a she, and he was determined to greet each new day at 4:30 am. And 4:31. And 4:31:30. And so on until 7 or 8 am. Nonstop. Our noise ordinance prohibits roosters-and we don't want to be bad neighbors-so we tried getting up every morning and spraying Dumpling with the water hose when he crowed. It didn't work. Faced with the prospect of an angry neighborhood mob greeting us on our return, fried chicken tongs in hand, we dispatched of Mr. Dumpling the night before our vacation began.

He's in the freezer now. But YB insists he's not Dumpling-he says Chicken Dumpling lives on, and we have, in fact, killed Sweet and Sour Chicken.

But about our week out...

We had the best time!

A day at Nana and Papa's house...

A day at the park with little cousin...

And several days with the Gours!

First glimpse of the ocean

Seconds after we left the ocean

Mama meets an artist

A "Moms only" walk in Charleston

And Shane? Well, let's just say he worked his bottom off, but he was happy! We had some time together, but mostly, he and Paul transformed the Gour family sunroom--but I will let someone else tell that story first!

We even had a grownups-only date to a restaurant that had grownups-only drinks and neither crayons nor toys-with-meals! And-AND! Water balloon fights and the swimming pool and welcome to Moes and Paul's nickel tour of Charleston (complete with crackers in the fan story-ride that coburg cow, son, ride. that. coburg. cow), and nearly a gallon of fresh blackberries and a bushel of peaches from James Cooley (I thank my God on every remembrance of those berries)...and heat. Lots of humid heat.

Those Gours-they're awful nice folks-even if they don't eat red meat.

a sort of homecoming

2011-07-18T00:43:00.000-07:00

"They say you never go home again, that's no lie..." James Taylor sang in my head as we piled nearly everything under the sun into our van (with its shiny new air condenser and spanking new alternator, thankyouverymuch) and hauled our boys down to the Palmetto State for a non-medical journey, for once. We stopped first at my parents' house, where they've lived since I was 14 and where they've made lovely gardens grow and bird sanctuary blossom.

On the kitchen counter lay a little bib that my niece had recently used, and it was so sweetly familiar. Its clown design is the first venture I made into sewing, during the summer I was 7. That summer was so unbearably hot, and we didn't have an air conditioner in the duplex we rented. (I marvel now at how many places didn't have "climate control" then, including my high school and later, the freshman girls' college dorm-the news of which spawned a fearsome spike in asthma cases among my peers, accompanied by doctors' notes insisting on dorm transfers to air-conditioned accommodations-but that's another story.) Mother was pregnant with my little sister the summer I was seven, and the only relief she had was sitting under the oak in our backyard, sucking on bits of ice as she stitched. I probably pestered the ever-loving fire out of her, because I was constantly in motion, restless, seeking. So she began, in the way she has, to teach me to sew, showing me basic daisy stitches and chains, allowing me to choose whatever colors and stitch choices struck my fancy as I sewed a bib for Andrea.

Once the bib was finished, we entered it in the fair, and somewhere still I have the very creased ribbon I was so proud to carry home. What's funny about finding the bib on this trip is that after many years, I've stepped back into playing around with sewing, doodling in red perle cotton on a piece of linen, with no particular goal in mind. I even took my doodle work with me-and then I saw the bib, and it reminded me of some things about myself that I think I'd mostly forgotten.

We only stayed a night with Mom and Dad before going to visit my sister, then on down to Charleston the day after, to visit the Gours--both of which are stories to unpack later. I will say that most of this week allowed me to visit places I haven't seen in a long long time--which of course stirred memories and emotions that I haven't felt in a long long time--and that was a very gently good thing, because I really have needed to feel okay about who I am. And somehow seeing and feeling and breathing in some of the places with some of the people who have been part of becoming me helped that happen. I held the bib, I ached in the best way over what a good Mommy my sister is to her little girl, I remembered so many ways in which my knowledge and life are richer because of my Mother's constant thirst for learning and her ability to share it, I almost cried with joy to feel whelks and sand dollars underfoot in the surf and realize with their discovering that I was standing in the waters of a healthy barrier island--something I never really thought I'd see again, I left the kids playing with their friends from afar long enough to stroll the Battery and enjoy coffee with a treasured friend...and it was all very good.

Kind of like coming home.

the way i feel

2011-07-04T22:46:00.000-07:00

No-it's not a representation of my feelings in that box. Rather, that image is a glimpse into our lives a year ago. One year ago tonight, we'd just finished watching fireworks after calling out a repairman for our a/c.

I realize in retrospect that I missed telling what happened last July. A Michigan church group providing flood relief sent a team to finish our porch, which was started by friends (the Gours and Gulkes) in June. Then we found non-flood damage that compromised structural integrity, about which I can't give details. Suffice to say that the last day the MI volunteers were roofing our porch, a certain Mrs. Waltrip (yes, N@sc@r driver's spouse) came over to take pictures of their work-she was, after all, their host-and I had to cut short a call with a certain corporate office discussing the resolution of our rotting foundation, walk past the contractor they'd approved to repair it (he was standing in the livingroom with his feet in our crawlspace and the floor wide open around him), and have my picture made. We traveled to China 4 days later. My mind and heart were a wreck.

The part of me that makes me a teacher knows that to enter something so big as our journey, quiet space and listening must be had before. We've had that in neither adoption, no matter how hard we tried to ensure it. I may have to chalk that up to the sovereignty of One other.

Several times in the last month I've been asked if we'll adopt again, or would we adopt another older child, or would we look at another Waiting Child. Those are big questions. As we closed in on the end of our first year with YB, we were pretty convinced we needed to pursue OB-of course we were going to adopt again as soon as we were eligible. This year, it's different. Our boys are meshing well with each other. Our travels have slowed somewhat, though PT maintains a steady toll. But we are not ready to adopt again, as near as I can tell.

And therein is the heart of how I feel about adoption. It may take me a while to tell it, and it may frustrate some who read it, and that's ok. I'm comfortable enough, too, to know that I may say right now that it's not time and find a month from now that this whole set of thoughts is the precursor to readying my heart for #3. There may not be a #3. We'll see.

But I will not speak of being called to adopt. A friend interviewed us last year for a church publication, and I was so surprised to see that when the article came out, I was quoted as saying, "In fact, I knew God was telling me" we were to adopt OB.

That's not true.

I have made so many mistakes, and it took so much to open my mind and heart to the idea of bringing home a child with medical issues. I specify that because I think that each and every child has needs that are special-or specific-to that child and his person. But we are made in the image of our Creator, and the dignity of that is mighty-it is the breath of human rights. I hope to never presume to say that I KNOW God is telling me anything, because such a thought is just as likely to be an emotional or intellectual impulse. I am so limited by my linear position in space and time, but faith is that I hope for a Hand which is not bound by such to guide me beyond my capacity to understand.

Here we are, and we are a family. And I think too much, and I take things too seriously oftentimes. But I know that in order to put my life and dreams on a shelf for this season to pour every bit of myself into these two Image Bearers who are in my charge, I cannot indulge in a rescue mission. A big demanding scary place of faith is to know that if I don't adopt a particular child whose face I might see on another blog or on someone's advocate site, that child might die. The scary part is trusting that whether or not I board a plane or raise a dollar, that child's life and times are held FAST in Hands entirely able and knowing. Trusting that before that little one was born, her name and days were known.

I write this not because I'm wrestling with whether to pursue another child. Instead, it's important for me to put these thoughts into words, to unpack them from the cardboard boxes hastily stacked within my heart and layered in dust, neglected while I survive the endless demand of the Daily and the Right Now. I must lay this out and talk about it, if for no other reason than to understand a little better why I can feel at peace about NOT beginning another adoption at the same time that I meet with friends for coffee and hear how when they finally decided to adopt a particular little girl who'd captured their hearts, she had died of neglect.

So maybe that photo is a representation of my feelings after all. I posted it because I remembered too well the chaos of this house a year ago, how YB felt utterly lost in it, and how this was his favorite way to pass time in the world which was swirling, building, and crumbling around him simultaneously. Perhaps he can offer me insight.

all-nighter (now we are 10)

2011-06-28T21:59:00.000-07:00

OB's paper birthday came Sunday. I call it that because it's maybe a little different than the date suggested by some friends with other information. But the paper birthday is the one he knows, and given the choice and chance to choose which one he wanted, he asked, "Baba, how old are children in America when they leave the home?" Given a roundabout answer, he said, "Then I am 9, not 12."

Now OB is 10. We received a mysterious package Saturday from friends in PA-definitely a boy quilt, covered with bluejean pockets on the top, basketball and tiger fabrics on the back-soft and flannelly-and warm enough to withstand even northeastern chills. He was SO excited to have his own quilt! YB has three, made by sweet Connie, Sara, and Diane D., and FuXia has been jealous of them. That OB's quilt is larger than YB's quilts did not escape his observant eye.

As I mentioned the other week, I was working on a quilt, too, one designed by YB. The trip we made to Stitchers Garden, a shop crammed full of fabrics, is one that I will cherish. YB trotted through, new glasses on, touching fabrics and asking about colors. "Finally we get to go to the quilt shop again!" he exclaimed in the parking lot. He loves to walk through the color-sorted aisles, pretending he is underwater in the blues, lost in a forest in the greens, climbing mountains in the purples...and he desperately wants to re-sort all the baskets of fat quarters to his liking. I made a few suggestions, and he chose a fabric for the background. Spurred by the Weaver family quilt, which is so large I haven't quite figured out how to take a picture of it, I stayed up all night Saturday to finish piecing, quilting, and binding off our much smaller (5'2" x 4'6") and lighter summer quilt. Pictured at the top is one happy camper, who said, on observing the finished work before it went into a gift bag, "Wow, Mama, you really did it! I didn't think you would get it all finished, but you did! Good job, Mama!"

We traveled Sunday to a Chinese/Japanese restaurant for lunch with special friends and had our first honest-to-goodness family photo since coming home from China.

We had gifts, took a desperately short nap, then went to another close friend's home for cheesecake celebration and even more gifts.

What a day!

courage

2011-06-16T21:46:00.000-07:00

Courage is not something I felt today. I took YB to his cool day-camp today, then headed with OB to run errands. And my body betrayed me, and everything went wrong. It was so Southern hot outside, humid and still, and it was hard to drag the posterior walker out of the trunk of the car and open it up for OB, then follow him at what felt like a snail's pace across the parking lot to the store so we could buy ink-or Shane's or YB's medicine-or groceries-depending on the parking lot we found ourselves in. By the third store, I felt so sorry for myself, and I began to think, "This is why you don't see so many people with disabilities out and about-it's just too much." Sometimes, it feels like it takes so much more effort to just do the smallest thing.

But my son is teaching me, patiently. Yesterday, we headed for the bookstore. He was reluctant, as he usually is in the morning, to get out of the car at all. But I prodded him, and in the end we sipped our drinks in the cafe and he found a book from a series he has begun reading. When I asked, "Do you want me to buy that for you?" he replied, "Let me, please." I teased him about not having his wallet with him until I realized he was in earnest, and I handed him some money. He wanted to walk across the store, wait in line, and buy that book on his own. And that's just what he did. I hid behind a bookshelf watching him, making up things to do to kill time, avoiding at all costs the peril of stepping up to wait with him in line. I watched him navigate the exchange, chat pleasantly with the cashier, and turn to his left to go the long way out of the checkout line in order to avoid traffic.

It was the closest I have ever come to watching a mountain move. In that second I felt the enormity of what it is to Buy Your Own Thing and the dignity a person realizes in the Smallest Moment.

He is no stranger to these moments, that OB. Last week, during our brief trip to PA, we visited again with some new friends, who brought their own son home from Chin@ within a month of our homecoming last year. Their son is roughly OB's age, and we met at Shriners Hospital. OB really wanted to see them this time, and he was quite excited. His new friend seemed to have a good time, but we knew he had been discouraged and fearful about an upcoming surgery he'd face a few days after our visit. We talked about it some, and as we said our goodbyes and began to back down the driveway, OB rolled the window down to shout impulsively, "Good luck on your surgery Friday!"

His friend looked back puzzled, shook his head slightly and looked down at the pavement.

"I know!" called OB. "It is terrible, that we have these surgeries! But we must do it-it will be good! Good luck!"

And I began to cry, to hear my young soldier speak, to hear his heart reach to his friend, to hear him speak hope to his friend-but also to himself.

"This I know," he was saying.

That is what I reach for when I am low, when it feels too hard to get out of the car or the house one more time. Because I know that he has felt lower. And he has had to try harder. Even when there was nobody to say, "Well done, son." Even when nobody was looking.

Take courage, Waiting Child.

Physical Therapy

2011-06-13T23:18:00.000-07:00

Tonight we went out for ice cream, and OB showed off with his posterior walker, strolling past shops after dessert. When I reach for something familiar to use as a basis for comparison as I watch him master what I take for granted, I invariably wind up thinking of stroke patients and how they have to relearn sequential processes. He astounds me. Tomorrow we will begin a new weekly regimen of physical therapy-one pool day, two gym days.

Hubby and I are scheduling "odd jobs" to pay for frivolous MRIs and ultrasounds (tongue firmly planted in cheek). He's hiring out to build a lean-to for one couple, fix leaky faucets for another guy, and so on, and I'm painting rooms for some folks. I'm thankful to be home enough weekends in a row to do this.

I am certain I am not the first mother to feel the significance of the moment throbbing beneath the coming and going of our family, and I find myself looking at the boys as if they will tell me what it is I am trying to order in my mind as I look at our days. Their answer is often to play, and I have begun to respond with my own physical therapy. I've always found comfort and silence in making or drawing, and so I have pulled out my sewing machine, needle and thread, linen and yarn. Shane has built me a clothesline, and I've taken advantage of the unusually early heat to hang laundry. The chickens provide their own routine, and so does the garden. The garden started later than it should have, but I'm giving myself a pass because I was gone all of April and because I know that since Shane has built our raised beds and we've filled them with topsoil and compost, a huge hurdle is out of the way and we'll have the benefit of a little inertia next season. I count the honeybees in the backyard every time I go out, and I'm pleased to see their numbers increase this year. With needle and thread in hand, I feel as though I can breathe.

Which brings me to YB. He has had a rough year of it, crashing in Kindergarten and being pulled back to PreK, suffering the displacement of our travels with OB, learning he needs glasses and must wear an eye patch for a season, getting sick and nearly dying-and knowing that, coming into the wonder of early reading and writing, taking charge of some of his ostomy routines...I pause as I write, because it is as though it's the first time I've really been able to have any perspective on this. No wonder he reverts to 4 or even 3-year-old habits, little wonder that he craves my attention and cannot help but interrupt conversation. I keep looking for means to offer him significance-or at least paths by which he might discover. Watching an interview with the space shuttle astronauts (dressed in his astronaut suit, of course!), going to an outdoor jazz concert, laying out quilt squares...

...Which is where the photo comes in. On a rare YB-Mama day, I showed him some quilt blocks given me by dear wonderful Connie before she migrated to TX. I can't remember why she was shedding them in particular, but she was definitely de-stashing. We played with the fabric, YB and I, and he began making patterns. So he showed me all the different ways he could think of to arrange 4 similar blocks. We laid these out on the floor, as evidenced by their military escort and some stray lincoln logs. And he decided he wanted to make a quilt for OB's birthday. That is, he wanted me to sew up his ideas into a quilt for OB's birthday. So we went together to the quilt shop to choose some coordinating fabric. And then we went to lunch. And I felt the weight of how having tried so hard to survive these last 6 months, and how the running of it has taken so much, and how it is a struggle almost now to slow my agenda down enough to receive this little person and savor his being-ness. It is NOT that I have a career, or a certain standard, or anything like that to which I am bound. It IS, I think, the dilemma of any Mother who has a child facing intensive medical intervention, with other equally precious children-people at home.

We all, I think, need therapy which is physical in its manifestation just now. And breathing. I am glad for summer.

meanwhile...

2011-06-07T20:22:00.000-07:00

We've been home since Easter, with only one trip to Philly in the meantime, and life feels so weird around the edges just now.

I finally had time, as YB's preschool wrapped its season, to have a grownup lunch with a friend. I marveled at how freeing it felt, to get outside, to go and meet someone else for the purpose of eating together without worrying about where the children were or when the next appointment was. We had sandwiches, fruit tea...and this special friend, who has seen more than any Mother ever should of tragedy, having lost a child over 10 years ago, surprised me with her words.

"Your family has been through hell this past year."

She does not often use such strong language. I tried, before shaping a response, to fathom the last year.

A 1000-year flood.
Hidden damage to our home's structural integrity.
International adoption of an older child with significant special needs.
Fundraising for that adoption.
Overhauling the house to accommodate our child.
Buying a van to accommodate our child.
Pursuing legal assistance to get the title to the van that we bought to accommodate our child.
Three weeks in Chin@
Traveling 1400+ miles every 2 weeks, except when we stayed in Philly for 2 weeks in January and 3 weeks in April.
Surgery for OB.
Scary near-death ER visit and subsequent long road to recovery for YB.
Diagnosis of Meniere's disease for Hubby.
Following a scary and non-insurance subsidized MRI to find out why he'd been violently ill and bed-ridden for a month.
Mystery cycle changes for me.
A surprise double-biopsy and ultrasound for me, but still no answers to the problem.

And I started to get a little overwhelmed. I have not been able to stop long enough to examine this year, and that may have been a very good thing. Instead, we've had to hope for strength for each day, taking enormous amounts of joy in seeing old friends, making new friends, daring to hope for something we never thought could happen, watching financial hurdles melt under ridiculous provision, traveling to beautiful places, reading encouraging emails from faithful friends we don't get to relax with often enough, sharing deep hugs and tears, growing a family...

I realized, after what must have been an inordinately long pause following my friend's comment, that I had no words to add or modify or explain. Instead, I looked at her. She knows harder things about this life than many other Mothers ever see. And I know there are still others who never feel that they have the chance to get out to have lunch, to be normal for a few minutes, to do something other than attend a bedside or stand fast amid a child's declining health or lay awake weary into the night...

I wonder who I will be, when we come through this tunnel and find that this season of life has made way for another one, when the boys are both in school and I am home long enough to make it a sanctuary for my family.

We would never take the road if we could see it all before us when we begin. I am so thankful for the bends in the road.

worth many thousand words

2011-05-30T23:07:00.000-07:00

So, we went to Philly last month for 3 weeks. For this...

And in between many days of doing this...

We also found time for this...

Then we came back home, and we started doing this...

...for so many days in a row that we were concerned about a repeat of last year's flood, but then, happily, the waters receded and we were able to get these...

...which prompted us to do a little of this...

...so they'd have a better place to stay.

So many times, late at night, the telling of the story is eloquent in my mind, with almost a tidal ebb and flow, little side stories swirling around in the current, all playing in a sea of wondrous strange. The boys finished the school year-and I survived. Living in Philly/NJ for 3 weeks was hard, and yet many have harder roads than we. The sweet boy who timidly told his Baba on the eve of his first surgery at Shriners, "And then I will not use the wheelchair ever again and I will walk everywhere..." has to be coaxed, prodded, every single day to do so on his walker. He gets grumpy, he sulks, he plays little games to gain control of his world, he can cut Mama's heart quite efficiently, he pushes against his PT...my favorite part of Karyn Purvis' book just now is the part where she exhorts parents to take a deep breath before stepping into the fray and feeling to the core of one's being the grounding demanding call to be a parent in the moment and the value of the love and authority that I have for this child. Kind of like finding a parenting chi, I guess.

I am hopeful and weary at once. I don't know what to do with myself quite yet. A couple of weeks ago, I had the gift of an honest-to-goodness lunch with another Mom, no kids around, just two Moms sitting in a little cafe talking over sandwiches and fruit tea. It was so refreshing. And I remember telling her, this Mom who has endured more hardship and grief than I hope to ever know, "I wonder who I'll be when this is all said and done."

By the way-in that first picture-OB took one look at his precious feet and asked, "What is that part so thick and brown? Why is the foot like that?" when he saw the thick heavy callus on the top of his left foot.

"That, sweet boy, is what used to be the bottom of your foot. The callus there is where you used to push yourself across the floor."

OHMYGOODNESS!!!!

2011-05-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

Things have gotten out of hand! I'm not talking about the great m@cbook crash of '11, or the 6 little chicks nestled in a storage container in our laundry room, or the feature articles on Older Brother from 2 Ronald McDonald Houses and our local Shrine!

I'm talking about WALKING!!!!

March 2011 will go down in this circus house as the month I fell off the map. We lived in Philly-well, just across the river in the incredible Camden Ronald McDonald House-for 3 whole weeks! Every weekday we'd wake up and drag ourselves down potholed streets to 5+ hours of intense physical and occupational therapy. Every day was a challenge-AFOs, a walker, a new wheelchair, a surgery plan, the pool, 500 feet of walking with that walker, weightlifting, climbing stairs, trying out crutches!!!

There were hard moments. One night, having done the therapy pool, OB's quads jerked and leaped into the wee hours. He had his AFOs on. Velcro straps pulled his feet in just the right direction-painfully. We had a long splint from hip to ankle which had to be tight enough to stretch the hamstrings of his right knee all night. Yet another splint held his left hand in a fixed position. And now this. Quietly, he told me, "This is terrible. I don't like PT or OT, everything is hurting, and it is hard all the time. I cannot do this anymore. I don't want to walk."

Deeeeeep breath. I know, and yet I'll never really know, will I? I will never know how hard this is for him, how much it costs him, how tough it must be to trust through all the pain my decisions are causing him that I love him. So I gave him more medicine, and I listened without giving advice or making a teachable moment, and I apologized a lot, and I rubbed his back, and I tried to comfort him. And when he fell asleep, I cried.

Chris Weaver and her amazing family rescued us the next day. To visit them was to find sanctuary in the midst of struggle. The kids spread out on the floor to play with Lego blocks and Chin*se chess. I got to see some of the most breathtaking quilts. We all breathed. The next day, we were treated by a donor to a Philli*s baseball game and the best seats I've ever had-28th row from the 3rd base coach! It was the F@natic's birthday, and they boys were showered with treats.

And then I called their Daddy in, and he flew up to help this sweet boy make it home.

It was just in time. Older Brother impressed everyone, and when we saw Dr. van Bosse the last day, he blew my mind. "I'm thinking our goal is not just walking with the walker. I think if you keep this up, and if you keep trying really hard and working so hard, that you'll be able to walk without a walker or crutches at all. Maybe not even AFOs-but we'll see how that goes. But walking without any of that other stuff, for sure."

I may have dared to hope for this child enough to bring him home, but I never imagined we'd get this far.
(pictures soon, I promise-still installing stuff on my empty soul of a m@c)

Family values

2011-05-02T13:02:00.000-07:00

"But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you..."
Matthew 5:44 (KJV)

hands aren't for hurting

2011-04-09T20:57:00.000-07:00

Wow. This is short and sweet and hard at the same time.

No pictures still-waiting on the laptop to be fixed-yay warranty. We're in Philly again until Easter, for a physical therapy intensive designed to get Older Brother up and walking. Casts are done-YAY! But AFOs have begun, and that can be hard-there are straps that have to be tightened at night, and it hurts him. He has a knee immobilizer now, too, a long wrap for his leg with metal straps that I tighten each night. The first night he cried until 1 or 2 in the morning, begging me to take it off. I cried with him, and the trade has been that I've been able to kiss and hug him for the first time without him drawing back. But what a price.

The great overcoming news is that he is learning to walk, and he has new shoes-shoes that fit flat feet for the first time, shoes with laces, shoes that he picked out and wears with such pride.

One of the things I've told YB, when he's had those fits little kids sometimes do that end with hitting others, has been, "Hands are not for hurting." That is a bitter pill for this Mama to swallow each night thus far, as her hands hurt her sweet boy in hopes of making him stronger and helping him heal.

Every day we do hours of PT and OT, YB is patient (and watches way more TV than he would ever at home), and we learn to hope for new things. Standing in the kitchen to cook one's own food. Standing to brush teeth. Throwing a basketball. Cutting food with a knife. Putting clothes on. Brushing teeth without help. Washing hair. Hoping.

So much more to tell. I'm ever thankful for Chris, an incredible Mennonite woman of uncommon grace and humor who has become a new friend. Leaven is a good thing.

pictureless update-imagination required!

2011-03-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

We've been home two weeks in a row for the first time since...mid-November. Please allow me to say, "WOW!" There is so much that you can get done when you don't live in a hospital/plane/doctor's office!!! We had a great Spring Break, trading books at the used bookstore, checking out the robots at the science museum, painting birdhouses. Older Brother has a long list of daily PT exercises. My computer died-so I have to wait til Shane gets home at night to use his laptop and connect with the world. I've realized I can actually manage a schedule for the boys-some kind of normal routine.

Before Spring Break, we found out (after he was in bed with projectile-vomit-inducing vertigo for two or three weeks) that Shane has Meniere's Disease. We're still in learning (and shock) mode over this, and not sure how much of the hearing loss in his left ear is permanent. We traveled to Philly 3 out of 4 weekends in February. Everyone got colds, and YB had flu. Haaaard month.

In March, OB got fitted for AFO's (leg braces, in essence), and we learned that he's been accepted into a rigorous PT program at Shriners Hospital--we'll go in April for nearly 3 weeks of intensive 6-8 hour days of PT. And YB will be there with us, because it's Shane's school's biggest performance of the year-the Spring Musical, which happens to be "Fiddler on the Roof." As tech director, he'll pretty much live at school the month of April.

I'm interested in finding out what life is going to be like when we finish this season. Younger Brother was accepted into Kindergarten at Shane's school--we had help financially (for which we're thankful). Older Brother will be in 6th grade proper next year-he made the choice to stay in his current school, because of his new friendships and his teachers. We won't be in the middle of an adoption, we won't be seeking medical assistance or grants or trying to redo our house or organizing fundraisers...it occurred to me the other day that I might even be able to get a job! For four years, we've had Really Big Projects driving our lives, and in the two years prior to those, we were immersed in travel abroad-the Middle E@st and Chin@-for humanitarian projects. What will normal settle out to be for our family?

I'm so thankful for our friends. So many people have helped us along the way. I can't delete the emails of encouragement-when I reread them, I can remember the wee hours at the RMH when they helped me have hope for the next day. My freezer is full of healthy meals our Sunday School class bought for days when I don't have time to cook. Our house was rebuilt by the loving hands of friends. Our sons are asleep in their beds, under our roof by the hands and grace and generosity of friends and family. We've had the help of complete strangers through the generosity of 2 Ronald McDonald Houses, Shriners Hospital, and the Al-Menah Shriners. It's much more than a village. I hope that we can live in a manner respectful and reflective of all that love and hope-and manage to share it, too.

motivation

2011-03-02T22:15:00.000-08:00

OB is remarkable. He has endured more than I will ever know, and yet he has this incredibly kind and gentle demeanor, pleasant almost always, funny, mischievous, positive. Meltdowns are rare.

Our biggest blowout happened in January. The boys argued loudly in the car while I took a phone call from Shriners that could not happen later. We got home, and I asked each of them to tell me one thing he did that was wrong in the situation. YB rose to the occasion. OB declared, "I do nothing wrong! It is him! He did everything!" I asked him to rethink his words. "No! OB does nothing wrong! It is all his fault! I never make mistake! I do not want to talk about it anymore-I am not talking anymore!" This last came as a shrill shriek. I told him I would put the groceries in the house and let him cool off. YB trotted into the house. When I came back out, I took my time getting his chair out of the trunk and putting it together. Then I opened his door and said, "Let's go in the house."

To my surprise, he refused-but it was far too cold to let him stay in the car. I began to scoop him up, saying in the most calm even voice I could put together, "I am your mother, and I love you, and I am in charge here. It is time to go inside the house."

"No!" he screamed, twisting in my arms. I staggered and struggled to hold his 74 pounds in the slick frozen mud. "OB, I do not want to drop you, because you will get hurt if you fall, but if you choose that again, I cannot catch you. We are going in the house now."

He would not look at me, and in that instant, I wanted to weep and fall at his feet and love my angry boy. Because it stinks to be dependent on someone sometimes. And how gross is it when you are angry at your Mom, and you want to be in your own space with your anger, and you can't have that space because you can't get out of the car on your own? So I wheeled him inside, and from there, I tried to give him choices-places to go while he was angry-space of his own-and I prayed to know how to treat him with dignity.

Last week, we verged on another episode. In half-casts now, OB can do far more than he could with the full length ones, and he has gained back a good deal of independence, but he has been lazy. He will even tell me that he can't do this or that, and I'll find out later from Shane that when the two of them are together, OB will initiate independently doing the exact things he tells me he can't do at all. This time, I challenged him to take off his pants on his own to get ready for bed. "I cannot," he said simply.

"You haven't tried yet. I'll give you a few minutes and come back, ok?" I tried to sound playful, like it was a game. I gave him time, but when I returned, he had not moved at all.

"I cannot. I try my best," he said, avoiding my eyes. His voice was tight, with the same slow rise that I knew would give way to shrillness if I pushed to argue.

And it was time for The Talk. "I love you, sweet boy. These are important words I have for you. Soon you will learn how to walk. It will not hurt, but it WILL be hard work. It will take so much exercise and practice and time. I can help you practice, and I can help you exercise, and I can give you all the time I have. But you have to want for OB to walk--you have to want it for yourself HERE (I patted my chest, over my heart). That is why now, I ask you to practice this-to take off your pants by yourself. It IS hard, but it is not so hard as learning to walk. Walking will be so much harder. And you have to decide if you want to. I cannot make you want OB to walk. I love to help you, because I am your Mama. When you are with other people, and you are older, they will help you, but they will sometimes think maybe you are not so smart, or that you are not strong, or that you are not special. And you will have to wait for them to help you, for them to be in charge of when OB's body moves, or when OB toilets, or when OB can get on the bus. But if you decide that you want to walk, and you decide to try your best all the time, then you will be more in charge of OB, you will decide where OB's body will go and when you will go."

I thought it would kill me, that hurt so much. We have come so far, and there is a miracle at hand, but the road ahead is very long, and I do not have the luxury of time to build trust in an environment that is pain-free or easier on my child. Maybe someday he will see this and say, "Good grief, Mom, you told people all of that about me? How could you?" But I hope he will read it and see, somehow, that I have dreamed of him and for him, and I want to give him hope to hold on to, because I know his road will be difficult, and fairness is not the issue, and he will have to work harder at everything than most kids do.

Today, in a moment totally unexpected, we were in the middle of our first local PT visit, and the therapist evaluating him asked casually, "Would you like to try standing at the parallel bars?"

"Yes!" And then, as he pulled himself to a nearly-upright position, all on his own, grasping the bars with clenched hands...

"Would you like to try taking a step?"

"Yes!" And he did. One...two...three...four...

I withhold not my heart from any joy.

"Old Men Play So Kids Can Walk"

2011-02-27T09:40:00.000-08:00

Hubby Shane snapped this pic at last year's Christmas Parade in Franklin. Ever since we started going to Shriners Hospital in Philly, he has joked about going to the hospital in tiny ambulances. He makes this joke on average about once a week. Since last Thanksgiving.

And he still thinks he's funny. I'm not saying that's the hardest part of this whole journey, but....

I'm writing this because I'm trying to make sense of it for myself. Men (and often their wives) in many towns all over the country enjoy being part of a quirky social club they call Shriners. For some strange reason, I had no idea what they did, even though my great-uncle and his son have been Shriners for years.

Once OB came home, folks kept telling us to call Shriners. I knew they offered orthopedic care, cancer treatment, and burn care. Before long, I contacted them, and they invited us to Philly. On our first trip, we had Angel Flights, rented a car, and stayed in a hotel with special rates for Ron@ld McDon@ld House kids. That trip cost nearly $550. On our next 3 trips, I drove. Each of those times, we were able to stay in the RM House, which helped a LOT, because in addition to only charging $15 a night, they have volunteers who prepare dinner nightly and breakfast on weekends. Those trips cost around $400 each. Our fourth trip lasted 11 days and included surgery, prescriptions, and Shane flying up to help. That one cost over $1100. Altogether, over 10 weeks, we spent more than $2800 in travel and accommodations--OUCH!

Let's contrast that with this last trip, shall we? Our local Shrine sponsored our travel by air on Southw*st Airlines--FREE! We rented a car from a company another Shriner patient connected us with--$38 for the weekend! Another TN family was on the same flight and staying at the same RM House, so I shoved them in the van with us, because cab fare from the airport to either RM House is $50. Once we checked in, the dad paid for half of our stay, so we only paid $15! Gas for the rental topped out at $25. And lunch at Shriners Hospital was $5. How about $83 for roundtrip airfare, travel, food, and accommodations for a glamorous weekend in the City of Brotherly Love? Don't forget that trip includes a consultation with a highly regarded orthopedist, serial casting, fittings with an orthotist for leg BRACES (!), and a Physical Therapy consult!

THANK YOU SHRINERS!!!!!!! (Did I mention they told me to send in our receipts?)

I don't know what your charitable giving looks like. We currently support Show Hope, some schools in Kurd*sh Ir@q, an org that works in Chin@ to promote cultural exchange and education, African Leadership, Frist Center for the Visual Arts, Adventure Science Center in Nashville, Cheekwood Botanical Garden, and Greater Nashville Chinese Association.

BUT-I am going to work very hard this year to find ways to support the work of Shriners. Guys who raise money to fund medical care and all the related expenses so that any kid who needs care for Cancer, Burns, or Orthopedic issues can get it, no matter how much it costs.

Please join me! You can buy a newsletter from a Shriner, you can come to the Shriners Circus Oct. 13-16 in Nashville, you can come out to the car show Sept. 24, or you can enter the Fishing Tournament in Hendersonville May 21--or you can make a direct donation or become a Shriner!

Thank you Shriners, and special thanks to the Al Menah Temple of Nashville, the Williamson County Shrine Club, and the Shriners Hospital for Children-Philadelphia. WOW!!!

YB and the terrible horrible no-good very bad day

2011-02-19T21:38:00.000-08:00

So, I'm guessing I can write this without too much risk-ha!

When we came back from our surprise extended visit to Philly 4 weeks ago, YB was sick. His urologist told us to wean him from his daily antibiotic starting Jan. 10 (against my protests). So once he'd complained of lower back pain, thrown up, refused to eat, hit 103, and other stuff, I called the pros. Our urology NP told us to head to our pediatrician with a specimen. I did-he wasn't in, nor was his nurse, and her sub told us to take our sample to the lab. They were surprised, because there were no orders to test it, sooo...they called for some and told us we'd get a call the next day, they didn't do that testing onsite, it had to go to Nashville, etc.

Um, NO. We went to the ER and I called our urology NP again. "Carry your sample into the ER. Make sure they get it." By now YB was shaking all over with chills. The admitting nurse didn't really want to admit us-his vitals were all normal-but I insisted.

Then we waited...and waited. Nobody took our sample-I asked 4 ER docs/nurses and showed my printed copy of orders from the lab. Nobody measured his output--a kid with one kidney that might have a blockage--and at one point (the lowest), after I asked for a container to cath him into for the second time, one nurse said, "Just empty him into a diaper. There's a box over there." While I cathed our mortified 5-year-old MYSELF into the diaper I had to fetch, she tells her assistant, "You know, I have to give these moms credit who go over to those other countries and bring home these kids with special needs that nobody wants..."

I kid you not. More details are pointless. We were there 8 hours, they asked me for a sample 4 hours after I'd given him his maintenance antibiotic, it sat at room temp another 4 hours, they threw out the first sample we had orders for, his ultrasound showed fluid & swelling in his kidney with a dilated ureter (bad bad signs). They gave him an IV antibiotic and a prescription. Shane brought food at 7 and took OB home. YB & I got home at 10 pm.

We didn't get a follow-up with the urologist until Feb. 14, but I reached out before that to describe our experience to another urologist--the one who had saved YB's life before we even adopted him. I emailed him, and he called me twice. TWICE. And he told me I was not overreacting to treat that moment as a life-or-death situation. And he gave me some awesome advice as well as a plan.

My little boy finally looks like himself again. For three long weeks he looked so dark around the eyes-like a little ghost of himself-and I wondered if this was a new face I would have to grow accustomed to forever-if this was the new normal. But he is back, happy and dancing, and I am a Mama with a plan.

And advice. If you are a Mother, you know your child's body after a while-I've lamented not knowing OB's body yet, but now I know that I know YB's body. Trust your gut. And know your kid's condition-if he has one-inside out. And don't be afraid to make a doctor mad.

Because there is always a better doctor you can find. And your baby's life may depend on it. Hope can be fierce.

totally normal post

2011-02-11T07:53:00.000-08:00

The stomach flu-or something sinister ending in flu-has hit Shane, and now he is home and he is sick and I am hoping it does not spread. So I am writing a normal post instead of putting my fingers in my ears and singing, "Lalalala," until it goes away.

First!

Cinnamon rolls. Yum. From the "America's Test Kitchen" cookbook. I can't tell you how I feel about this cookbook. I can tell you I have a special "ATK" apron. When I decided last year that making these on snowy mornings would be a neat family tradition to start, I did not anticipate this winter. Last year, I made these twice. This winter, I have lost track of how many batches I've made-I think I have only missed one. That's a lot of sweet rolls.

In learning about our boys and the sensory diet needs of children from hard places (another Karyn Purvis reference!), I have learned about myself that when I get overwhelmed with info/stimulus, I tend to bite my nails. It's apparently a reflex action-some people chew pencils, others eat--it's a way that the body triggers a chemical response to override the overwhelmed. I decided that maybe if I kept knitting needles on hand, maybe I could channel that positively.

So I made this scarf...

And this cowl...

And this scarf for Shane...

And started an experiment...

And two throws and a sweater for YB's bestie and his bestie's little sister and something for my niece--since Thanksgiving, even! And did I stop biting my nails? (no.)

Fail?

Maybe not--the boys have learned how to use little plastic spool knitters in the process and they are solidly addicted--that can't be bad, right?

Right?

In which OB gets his walking papers

2011-02-07T00:09:00.000-08:00

Before--circa July 2007

After--February 4, 2011

Soooooooo...

We went back to Philly last week. Amazingly enough, this time we FLEW! When the Shriners folks up there heard how we'd been getting back and forth, they urged us (strongly) to contact our local Shrine club. I did...after we got YB through his kidney episode (a developing story). The Nashville Al Menah Shriners travel coordinater booked tickets for us on SW airlines. It took just 2 hours to get to Philly, y'all! I can't tell you how incredible that was. It felt like luxury.

After a restful night at a small hotel on the campus of Temple U, we hiked the 1 1/2 miles, through the snow, uphill, on ice-packed sidewalks, in 28 degree weather, carrying a suitcase and pushing a wheelchair, to make it to our appointment! The taxis seemed not to see us. OB got his chilly casts removed, and then the surprises started.

Surprise #1--half casts! OB was excited about this. The new casts come up to just below his knees. He is SO happy about this!!

Surprise #2--wiggly toes! That child waited nearly 2 hours to get his new casts, and for at least half that time, he was fascinated with wiggling his big toe. Because he never could before. I am still savoring that one.

Surprise #3--deep breath! As soon as he finished casting, Dr. vB said, "Well, let's have Maria find some cast boots for you, and then you can head up to physical therapy and start walking, ok?"

I may have stopped breathing for a sec in order to hold back tears of joy, because there was a long day ahead of us, and the little-big boy in my arms who'd just nearly scooted himself off the casting table as he writhed in agony during the new adjustments was limp, wrung out, totally unready to embrace walking. He had just given all he had.

The Mama-thing kicked in, and I said, "We're going to go up first for some lunch and a little time to process." Let me just tell you, it didn't take the Karyn Purvis seminar to tell me that this sweet boy needed some time and space before anything else new happened. So, despite some protests on the part of some pros, we went for lunch in the cafeteria. We didn't talk much. We sat next to a large window overlooking part of the city. And we breathed and tried in our own heads to fathom this new thing. This huge new thing.

"I don't want to try it today. It will hurt. I don't want to hurt anymore today." It was quiet, direct. I didn't force my hug on him, and I thought I'd ache to one thousand pieces holding it back. Sometimes he does not welcome physical affection, and we were there.

I asked where he feared it would hurt most, and he answered what I expected--in his still-smarting feet, newly cast and snug in neoprene boots. I said we had to at least check in with the PTs and we'd go from there. But I tried to quietly encourage him at the same time.

We went in, and the PT dispelled the fears with straightforward conversation. For some reason, OB trusted her. And I was very thankful for that. We went to the mat and began to learn stretches for OB's hamstrings and upper thighs. And then...they took him to the parallel bars and helped him to stand for almost a whole minute!!!!!

I withhold not my heart from any joy...but I hold it back from bursting out of me. Suddenly I felt the enormity of the mountain before us, and though I know it is one we will climb, I know, too, that I do not ever want this precious little-big man to feel that Shane or I are proud of him or most enthusiastic relative to his walking status. I tried to think of the most I'd ever expressed excitement to him and then scale back just a bit in my reaction to this moment, to this beginning that marks the changing of his whole future, the changing of so many expectations and goals and dreams and maybe, maybe hope.

There was nothing to do but to text and ask Shane to find someone to cry as my proxy. His whole wonderful school burst forth in song and tears within minutes. And I relayed it to OB. And when I told him YB's response--"Maybe we should hire a truck and fill it up with papers that say, 'OB is learning to walk today!' and then we could just throw them out the windows everywhere so the whole world knows!"--OB smiled a rare true smile and laughed.

Later that night, as I tucked him in, snug in the RM House, I asked, "What was the best part of today?"

"Maybe walking."

see-saw

2011-01-27T21:21:00.000-08:00

Monday marked the end of our unexpected sojourn in Philadelphia-11 days was surprise enough for me. I haven't yet been able to face down the consequences our stay had on the contents of the fridge.

BUT! Once OB recovered from his I-don't-do-codeine bit and an extra overnight stay at Shriners Hospital (where the nurses ROCK!), he got his feet recast Monday morning. Baba had flown home Sunday to go back to work, so I had YB with me as the doctors began to manipulate OB's feet into the next position. His back arched as he screamed in pain, and YB fought back tears and crumpled his notepad as he yelled angrily, "Stop hurting my brother!" Mama played referee, trying to soothe YB (God only knows why I hadn't thought to prepare him for what was going to happen or why I forgot to bring the ip*d and earbuds) and trying to hold OB back from clawing at Dr. van Bosse's arms. Then Dr. van Bosse did an incredible thing. "Let him push me-let him hit me," he said, gently, and I let go of OB's hand. He punched and pushed as hard as he could into the Dr.'s side, even as the Dr. was moving his foot into a delicate position and holding it for the newly applied guaze to set. "Is that the best you've got?" he said. "Push harder-bring it on, FuXia. Push me again-is that all you've got? Come on, boy!" FuXia pushed and grimaced and groaned and grinned all at once, begging, "This is the last cast, please. I don't want to do this any more."

"I am so sorry this hurts you, FuXia," said the incredible man. "We're going to cast your feet a few more times to get them flat, and then we'll work on your knees and get you fitted for braces and get you walking."

I can hardly believe it. I brought our boy here on the hope-the outside hope-of helping him make it around the house on his own, to live a little more independently. On the hope. And then I heard this!!!! I told the other Dr. that I couldn't believe what I'd just heard.

"Oh, yeah," he said, "He'll walk-it just takes some time."

Color me over the moon.

That evening we started the long drive home, and YB complained of back pain. By yesterday, his fever was high, he wasn't eating, and things looked rough. After 7 hours in the ER, we learned his precious little kidney-his lonely only kidney-is dilated and swollen with fluid, and nobody really knows why. He vacillated today between high fever (104.5) and chills, active and lethargic, so so sick, my little boy. Hopefully the culture results will provide some insight, and we can move forward on this surprising setback. My prayer is that his ureter has not refluxed into his kidney-a technical phrase, but one that I dread. He had reflux issues before, in B*ijing, in the months before his foster home sent him to Johns Hopkins, and the reflux caused kidney infections that nearly did him in. On at least 3 occasions.

But still we hope. Hope for the good we can't believe we're reaching for, and hope against the bad we can't believe might resurface. Such different sides of one coin.

Ode on a Cutie Pie

2011-01-23T20:41:00.000-08:00

I will turn my thoughts to Younger Brother, who surely deserves a medal by now. Alas, he is content with a prize of Skittles for snacktime with the promise of a bowl of FrootLoops for breakfast (the first such, I might add, in at least 2 years).

This little boy has been sooooo patient-he was at the hospital for SO LONG Thursday and Friday and handled it like a trouper! I am so proud of him, and today as a treat we watched that animated movie about the superhero family ("Jack-Jack doesn't have any powers") and he was so unabashedly into it that he stood on the couch and punched and fought and trembled with each new scene!

I love that he is so in his own little movie. In the playroom at Ronald McDonald House the other day, he was creating some sort of kung-fu dance and watching himself move across the floor in a mirror. This morning, he slid his pointer finger in between the elevator doors. "Whatcha doing?" I asked in a whisper.

"Baba showed me this. It's the super-secret way to open the door when we get to our floor," came the whispered reply. Whether he thinks I'm looking or not, he's done it every time since. I love my husband for this, and I love my littlest boy for this! I love that he asks me to take pictures of him in kung-fu poses in front of bulldozers. I love that he sniffed my face and hair after I visited a friend who has lots of air fresheners & potpourri and sang out, "Mama, you smell so beautiful! What did you do?!"

"Ugga mugga," he whispered tonight, rubbing his nose against mine as he quoted our favorite "Neighborhood of Make Believe" moment.

Oh! Could any little boy be more wonderful!!! I love you little boy!

knowledge is...

2011-01-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

I did not take ANY pictures of today, and I don't regret it.

Older Brother had a successful surgery Thursday, and by late afternoon, he contentedly consumed orange Jell0 while in the car waiting for pain meds to be filled. We got back to the Ron@ld McDon@ld House, and he couldn't keep anything down. Anything. Just before noon today we were on the phone with the nurse, and she offered to call in new meds. And I asked if we could please come to the Hospital anyway.

Because we don't know our son yet. We have no knowledge of at least 7 years of his life. We don't know.

That is THE part, the THE part, that I really really strongly dislike (as a friend says, "hate" is such a strong word) about adoption. I don't know my son's body. He has been ours these 6 months, and I just don't know yet what his "not ok" is. Sure, by the time he'd gone so long, I knew he was dehydrated and feeling the sting from going 6+ hours without his pain meds, but there's that place where I feel like I'm totally guessing. He does not often complain. I've tried in the last few months to explain to him the concept of chronic pain, and I think he just is learning how to let me know when he does not feel well. Is it cultural politeness? Does he feel he will let me down if he admits to it? Has he been told that is weakness or wrong? Is it hard because there has not been really a time in his life when admitting to feeling pain would result in ease of that feeling, or any relief from it? I felt so silly trying to teach him today the concept of the 1-10 scale of pain with the smiley-to-sad faces they have at the hospital! I cannot grasp his expectations for how he should feel or what is acceptable!

His expectations break my heart sometimes. After his first school field trip, he gushed, "Mama! The bus I rode on had an ELEVATOR for my chair! They lifted me like this--right onto the bus!"

Embarrassed for not anticipating this, I said, "Goodness! I didn't even think about telling you about that! Aren't those cool!"

"They are so cool, Mama! In Chin@, sometimes I cannot ride the bus, because the driver will not let me on, or he does not want to put my wheelchair on, or he tells the ayi there is not enough room because the people do not want me. But in America I can go EVERYWHERE!!"

I love you so much, sweet boy. I wish I knew your body, so I could take better care of you. I wish that when the nurse asked, "Is there any history of..." that I could say something, ANYTHING, besides, "I don't know." I wish I didn't have to leave half your forms blank when we go to a doctor, or that I didn't get asked in front of you if we know anything about your family medical history. I wish that when they ask about how you were born, if you were premature, how you were delivered, if it was a long labor, that I had any one of the stories any other person I know who has given birth has.

But for now I can let you rest, let you recoup in the Hospital. I can be glad that they admitted you and gave us choices. I can let you choose to have your Baba there tonight, even though I really really don't want to miss a moment. I want to watch you sleep, to count your breaths, to know you are ok-and to go to sleep in an awfully hard upright chair with poorly designed upholstery fabric resting in that...knowledge.

Hoping

2011-01-19T19:41:00.000-08:00

I think I've mentioned that we've been driving back and forth to the City of Brotherly Love for serial casting at Shriners Hospital for a few months now. Last Friday, we were asked, "So, how would you feel about surgery next Thursday?"

My usual response these days, "Well, we're in town."

So it is that we've been camped out here a week now, when I had planned to be back home last Saturday. Surgery is tomorrow for Older Brother (with follow-up on Monday), and finally-FINALLY!-he quietly ventured, "I'm excited about my surgery."

YAYAYAYAY!!!! I think that almost as much as hoping for good for this sweet boy, I have been hoping for him to dare to hope! And here he comes-tentatively, cautiously-but hope on, sweet boy-we will hold you close so you don't fall.

This hope of his is energizing. The last visit up here left me so tired, demoralized, even. OB can't get in our bathroom at home-his chair is too big-we have to carry him in there and wait for him to call us. He can't dress or undress because of the casts. He can't jump down on the floor like he did, and he's just now figured out how to ease onto the couch from his chair without help. His chair doesn't fit into our car without being broken down into 5 pieces (imagine trying it in the sleet at a Virginia rest stop in 15 degrees), and since he can't get in the tub, we use an old stainless steel basin my Grandmother used to cook dozens of ears of corn and bushels of green beans in to put them up for the winter. We fill it in the tub and heft it onto the toilet lid for "easy" access. Every time I lug that thing out, I remember the old TV miniseries "North and South." Ha!

I was beginning to feel pretty defeated, especially when I thought about how much we had planned and tried to prepare to make our home more accessible. I kept thinking there has to be some way, some grant that I can write for, some magical moment when we're rescued to an easier house and an easier way!

And that's when I got a link to a S!ngap*rean documentary-I'd all but forgotten about it. They filmed us when we went to see OB the day we arrived in Chin@ to bring him home. And there he was, pulling himself up a flight and a half of stairs by his arms, leveraging his head and shoulders against a railing to twist his body across the landing and position himself to continue. And there was a Doctor, declaring that if there was hope for him to find a home, "even though he is immobile..."

Hold steadfast, my sweet boy, and perhaps as you hope, your Mama will not fall, either. This is an easier house and we are ok-we are together and we will find a way! Onward to hope and surgery to lengthen your tendons-let's get some flat feet!

Running with joy

2011-01-08T23:17:00.000-08:00

It does not matter how much you think you know when you go into an adoption. Because you can't know. Your fearlessness and the tenacity of your hope is tied, almost umbilically, to the pieces of information you glean about the child you imagine. As that diet of shadows makes way for the sobering substance of reality, surprises abound. You tell yourself, you feverishly believe, that for the sake of an outcast with no hope for a future, you can deal with trivial things like age differences or blood born illness or midnight care routines or pain management or birth order or whatever.

When you come home, your life is changed. Completely. Irrevocably. And if you will let yourself be freed from your expectations of what life would hold, it is wondrous. Tremendous cloudburst sweeping the skyline of the plains wondrous.

Somewhere in the years when I coached students to see, I heard some wisdom. A veteran art teacher revealed that she told her students that if a particular idea was worth drawing, worth hanging one's hat on because of its amazing-ness, then that idea deserved to be approached more than once. She rejected the notion that a single annunciation of creative brilliance would bring forth the drawing that would change the world. If it was to be earth-shattering, it would have to be drawn again. And again. And again.

It is Saturday night, but I am already gearing up mentally for the journey to come this week. Early Thursday morning (think 3 am), I'll make my 5th pilgrimage (4th by way of driving) to Shriners Hospital Philadelphia. I am actually energized by the 30 hours of driving it takes-between Thursday and Saturday-it offers me more uninterrupted thinking time than I have had in a long while. And it is so good, in those wee hours of driving, while Older Brother is asleep, to be silent. To receive silence.

That is a merciful counterbalance to the myriad doctors' visits we've made for both boys. Details are boring. Suffice it to say that I am thankful for 2010, a year of extremes, a year for family and friends--and I am glad its book has been read. Welcome 2011! Welcome hope! Welcome endurance! Welcome CHEER!

It is harder each day, but also better. If this life is worth living, my expectations of it must be drawn again. And again. And again.

Thankful

2010-11-24T09:07:00.000-08:00

Soooo much to be thankful for this year. I've been knitting a LOT lately-it's pretty good therapy after the boys are asleep-so I'm inspired to thread my way through one long strand of thanks-giving! Bear with me-it's a little long, but the payoff is amazing!!

To begin with, there are these guys. Totally gratuitous shot-because they're so darn cute. This would be around the same time that OB asked, "What is fiddle?" and YB explained what-eloquently. A&R peeps, you know how to find us.

Then there's Tracey. We met her at Shriners in Philly last Friday. Tracey is an amazing young woman with AMC, and when she visits Dr. van Bosse, she makes the rounds to get to know all the families while she's waiting. She connects families of children with AMC all around the country in a big ol' support network. Seconds after we started talking, she "introduced" us to the family in the exam room next to ours--the Mortons!!! Amy Morton and I sat near each other all the way from Zh*ngzhou to Sh@olin Temple in August, talking about AMC and our kids. Seeing her Friday was TOO COOL! Thanks Tracey!!

When we went upstairs for x-rays Friday, we met another very special family. Laelia and her parents, Alexis and Charley, had flown into Philly all the way from CA for their daughter's date with Dr. van Bosse. I found out about them here, where I also happened to learn about Angel Flights. Thanks to the beautiful blog Alexis writes, we were able to afford to go to Philly and give OB his first Stateside shot at hope! And of course, we just happened to run into them as they were on their way out to go home-I'd never seen them outside the blogosphere, and it was such a treat and an honor to meet this brave sweet family in person, having already had the privilege of reading some of their story-how cool is that! (As an aside-Alexis, all I can say is that "Dinos@ur Tr@in" is definitely THE go-to show in our house--as YB puts it, "It's DINOSAURS! And TRAINS!")

When we got back to the clinic, it wasn't long before we met Dr. van Bosse (I borrowed his "Superman lookalike day" pic from Tracey)-and WOW! You can tell why people try to come from all over the world to bring their children to this man for help with AMC. Of course he totally surprised us with the question, "Do you want to start casting today?" Um, heck YEAH!!! How many visits to any other ortho in the world would it take to get that question asked?! Dr. van Bosse is known for adapting the Ponseti method of corrective casting to children with AMC, addressing the joint issues those kids face with minimal invasive surgery.

The method was developed in Iowa, but we first heard about it from our friends the Gour family, who shared our travel group when we went to Chin@ for YB, because THEY traveled to Shriners in St. Louis to have the Ponseti method used for their daughter, with awe-inspiring results, I might add! Because of them, not only did we learn enough about Ponseti casting to seek it for OB's treatment, but we also gained huge support, encouragement, and joy for the journey when they arrived with the Gulke family to whoop up on the "Wheelchair Accessibility Remodel Shakedown of 2010!" Mind you, I won't even go into how it just so happens that one of Paul's childhood friends works in the same hospital department as my Mom, 30+ years later and on the other side of the state, because that would just be crazy talk!

Now, we met the Gours right after we'd been to BSHH to receive our beautiful little YB, but while we were there that first time, we met OB, and he broke our hearts forever when he hugged us with his frail arms and said ever-so-softly in his learning English, "I love you, but you haven't come for me." For the two years after that, we did everything we could to keep up with him or send little treats to BSHH, including meeting (via intern*t and phone) the Meyer family, who not only adopted one of YB's buddies a few months after our first adoption, but who will also travel in-WHAT?!-14 days!!!!-to bring home OB's best friend!!

So there it is, folks. We are filling with thankfulness, and I hope it never ceases. We are definitely NOT alone, and there is no reason to be afraid. Someone has gone before us to make a way that is so perfect! We wish you and your family hope and peace this Thanksgiving! (ps-Chris who just took your own sweet boy to Philly before we did, if you want Tracey's info, please let me know!)

And the good news!

2010-11-19T19:14:00.000-08:00

Today's incredible grace dispersed the worst grumpies. We went to Shriners Hospital in Philadelphia!! We got there via Angel Flight, courtesy of Mr. C and Ms P, pilots who volunteer their time (and his plane) to flew from VA to Nashvegas to collect us, delivered us to Philly, and will fly here from VA tomorrow to take us back home! They do this as volunteers-in the words of a special friend, I don't have a file for that.

This morning we went to Shriners, and we were seen by the orthopedist, a hand specialist, the x-ray guy, the photographer, the OT, the PT, and an anesthesia n/p. They cast BOTH of Older Brother's legs to begin correcting his arthrogryposis RIGHT AWAY!! (did I, in my wildest dreams, think that might happen? Um, NO!) AND they don't like his wheelchair, so they measured him for A NEW ONE!!!!! AND we go back in a few weeks! This all happened in the space of 8 hours. We. are. so. tired.

But the best-I mean, BEST-story is this. We got there, and we'd just gotten settled in our exam room when a young woman popped in to introduce herself. She's an unofficial ambassador for arthrogryposis (AMC) patients. SHE said, "Wow-how weird is that? The family right next door just came back from adopting in Chin@. Let me get them." Two seconds later, in walks the Morton family--we were in the same travel group in August!! They adopted a little girl with AMC, and they just HAPPENED to have traveled all the way from Ohio--TODAY!--to see the SAME DOCTOR!! Of course, the most logical response was to burst into tears, so that's just what we did.

I think I realized today that I put all my eggs in the "how to get this child home" basket. It was a stretch, and I know that we probably still have some friends and family who are afraid to tell us how risky they think this is. They might never speak up because it is a done deal-they might feel they can only pray for us now that we are in over our heads. But when Dr. van Bosse was putting on OB's cast, he acknowledged it is hard for a family to make the trip to Philly every 2-3 weeks during this stage. And I looked at OB. Seven years ago, he was a child who didn't exist, misdiagnosed and without even the most basic adaptive equipment to get around. He was covered in dirt from dragging and rolling along. His biggest dreams were to walk and to go to school. And he had ZERO future. All I wanted to do, once I could put aside fear of "what if?" (Shane was there long before I was), is hope for this little boy. Hope for a family, hope for a future, hope for a chance. I am not addicted to adoption. I don't know that it will ever be something we can do again. Sometimes I am sad about not having a little girl--I DO love to make tiny girl clothes. But this little boy--all we could do is dare to hope for him. I realized today that we took a dare when we traveled to get him. We are exactly in the hard place that we asked for--but I KNOW that if we had pushed down the thoughts we had of him, I would have never stopped thinking about him...I would have always wondered what happened to him, and I would have been afraid to know the answer. I could not let go. And now all I can do is dream for him. Not that he will walk or be fixed or have a "normal" life. But that he will know love and peace and hope.

If I can just remember that when I'm too sleepy to get up in the morning or too grumpy with the boys' noise to find out what's going on before I fuss!

grump-out!

2010-11-15T20:03:00.000-08:00

We're going to Shriners in Philadelphia in a couple of days, but first, there's something I have to get off my chest.

I am grumpy.

I have to get this out now-because in just a few days, I'm jumping on a plane with the sweet boy who could barely bring himself to whisper, "Does this mean maybe I can walk...and use my legs?" to me in the dead of night. And I don't want a cloud in that sky, baby!

So here it is. Our world was chaos before we left for Older Brother. I convinced Hubby to purchase a very used minivan. It has more than 130K miles, & it was priced above value. Our bank wouldn't give the loan until the dealer dropped the price a couple hundred. We figured we'd sell our Nissan Altima and call it a tradeoff for less debt.

I should have walked away when he first said, "Jesus." Because he was selling hard. I just wanted to get in and out and have one less thing to worry about, and make myself thankful for it, because really, we have been so very blessed and taken care of along this journey, that if we have a van that isn't at all accessible and I have to lift a 70+ lb. boy into and out of it every day, who am I to complain? We have been given MUCH. So much.

But we bought it, and when we came home with OB-6 weeks after buying the van-the dealer still didn't have the title to it. He mumbled something about "legal dispute with the previous owner." I started looking online. His "legal dispute," that he was "covering in prayer," was that he filed Chapter 11 the day before we left the country and didn't bother to say anything about it.

We had a lot of "Jesus"-laden phone calls from the dealer as he made excuses over the next two months-yeah, that's what I said-for not having the title yet. He even told me to call his bankruptcy atty. one day. "Oh, he's a really nice Jewish man. I just have a heart for the Jews and Israel, don't you?" I replied, "I don't even know what words to say to you."

That sent me to my own attorney. Who hemmed and hawed for a month-during which he said he'd file for us 3 different times-before admitting, "I don't DO litigation. I pass it off to another guy in our office. And it turns out he knew your dealer, so he just sat on it. He's been reprimanded. I am so sorry. Let me direct you to another guy that we send clients to when there's a conflict of interest in our office."

So I went to see that guy. And I knew it was all a waste when I walked to the top of the stairs where his "suite" was located and saw his "Law Offices" sign. Printed on cheap copier paper. In a paper protector. Taped to a fuse box with blue painter's tape. I went inside just to see how bad it could get. He never turned the lights on in the office-just let daylight diffuse through the miniblind, where it glinted off his Spiderman lunchbox next to his way old-school computer. I stopped short of making a joke about Apple iie. It was bad, people.

So we're stuck with that decision-and the Altima that we didn't sell because it was the only thing we could legally drive the kids around in. Ugh, the fallout from summer chaos. I am so thankful, though, that we are going to Philly soon, and that we are able to fly, because we have a mercy flight, and I will focus on that when next I write.

I just had to let go of this first. Oh, and we did finally get the title. The dealer said he was praying for us, and that he is learning to forgive himself for the shame of the bankruptcy (which was thrown out of court because he ignored two paperwork deadlines) and is ever hopeful for God's blessing.

Oh, y'all!

NOW we're getting somewhere!

2010-11-03T20:56:00.001-07:00

We are going to SHRINERS Hospital in Philly in 2 weeks!!! Yahoooooooooo!!!!

That's the super-short version. The longer one involves me telling you all about calling and spending hours online poring over different orthopedists' CVs and research interests...maybe we can share a cuppa later & I'll tell all. In the meantime, we're making progress at the OT with Younger Bro, Older Bro will see our family Doc tomorrow for the first time, in two weeks we'll have more oral surgery for Younger Bro (who decided it was a good time for a tooth abcess), and we're moving right along with school--now that they get that Older Bro doesn't need to take Spanish just yet--I am NOT kidding!

I can put much better words around all this, and in the wee sma's, when I am knitting to clear my head and heart, I know and trust the hand that is guiding us. That is, I hope to know and trust that hand--I like to act like I get it, but I still somehow end up walking through each day as though it's up to me to take care of us. And that's just not true, is it? Betcha either brother could tell you how much I took care of them three years ago--oh, wait! I didn't know they were alive three years ago! And yet? They LIVED and THRIVED!

Flippant? Yes. I'm there just now! I am SO thankful for understanding and a quick response from Shriners--you wouldn't believe how quickly that got hooked up! Now it appears that tomorrow will be about trolling for mercy flights to the City of Brotherly Love--there has GOT to be a funk song in that somewhere.

AND! Our sweet dear friends the GOUR family are giving away an Ipad--yep! on their blog! Just check it out and everyone who donates at least $10 gets entered in a drawing for an Ipad!!! We met the Gours in China, back in 2008, when they were adopting sweet Claire and we were bringing home her betrothed--aka Younger Bro. They popped up from Charleston, SC, this summer, because they had nothing better to do than to trick their kids into thinking that helping us build a porch and make our house wheelchair friendly in a week of 99-degree-plus heat was a VACATION!!! Now they are giving their all to open their loving arms even wider to welcome home Asher, a beautiful little boy from China who will someday know how blessed he is to have such an incredible family hoping for him! Go on, folks, help the Gours get their boy!!! And encourage them, alright? Four mouths to feed, not including Mama and Papa bear, and this is what they're thinking! They need some big prayers! Just look at 'em!

In the meantime, my boys are asleep, I've got the kettle on, and I'm missing Beijing...but I've never been so happy in my life. Look at those boys! They're at Radnor Lake (I may or may not have hauled that crazy chair & those boys 2 miles up and down a mulch trail on the side of a mountain while Shane was at work!) and they're plotting our next move--while keeping a tally on the Canadian Geese. Heady days...

So, whatever happened to that Caudill family?

2010-10-10T20:16:00.000-07:00

Indeed!

When I last posted, we were in Guangzhou, tired but happy, on our way to the Consulate to add another layer of sealant to our new family!

That went well-quickly, even! Then we stayed an extra week in China, because flights were hard to come by, and we pretended we were having a great vacation at a world-class resort! Because, in a way, we were. Rainy nights, noodle soup, swimming in the day, naps, mad games of cards and Chin*se checkers...good family time. Good resting time.

And then we came home! Welcomed home by great friends and oodles of posters, which now adorn the boys' bedroom walls...lots of happy and lots of tired. Once again, our friends went before us to make sure our house was ready, and there was food, and then family stayed a few days to make sure we were alright and soak up some boy time.

It's been a blur since then--but not in the way I imagined. Older Brother's immigration stuff was messed up by our port-of-entry agent, so he's a "permanent resident" instead of a citizen, while the feds have apologized repeatedly and brought in 2 Congressmen to help sort it out. The van we purchased for a wheelchair conversion isn't ours--the dealer doesn't have the title, and it's been in our driveway 3 months now, and we've brought an attorney into the picture. Younger Brother had to be pulled out of Kindergarten because it was too much change at once, and some big-time sensory issues and shutdowns started happening. We just got him back into Pre-K. Older Brother just started school last week, and though he's in 6th grade, his paperwork doesn't reflect his accurate age, and we've been advised to bring an attorney in on that process, too. He also is slated to start physical & occupational therapy this month. And following some difficulty coordinating with his orthopedist, we're heading towards a Shr*ner's application--as soon as I can get clear of the proof of age/citizenship/car to travel in melee.

Every day I think of the G*urs and the G*lkes and the M*yers and families that we love soooo much. And I can't seem to get past survival long enough to reach out. I'm hoping it's a season that will pass!

In spite of it all, we are so happy to be home and finally a family! All this other junk will work itself out. We're thankful for our friends, thankful for how much the boys are getting along and bonding, so thankful for the good things and little things. So many good things.

More stories soon. This waiting child is learning what waiting is.

We are FAMILY!

2010-08-17T21:38:00.000-07:00

On the way to the Consulate in a couple hours to take the oath to become a family in the US! Will we hit the IKE@ next door to celebrate afterwards? Chances are...

OB has been quiet. Very sweet, not emotional really, telling us sometimes that he misses BlueSky or this friend or that friend, but it seems if I want to know how he's feeling, I'm going to have to draw him out a bit, and I'm going to have to have good timing, and I may have to get past "I'm good." Are we in adolescence or what?

Yesterday, we saw a cartoon I recognized. One of many with Japanese animation and robots and such, but there was a particular symbol I remembered for a very special reason. The first time we went to BlueSky 2 years ago, OB handed me a trading card with one of the characters from this cartoon, one of maybe 8 trading cards he had hidden under his pillow away from the little kids, one of his prized possessions. At any point in the last 2 years, if you'd gone through my wallet, you would have found our second YB photo, my grandmother's obit, and this little card.

So, when OB asked if I knew this cartoon, I said, "Oh, yes. The first time we met you in 2008, you gave me a card with one of the characters from this show. I've carried it in my wallet everyday since then, and every time I look at it, I think of you."

He said, "And then you picked me."

Oh heart. All I could say was, "Sweet boy, my heart had already picked you the first time."

shamian island

2010-08-17T05:46:00.000-07:00

Well, we're in Gu@ngzhou, and even though I've never been to Hawaii, I have a feeling that the climates are similar. The Hollis family, who have been here since a few days after we arrived in B*ijing, let us know as soon as we complained about 95F + 95% humidity that the ONLY reason it wasn't 105F (as it has been the last two weeks) was because a typhoon headed for Kore@ had cooled things off.

And speaking of natural disasters, it's uncanny. In the last two years, there have been 3 natural disasters that have been large enough to prompt Chin@ to suspend its regular TV programming and entertainment and bars and declare 1-3 days of national mourning. The first was in May 2008, after the Sichu@n earthquake. We were here for that-it happened the day YB officially became our son. The second was in response to a quake in Yu$hu earlier this year. The third? It was Sunday Aug 15, our second day here, in response to the mudslides in the T*b*tan region of G@nsu province on Aug 8. Aug. 8 happened to be the day before OB became our son.

I guess always our journeys of joy are intertwined with others' journeys of sorrow, and it only happens that sometimes we pass the intersections slowly enough to see one another's faces on the way. I have found myself reminding YB many times on this journey that he alone can choose whether he will be happy or sad about the day's happenings, as he has found so many places to express discontent. I've told him, too, that what he's really upset about at any given point is that he is not in charge, or that he is not the one deciding what the family will do, and that what he's upset about is that lack of control. I look back on those words, whether he understands them or not, and I think of how that is for us, how this could be a journey to happiness or sadness. Certainly if we gave birth to a child with the struggles OB faces, that moment of his arrival would not be met with unbridled joy--and yet somehow, in these circumstances, we could not be happier to call him our own.

Sunday we visited a Buddhi$t temple here in town, an ancient structure some 1500 years old, and we were met by so many beggars on the way in. Hubby remarked afterwards that to a man, every one of them exhibited signs of arthrogryposis. At the times when jumping in were the scariest, we asked each other what future our young man would have were he to remain here. We saw the answer Sunday, and Shane was undone. And yet it's not like we're the rescuers here. This young man is amazing.

One story, if I may. An American orthopedist visited OB (& 2 other Bluesky babies) almost 2 years ago in Shanghai with the goal of mending his feet and allowing him greater mobility. A difference of medical opinions meant that moments before entering the surgery he'd been told might help him walk, OB was told that he would not, after all, have surgery, and that he would have to return to B*jing once his little friends' operations were finished. A few minutes after learning, in essence, that he wouldn't get to walk after all, OB heard one of the other babies from his foster home screaming in fear as he entered the anesthesiologist's area. Nobody knew how to proceed, because the terror the child had on being put under would likely be even more intense as he awoke--and OB came to the rescue, holding the child until he soothed him, calming him enough to have his delicate procedure. The orthopedist told me this when he learned we wished to adopt OB, and he concluded his tale by saying that OB was one of the most remarkable children he'd ever met. He wept over this child.

And here we are. Sh@mian Island, crazy muggy hot, thunderstorms, Consulate appointment tomorrow for the oath-taking ceremony (whee!). Some nuggets from Yb have kept us laughing, like today's "Why are all these Chin*se people hanging out here?" Shane-"Because we're in Chin@."

Boys

2010-08-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

Shaolin Temple update--We Lived to Tell the Tale!

Lots of Steps. Did you see "K*ng F* P@nd@?" They weren't all in a straight line like that--they were broken up by some nice stretches of rickety-butt centuries old tile--but there were steps. So, so many steps. And the potties? Let's just say Younger Brother had the question of the day. "What's the deal with these people and the potties in the floor?" I love him. Oh, and the steps. Thanks be for Mr. Bill, Danny, Frank, and Joe for help up the steps. The many, many, many steps. This country is SO not worried about accessibility.

Of course, our visit to the Temple would not be complete without hundreds of strangers openly staring, gawking, pointing, and remarking (often derisively) towards our sons, particularly OB. It was hard. But this is where we are, and we are family, and we're not hiding, thankyouverymuch. I think that both boys would have been hacked off at us for dragging them there had it not been for the Kung Fu demonstration--a 1/2 hour show--at the end of the day. THAT was the. best. payoff. EVER. They were so wound up afterwards that the only logical thing seemed to be to buy them cheap wooden swords and load them on a bus for a 2 hour ride back to our hotel. Video link to follow of YB demonstrating his mad mad KF skills before the bus loaded to come. I'll post that after we get home--I seem to be on a short leash here, even with the gracious link offered by C. Gour (thanks!).

And OB's first flight yesterday as we left Zh*engzh*u for G*angzh*u? Priceless. He was so excited, and he kept saying, "Mama, my heart is going so fast." He was thrilled to get a window seat and to look at all the tiny cars and houses, and when we took off, I thought he was going to come out of his skin. I tried to remember my first flight, when I was 19, heading away from home for L*nd*n. it's weird to think that I could have gotten so accustomed to flight that I would ever take it in stride and have to work to remember when it was a new sensation and full of wonder. I think I will have to work to do that often with OB--he is such a sweet spirit.

And I'll confess it-OB gets a little impatient, because he has been the one in charge so long, and it is hard for him to hold back and not tell us what we need to do next. I think he's done a great job, even though he has missed it a couple of times and has had to be reminded that Mom and Dad have the schedule :) The one dinner when he really got it was when he finished before us and was ready to G-O. He kept rolling back from the table, and about the 5th time, he nearly took out an overloaded waiter. I threatened to let the air out of his tires. I can't believe I said that. Guess we have to "roll with it!"

I'm not saying...

2010-08-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

...that this is crazy town...I'm just saying...

Gosh! Where are we again? Oh, yeah, here!

Rules to live by, Older Brother style.

*Translate everything for your parents. Everything. Even what that snooty sales clerk just said dismissively to Mom when she walked past the shop.
*When your parents get you to themselves the first night & draw a bath for you, make sure you lock yourself in the bathroom with them outside. Before they pull the door to, but after Dad has helped you into the tub. With your chair outside.
*Trust that if you ask Mom for McD*nalds, she will ask the bus to drop her off at some shopping center she dimly remembers from YB's adoption, navigate the purchase with her best (=sad sad sad) Chin*se, and then jump into the rickshaw driven by the man who is too blind to see the address on the hotel card and has to have it read to him aloud. In Mandarin. By Mom.
*Try to sneak in scary movies because you're completely hooked on them, until Younger Brother cries and Dad catches on and shuts you down.
*Hold Mom's hand or Dad's hand whenever you can.
*Cry a little when you think nobody sees you.
*Watch out for little ones no matter where you are and always speak to them kindly.
*Spend the better part of a dinner in the room talking in the mirror with your brother using only your silliest voices.

*Be wonderful.

Tomorrow we venture to Shaoling (sp?) Temple, birthplace of Kung Fu. Because both YB and OB have begged for it. If you feel adventurous, G**gle it and count the steps, then imagine the overweight American parents navigating this. With both bros in tow. Yeah, we're parents. Prayers welcome here.

And no, Tim, there will be no photos of the boys ala Bruce Lee.

Did I mention steps?

Buckle Up!

2010-08-08T23:42:00.000-07:00

Wow, this is going to be a ride!

This was already strange territory before we came. Older Brother, with a whole big life already under his belt, coming to us...and now we are here, and we have registered, and we're in the 24 hour period that is set aside for families to make sure of everything. Heart in my throat. I felt like there was so much to consider with Younger Brother, and I know there is still as much to consider for Older Brother's sake, and I have just enough time to let those thoughts flicker through my head if I skip the nap everyone else is taking now that Older Brother is with us and QQ ayi and Dr. H have left him in our care. Everyone has begged for this nap, with bellies full of celebratory pizza, and I sit here trying to make sense of it all. Is there any way to do justice to a second child? And what if that second child is the older one? How can this be?

We are completely over our heads, Shane and I. Perhaps everyone in this world is. All we can do is confess it. As OB unpacked at the hotel post-handover, he shared his email info with us and showed us his ip*d n@no, which has everything on it from Aerosmith to Rihanna, from Glee to Timbaland to JayZ to Train. I guess this is the tradeoff for his being able to speak English on a 3rd grade level, haha! Within minutes of him excitedly showing us all his most treasured possessions, Younger Brother, who really wanted to be part of the show, announced that he didn't want to be part of the family anymore. He reconsidered when he learned I had apple juice in the fridge. Ah, diplomacy.

Shane & I looked at each other as the boys watched a pre-nap cartoon and said, "What in the world are we going to do now?" All my thoughts about school are on shifting sand. This amazing boy has had a great Montessori school experience as the foundation to his learning. Just 4 years ago, when the ayis collected him from the rural orphanage he'd called home, he was so sheltered. He was terrified at the sights and sounds of the train station, undone by his first glimpse of a television, unnerved by the largeness of his homeland. He had never had a wheelchair to aid him in mobility, and he lacked the muscle tone to hold a pencil or even to feed himself.

Now, he has his own custom-fit chair, he insists on doing most things for himself, he reads and writes English on roughly a 1st grade level, he is viewed roundly as a helper to younger children, he loves the computer and his n@no, he has many friends, and he is an artist. So many layers, so much to parent to, so much to try to understand and respect about him. I am overwhelmed. I can feel the cloud hovering--the one that came after Younger Brother got home and I drew inwards for a season--and I know that I can't allow it this time, because there is too much living happening, and because OB and YB need me right now all the time.

Suddenly I'm tired (ha! imagine that!) and it's hard to tell what's jetlag and what's the emotional hugeness of this journey and what's trying to keep up with YB and his needs in the challenge of Chin@ and the BIG learning curve of OB's needs. For now, blogging and hot tea while the boys nap makes sense :)

We're Gonna Make it After All!

2010-08-06T16:38:00.000-07:00

We always have a last-minute to-do list before we travel to another country. On this trip's list?

--Get Younger Brother Kindergarten ready! (K starts 8/26) -registration, shots, supply list
--have the contractor start work on the damage our livingroom took from a badly installed window
--make sure the contractor discovers that the damage is bad enough to discuss jacking the house off the foundation as an option
--"negotiate" with the window installer's corporate office
--pack
--try to book flights for less than $3K each
--wrap up the accessibility changes to the house
--conference call and details with the adoption agency
--book hotel stay in Shanghai since we can't get a flight home til Aug 25
--make plans with friends in Beijing for all the visiting we have to do
--buy LOTS of gifts

Our flight wasn't what I thought! We flew from Nashville to Atlanta, waited 2 hours, flew back over Nashville to get to Seattle, waited 2 hours, then flew to Chin@. When we finally got here, we'd lost a day. We've had a great time visiting so far, and we've learned a lot about Older Brother from updates. At the last minute, we got word that a film crew from Singapore was working on a documentary about children in medical foster homes and wanted to film us. We agreed to it, and when we arrived, the time grew to include interviews, too. Not what you'd expect-but I don't know how to set expectations any more!

More soon-thanks to Chelsea for the filter-avoiding tips! In my head and heart, all these thoughts swirl, and I lay awake into the night arranging them in my head and sorting through all these layers of being. Before Younger Brother came home, I had the luxury of sitting up until 3 am most mornings, writing until I could make sense of some things, or at least give name to them. Now I'm trying to keep up, and I can't make sense of the monumental NESS of this, and I know I'll have to find a way somehow to get my head round it in time to get my arms & heart round Older Brother!

In the meantime--so glad we made it through our list! Our home is repaired & accessible, some friends are helping finish painting, our dog is taken care of, and we're going to make it...after all!

June

2010-07-07T22:42:00.001-07:00

I don't know how 30 days could have been packed more fully with crazy. I can't make sense of it yet.

For now, I am still trying to wrap my head around the phenomenal. Two families, incredible people with whom we were privileged to travel in China that summer of 2008, called us one day. They'd decided that they were taking vacations. One family from Illinois, one from South Carolina, and their plan? Vacation at our house! Yahoo!! Why? To help us get the house ready for Older Brother!?! Can you believe that? Do you know any friends you've made while traveling to adopt in another country for a grueling 2+ weeks who live in other states who will call up two years later to descend on your home during precious vacation time and help you ready it to welcome another sweet child? I didn't think so!

Except that our house is so small, right? Remember how we're struggling to imagine how it will hold 2 boys and 2 adults? How in the WORLD could it hold 6 adults and 6 children for a week? HOW?!

Well, I'll tell you. First, you go back in time and buy windows. Make sure the installer forgets to use caulk or flashing when he installs them. As the water damage builds over 4 years, note the growing mold and the rotting studwall and subfloor. Back in the present, discover the damage and pull out drywall, spray mold killer until you can't breathe, and cover everything with plastic. Wait for your best friend to announce she's taking her family to the beach for a week, then call her to ask if you can camp out at her house with 11 folks (10 of them TOTAL STRANGERS to her) for that time. Problem solved!

Seriously--we are soooo thankful to the Gours and Gulkes for the HUGE gifts of love, time, hard work, gutsy decisions, friendship, and patience--and to the Landers for a place to stay!!! I still feel a little--ok, a LOT--overwhelmed when I think of this, because in the midst of the long list of June craziness (and believe me, it defies logic), I was pretty numb. I look back on that week, and all I can think is that I must have seemed like I think in slow motion! It was so. hard. to. keep. up. I defaulted to being the funnyman--a lot--because it was so hard to grasp the enormity of what these incredible people were willing to give and do so that we can become a family. They ripped out walls, they loved our little boy, they fixed our foundation, they built a porch from s-c-r-a-t-c-h!

I hope that someday, I have presence of mind enough and courage enough to do the same for someone else. I am thankful for and humbled by and embarrassed, really, by such unfailing love. Thank you, Karla and Scott and Mia and Paul and Chelsea and Parker and Noah (hey buddies!) and Isabel and Claire. I wish I could have that week all over again and savor it more, as if somehow I could possibly do it justice. Thank you friends.

So much to say...

2010-06-15T20:31:00.000-07:00

Well, since I took up for poor ol' Pat, we've had a lot happening!

May 26, our last piece of immigration paperwork was approved, faster than I expected! Then of course I found out they'd gotten a date wrong-by about two years-which made our whole thing invalid, so of course the Visa Center refused to issue Older Brother a visa to get here! So two weeks of daily hour+long phone calls ensued, and at one point our adoption traveled back in time to 2007! Finally, it got fixed, and hopefully by this Thursday our last batch of paperwork will find its way to the American Consulate in Guangzhou, the city where our adoption will be officially finalized!

In the meantime, we visited my brother up in Boston-he handed us some flight vouchers and up we went! When we came back, I started having some respiratory problems that I thought were just allergies. Then we had someone go under our house, and it turns out the flood left us enough moisture to fill our crawlspace with mold and mildew. A friend came out tonight to spray under the house with bleach (something Hubby did way back when we first moved in) and now we're relaxing in the fading heat of a 95-degree day with our windows wide open for ventilation. And a FEMA rep will visit us tomorrow to see if we can get assistance for the cleanup, new insulation, and underlayment that will now have to take place under the house. Because we don't have enough to get ready!

We are super thankful for friends. We met two of the most incredible families when we traveled to Chin@ for Younger Brother in '08. They have announced that they're invading us next week-one fam from SC, one from IL-to help us break and bend and shape this house to fit one more boy!

I thought we'd be there by now, traveling the vastness of Chin@, tired and happy and hopeful. Instead, we're clinging to the grace of Sunday Skype sessions with our sweet boy, sad at missing his birthday this week, hoping to travel by August. I've got to get that boy here!

There's more-there always is! But for now-this is a good place to pause. Ever hopeful.

Y'all, don't make me defend Pat Robertson...PLEASE

2010-05-21T20:39:00.001-07:00

Here's what happened.

The other day, the 700 Club did a segment on adoption, focusing on several adoptive families and highlighting Summit VI, the conference I attended the other week. Summit VI was hosted by the Christian Alliance for Orphans (CAFO). So many people concerned with adoption.

So much stuff, so many voices.

At the end of the 700 Club segment, Pat Robertson engaged in commentary and an exchange with his cohost over the risks of adoption. "Count the cost," Robertson cautions...and then, "But if these children have a demonic influence, some background with the dark arts..." Oh, he's careened off the road again. (Can we take his keys this time?) And then..."It's a beautiful thing, IF you get the right child."

Oh, y'all...

Such a firestorm ensued that the 700 Club felt obligated to remove that bit of commentary from their video link to the adoption story. CAFO applauded, then outlined steps that the 700 Club should take to "remedy" the situation. My Facebook feed was full of the irate words of adoptive parents.

But here's the thing--and herein lies my heaping helping of humble pie. As mind-jarring as it might be, he’s saying the things that I was afraid of BEFORE we adopted our two boys. (Gulp-mmmmm pie) In that place of leaping towards the unknown–unknown children, foreign land, unknown needs–I was asking God, “Where are You? Are You sovereign? What if this feels unsafe or turns out to be terrible? Are You still present in that?” And of course He is present and sovereign, and if I hadn’t asked those questions or laid out that fear, then I would have been letting the sentimental gush of wanting motherhood and wanting to “rescue” children cloud honesty.

We do orphans and adoption a grave disservice if we’re afraid to let people voice their own fears and doubts. If we are not afraid, then we can be free enough to let our neighbors communicate honestly and openly about their fears, no matter what damage we think may come, and then we can love them through it, just as much as we would want our neighbor to love us when we have an adoption that disrupts, leads to institutionalization, or is just downright everyday hard. And better to not feel the pressure to hide that discussion by removing a link or commentary, because I’d rather talk about it with my sons in our home BEFORE they hear those fears thrown at them in the grocery store from strangers or at family reunions. I know that when we play in the backyard with neighborhood children, Younger Brother is likely to hear, "Is your mama dead?" How I choose to parent in that situation can release my son from fear or make him dependent upon social quarantine.

It’s dangerous to promote a culture of censoring. I don’t agree with Pat, but I cannot teach my boys that the healthy response when you hear someone say something fearful, insensitive, or ignorant about you, your race, your disability, or your adoption is to stop them from talking, to remove their right to their expression. i hope my sons can help love people through their fears and ignorance and prejudice, engage in dialogue when appropriate, and love themselves, even if it means they lose much.

Perfect love casts out ALL fear. It's at hand, y'all.

Hands down, a sigh of relief. Here comes our son.

2010-05-12T21:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, hubby posted the following on F@cebook:

"Hey friends. We are canceling the 'Both Hands' fundraiser. We have spent the last week helping to tear out flood damage... When things dry out I will be putting together volunteer crews to go in and start helping hang drywall and restore houses. I just don't feel like we can take the manpower away from the rebuilding effort.
For those of you outside Nashville who planned to give, LifeSong has agreed to continue with our Matching grant for anyone who wishes to "support" me while I am helping with the rebuild.
For those of you in the area who are keen on helping, I'd like to invite you to be a part of my reconstruction team. We will be helping the local Chinese as well as others hang drywall, paint, do flooring, trim work and generally help make homes habitable again. Experience is not required, but a willing heart is!
And if you live in the area and you need help, let me know. Don't suffer in silence!

Grace and Peace"

Grace and Peace. That pretty much sums it up. No matter how scary the future looks, we aren't like those who have no hope. We cannot ask our neighbors to help us when we have what we need for the moment, including the generosity of LifeSong's offer (they'll match whatever we can raise using a grant from our church, even though we're no longer doing a Both Hands project). So many of our friends have suffered tremendous loss.

The scene above? Three miles from our home. We were spared, graciously, and our hope means we labor towards restoration for others. Our town has earned something of a reputation through this catastrophe for neighbors taking care of one another. How thankful we are to know that this is the town to which we bring Older Brother! I found the video, below, and thought, "Yeah, here comes the son!"

the transformative power of adoption

2010-05-10T22:51:00.000-07:00

I was a different girl before adoption.

The adoption journey is simple. A man and woman decide to start a family. This means they pay a pack of strangers to ask deeply personal questions about themselves, their faith, their "marital health," their thoughts on child-beating, etc. They pay a stranger to come into their home and tell them whether it's fit for humans. They pay a doctor to poke them to make sure they're physically up to the challenge. They get fingerprinted. They get blood drawn. They pee in cups. They get background checks and beg for friends and family to write letters about what loving parents they'd be. They fill out a redwood forest worth of papers, hang their lives on the arrival of immigrations forms, and try to remember everything they have ever done. Ever.

And then one day, if the State and the Feds and China and the strangers and God and anyone else who puts a dollar in his pocket says it's alright, then they can have a child. After they travel and remember to not drink the tap water and jump from plane to plane and shell out their life's savings.

And it changes them. As people. Something beautiful happens when that family is born, when it comes into its full season. Something that hides what hardened convicts they've become underneath it all.

That is, until natural disaster strikes.

I was coming home from my conference last Saturday. I boarded my plane in Chicago-the last leg of the journey. And I called hubby to tell him how EXCITED I was to finally be on the way home and into his arms and snuggling my little pootie-pie boy.

"Um, we can't really talk right now. We've had no power for an hour and a half and the tornado siren's been on for twenty minutes and we're in the bathtub and the dog's in the bathroom with us," was the veneer-calm reply.

My nightmare. The one that makes you vow, "I will never ever leave home again." And what did I say? Did I gush, "I love you darling, be careful, hug Younger Brother and oh I love you be safe!"

No.

I said (quite flatly), "Are the adoption papers in there with you?" Because all I could think of was the house going up in the air and every shred of paper linking us to our sweet Older Brother spread over the Middle TN area.

"Uh, no," hubby replied in a puzzled sort of way.

"Then get them-they're in the notebook with the checklist on the front-it's in the living room-and as long as you're out, get our passports, too-they're in the plastic case..."

I have become a monster. It's as though those papers were our son! Retail therapy won't cure this- neither will chocolate cake. I'm gonna need some rehabilitation that's stronger! Because I was a different girl once-a kind girl, a thoughtful girl. I've seen my parents recover from having children-perhaps there's hope! They're nice people-they even seem to lead decent lives and show concern about their fellow man...

Some day-I'll be that girl again! Until then, I'm transformed. By the power of adoption.

Both Hands in the air

2010-05-03T21:37:00.000-07:00

Wow-we're smack in the middle of an unprecedented natural disaster-guess that means adoption's on the way! You may remember (I've only told everyone I know about 80 times) that the day Younger Brother's adoption was finalized was also the Szechuan earthquake. Really, I already have a struggle taking myself too seriously and thinking too much about stuff without everything feeling all life-and-death in these seasons. That was what kept me awake for a long time after we came home with Younger Brother. We started with a fragile little boy whose cycle of care hit "life-or-death" every four hours, in a still-strange land, and then we faced a disaster, with all its uncertainty, and every tiny decision felt as though it might mean life or death.

So, we're faced with a quandary. I'm even now scheduled to meet with JT Olsen, founder of Both Hands, to visit a widow tomorrow. She needs some help; so do we. JT's idea is that if he teams us together, we can help each other. I thought it a good idea. After all, Shane and I fell for each other while working together building houses in Appalachia-doing this had a good feel, maybe not like "full circle," but definitely cycling, layers, themes that we keep finding.

But then rain happened. 17+ inches in our town in two days. A whole summer's water flung from the sky in thirty hours. As we welcomed a sunny sky and began to dry out, the call went out to conserve water, to boil water, and curfew was imposed. And we got an email-Joyful Email! to say that our Seeking Confirmation Letter (the "he's yours!" letter I didn't think would get here til May 12) is on its way through the sky! If the plane can land and the water recedes, perhaps we'll see our dove tomorrow.

We have friends, neighbors, so many we know, who have lost. Much or little, they have lost, and some won't even know for days, because their homes are still submerged, and they are still refugees.

How can we possibly ask ANYONE to help US?! We have what we need for this day. So does this widow, more or less. What do we do, with this story and this idea and the faith that our church community extended in the form of matching funds? I feel like I should just draw back, and say we're alright, we have what we need, we'll get by somehow. I'm told that when I do that, I'm putting up walls, not letting others take part in our journey.

But I swear. When we ask for help, this is what happens. In my mind, every time. Life and death. Disaster and need that reveals itself as so much larger than our need, so much larger than our individual journey. Who are we to ask, when around us is so much loss?

We'll see what tomorrow brings. Perhaps wisdom.

Children's Day

2010-04-30T22:20:00.000-07:00

It's been 2 years since we met both our boys in person for the first time-on Children's Day, no less. The time seems to stretch out mercilessly-2 long years that Older Brother has been with and without family.

Today, I got this photo-just in time for that 2nd anniversary-and it seems that it might now also be remembered as the day that Older Brother learned that we are his family. He and his three close friends learned of their families today, and this photo was taken afterwards. Each boy held a photo of his new family, and each was cuddled or snuggled by an ayi...except our brave one, sitting by himself, at just enough distance for me to show him alone. What thoughts are there, my boy? I look in your eyes, and there is a mystery. What to make of that face? I see you, and I want to hold you close, I want you to be snuggled up. Will you let me someday?

Hope. Hold on to hope, Older Brother. We're coming!

running to stand still

2010-04-20T10:22:00.001-07:00

I've had a project this month. A "Slow Down!" project. I'm trying (so hard) to change my world--it's like a really weird version of nesting.

Counting the days-our dossier was logged in March 19 (log-in date is an adoption milestone). In theory, our travel dates fall between June & August.

Hubby spent Spring Break building a beautiful set of shelves into our LR, so we can knock down the wall adjacent to YB's bedroom and make some more wheelchair-friendly space around here. (YB helped make sure everything was "on the level")

I've spent this month getting ready. Slowing down. Trying to build routines. In the meantime, some lovely things have happened...

--A courageous woman I'm honored to call friend has embarked with her family on another adoption (Oh MY GOSH, Chelsea!)

--Another courageous mom/friend graciously linked our blog as she shared her family's story (Love you, Kimberlie! Respect and thanks to Amy Smith)

--Our friend Connie sold a quilt, dividing proceeds between us and Show Hope (thanks Connie!)

--Our friend Rita shared her Etsy shop with us as well as some proceeds from her beautiful jewelry (thanks and Hugs, Rita!)

--We're hoping our good friends get to meet their Hope soon!

--We're planning our next/last big fundraiser with Both Hands (and a matching funds grant from our church!)

--Our church is sending me to an adoption conference

I'm trying hard to make room. And to allow room in my head and heart for YB to be a little boy a little longer (why on earth would I want to rush him?). I'm ready to part with a LOT of our furniture, but our next door neighbor just started chemo and the neighbor across the street had a stroke, so I think a yard sale just now might be unkind. Musing on a lot of stuff, baking bread, building raised garden beds. Wondering whether to revisit the Extreme Makeover idea. Happy that iris are in bloom and peonies are on the way, and thankful for the many hands that carry us.

(By the way, if you're interested at all in joining our Big Build with Both Hands, to take place May 22, please let me know!)

Letting the days go by...

2010-03-24T04:26:00.000-07:00

Actually, they're flying past us.

Older Brother's first self-portrait best shows how I feel right now! Since March began, we've had a great fundraiser (a swap-&-shop for children's clothing), applied for Younger Brother's passport, submitted our dossier, received news that it's Chin@-bound (perhaps it's there already!), & perused our first travel info packet from the agency. We've helped a friend prepare for an estate sale and then walked with her family as she lost her husband unexpectedly, had emergency dental work for YB, planned our next big fundraiser with Both Hands (more soon on that!), received a matching grant to complement the funds raised with Both Hands, applied for YB's first year of school (sigh!), started the changes in our home's structure necessary to accommodate OB, shopped for vans, and taken on increased involvement with our church's adoption ministry.

Not to mention both sets of parents visiting (Yay!), stomach flu and sick dog (boo!), and did I mention Dossier to Chin@ (hang in there, Older Brother!)

Needless to say, I was surprised to find that it is March 24. I have been keeping track of the days this month not with numbers but by each day's events. While all the swiftly moving threads of our life just now shuttle to and fro, it's difficult to prioritize, because each one is tied to this adoption in its own way. Any time left to spare belongs to YB, to snuggling him and reading and loving him the best we can.

It has been a month for missing time with friends just for the sake of doing something together. Parenthood has so many of those kinds of seasons.

And in the middle of it, YB asked a question which I knew would come someday, and I am SO glad it came before his brother did, when I have space and presence of mind to snuggle him up and listen and then speak slowly. ("In a parked car, on a crowded street, you see your love, made complete..." U2)

"Mama, did I grow in your belly?"

"No, sweet boy." More questions. "You grew in your birth-mommy's tummy, and before the whole world began, God knew you would grow in her belly and we would be your Mama and Baba. She was so brave, and when you were very little and very sick, she found a way to send you on a train to a place where doctors could take care of you and rescue you, and then your ayi helped you find us, your Mama and Baba."

Quiet thinking, then...

"Can I blow the car horn now?" (Oh, thank God, mercy.)

"Yes, baby. Now let's get out of the car and go into the grocery store, ok?"

These are our days, these days. If I've been slow to answer your emails, calls, or messages; and if you think I'm wayyyy late in saying "Thank you!" please know that my heart is there, even if my time is not!

Rejected Dossier Photos

2010-03-12T00:04:00.000-08:00

Now that our dossier is FINALLY on its way (whee!), I'm posting some photos that didn't make the cut. When you're putting all those papers together that prove you were born and married and poked and cleared and shaken and stirred, you also get to round up a bunch of family photos so your agency can make you look all desirable to Chin@. Since we've only had Younger Brother for 22 months, we were scraping the sides of the bowl, so to speak, to find EIGHT completely-different-from-each-other family photos. Scraping. Two photos we sent were not good enough, so as I scrambled to find and overnight replacements, I put together my own little gallery of rejected photos of family life. Mind you, I didn't send any of these with our dossier, but I should have.

"Younger Brother sugars up at the county fair at 10 pm"

"We dress YB as a panda & chase him down Main Street" (alt. title "Big Trouble with Little China")

and finally...

"Family Life-Oh Brother Where Art Thou" (BTW, I had to insist on Hubby wearing an undershirt)

Yes, these are the photos which show our lives unvarnished. Please, no calls.

wondrous strange

2010-03-02T21:18:00.000-08:00

I have heard at least four times in the last week that I should write a book about our story. And every time I start to agree, or even to consider what the next step might be or who I would need to contact to get started, I read someone else's adoption story. Or several adoption stories. Or a brave brave parent who has brought her sweet child home from Africa shares how people in her own community have begun to shun her family, asking, "How dare you adopt from there?" And I think that I might wait a while longer, because there are stories so remarkable of so many children who are loved into beginnings one by one.

Two weeks have passed since an afternoon envelope changed this journey forever. Early in the morning of February 16, I sat on our sofa and stared blankly into this same screen. Our dossier was still ready to go, and it was still in our kitchen, waiting for our tax return. For the third week straight. I decided my time would be better spent if I began to research wheelchair vehicles and grants. After hours of digging, I'd found one vehicle with an actual published cost. $ 65,000.

I sagged into the sofa and prayed. Or talked at God. Either way, I was not happy. Or hopeful. "What were we thinking?" was the question that found itself on my lips again. I wondered how we could ever think of any of this if we couldn't even get the dossier out of the kitchen, and how we'd just flown past the date I assured our homestudy agency was the one by which they could count on receiving the balance of our long since due fees. No word yet on any grants. Just nothing.

The last time I was at this hopeless point (October), I cried. I tried to make light of it when I told hubby how hopeless I felt. There's an amazing story about a man named George Mueller that hubby delights in telling, one where a man prays for the next meal to be provided for all the children in his children's home, and as they sit down to ask the blessing at empty tables, a bread truck and a milk truck collide just outside, and lunch is served within minutes. I joked that night, "We're in a fix, and I don't see any milk trucks outside." And then the waterworks started. We have come running as hard as we can after this boy, after this sweet boy who handed me water not two years ago and said, "Come see my room," and suddenly the mountain was impassable. I couldn't sleep that night, and in the wee hours of the morning, I pleaded, "Show me hope, God, please." Later that morning, I got an email. From Show Hope--formerly Shaohannah's Hope. It was a link to an audio recording (scroll down to "We are the Waiting Children") of the story I sent them about our journey to adopt Younger Brother, and it led into how that adoption gave us the hope and the love to chase after Older Brother. Show me Hope.

This time--February 16--I cried again. We had a meeting scheduled for the afternoon, and I knew I would be tired, but I didn't care. I blogged, trying and trying to put a brave face on it and not wanting to sound like a big gaping pit of need. "I can't even joke about Mueller this time," I muttered, and then I half-laughed at myself for the ridiculousness of it. I remembered the story one adoptive parent told of a man pressing a check for $15K into her hand when she and her husband were in the middle of their second or third adoption, and I sighed. I thought about a grant I'd wanted to apply for last fall, and how we hadn't been far enough along in our dossier to apply. The grant was for $15K.

So I slept, and Younger Brother had to get to preschool a few hours later, and I dragged my sorry self through the day.

Then we had our meeting--under a completely different pretext. And our meeting-person blew us over with an envelope. It had a number written on a piece of paper. The number was more--a lot more--than that grant we couldn't apply for or that check pressed in another Mama's hand, and it represented the amount someone we don't know wanted to send to help us bring home Older Brother. A third party is holding it on our behalf, to direct it towards our adoption, or a wheelchair vehicle, or medical expenses, or our house changes. For that reason, another friend advised, we should continue our fundraising projects, because the journey--this journey--is shaping up to be well over $ 50K.

How can this be? On a hot long-ago afternoon in the high desert hills of northern Iraq, I asked that same question. I asked it because it looked like we had found our life's work. Among the Kurdish towns, we made many friends, we found many things in common with the South (okra, crepe myrtles, goat stew...), and we knew, we KNEW beyond a doubt that if we stayed, we could help many. But my attention was drawn to the sheep in the hills, and as I tried to make sense of time and space, walking among an ancient walled city whose walls recorded the feats of King Darius, I remembered a tale about a shepherd and his lost sheep. One single sheep out of one hundred, who could be lost or dead, maimed or eaten...and the shepherd in the story valued that one enough to leave all the others until the lost one was recovered. That tale does not at all fit into my American dream, the one where I have finished grad school and am living up to my potential and have 2 or 3 kids and a beautiful house and am writing my second or third groundbreaking work of art history. This sheep story is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Except that it has saved my life, my husband's life, and the lives of our children. One by one.

by the way...

2010-02-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

In both the journey to our first child and this little boy, I have come to terms with applying for grants and organizing fundraisers by telling myself, "This is not about us, it's about this child." But there have been times when we have been supported so specifically that it can only be received as love for us as much as for our children. When we came home with Younger Brother, our house was so different from the home we left-I've written about that. That wasn't just about Younger Brother--that was our church family loving us.

I'm hard pressed to express faith sometimes. I am not afraid, and I also hope not to offend, because the people I know and love as family and friends are from varied traditions and lifestyles. Because I believe all people are made in the Creator's image, I hope to treat others with respect. While I have found solace, identity, and hope in trying to be a student-follower of Christ, I am particularly hesitant to mention verses from the Bible or to speak or write in a manner that would imply that I view Jesus as a "buddy." Part of this is in reaction to things like home decorator throws covered with teddy bears dressed as angels walking among the words, "Let us adore Him" (something that would prove completely incomprehensible to, say, a 21st century yak-herder from T*b*t or a Kurdish schoolgirl). I don't want to take myself too seriously, and I don't want to demean what is sacred.

Adoption, especially international adoption, has the ring of Manifest Destiny at times, and sometimes I think it obscures the personhood of the same children it would seek to nurture. The circumstances of our family's growth are not an excuse to trample anyone.

I write this because it's about to get weird. There are events that took place in Older Brother's adoption story this week which are accountable to us only by way of our faith. And while I'm not afraid that being an Independent (as opposed to a Republican) is going to bar me from heaven, I'm also hoping that anyone reading the words I have as I try to make sense of the spiritual implications will understand that I'm no Pat Robertson ;) (although it's interesting to consider he's made in the Creator's image as well, given how easy it is to be grumpy with him!).

Stay tuned-I'm trying to sort this out-and it's incredible-and I am in awe of how much of it I just can't tell, for the sake of the boys or others.

In the meantime--OUR DOSSIER IS ON THE WAY!!! It's at our agency now, and some time in the next 9 days, it will go to Chin@. Just wow.

(PS-the photo is one hubby took of the obstacles he saw between us and OB.)

cover of love

2010-02-19T23:59:00.000-08:00

Connie Stowers sent me the most incredible message via Facebook. I mention this, in part, to let certain folks know that my time is not spent in that venue writing about them to my siblings. You know who you are. (Or you would know who you are, if you had a computer and internet at your house.)

But I digress. Connie Stowers is one of the most amazing artists I have ever met. She is a quilter. When I was privileged to lead high schoolers through a cultural exploration of basket-weaving, cider-pressing, soap-making crazy we called "Appalachian Art," Connie, Diane B, and Kay E showed up to help when we arrived at quilting. And they blew me away. (ps-Diane B, the next time I come over to your place and you casually have a BRAND NEW bearclaw quilt draped smugly over that little rack just off the kitchen, I will TAKE IT HOME. Because that's just mean of you.) I called on Connie many times. She was an unofficial artist-in-residence the nine years that I taught at CPA! She would drop in when we had quilting, do a workshop with studio art kids on design theory, or talk about the math of art (and when math and art get together, I hear constellations sing). She spontaneously brought in works which orchestrated hand and machine in a symphony of breathtaking wonder. Every time she stepped in the studio with a new quilt, I felt as though my students were in the presence of validation--art and life are intertwined, and the football fanatic working down the hall by day to coordinate athletic schedules is also, as it happens, a master of design.

When Younger Brother came home, Connie gave us a quilt with colorful fish in blues and golds. He loves it, and for a while, it traveled with us, because it had the smell of home, and it helped him sleep when we saw Nana and Papa or YeYe and NaiNai.

But now, she has undone me. Because she has opened an etsy shop to sell her quilts. And she is splitting 25% of the proceeds between us and Show Hope. This artist, for whom I have flat out admiration, is selling the quilts stitched from her life, hours that she has lived and worked, and she offers the fruits of this gift so we might bring home Older Brother. It is, to me, a new way to view "laying down one's life for a friend."

Of course, knowing that she is selling these quilts for the cost of their materials (not labor!), I had to suppress the instinct to take all our tax return and gobble them up. Because they are beautiful. I could tell you what I love about each one, but you don't want me to start that. Suffice it to say that once, before she moved away from our town, she went on a cruise with her hubby. She was more than a little nervous about it, and she told me (more than once, and in the presence of a witness) that if she went "down in the drink," she wanted me to have a quilt. I was glad that she had a grand time, but when she returned safely, there was still a twinge of sadness inside me...I was so close! (Ha!)

Thank you so much, Connie, for loving us. And for the record, your "Key Lime with a Twist" is to quilting what Brandford Marsalis' "The Dark Keys" is to jazz.

Waiting to exhale

2010-02-16T01:34:00.000-08:00

So...our tax refund is not in yet...which means that our dossier, ready at a moment's notice to go to Chin@, is sitting on our hutch. In the kitchen. And I can't look at it. But I will not lose hope.

We have two fundraisers coming up. One is a consignment sale at a friend's barn. I use "barn" in a loose sense here--I'm talking about a Franklin, TN, barn, people, which implies an entertainment venue designed to bring the agricultural gentleman into a relaxed space to enjoy anything from a dance to a small gathering of friends to a bluegrass jam. It's the kind of barn one might expect to see on HGTV. Except that we're hosting a consignment sale in it!

I'll gladly send you an evite if you want to come out for our sale. The Hollis family is co-hosting the event with us on March 6, and they're hoping that we can all travel together to Chin@ as they go to meet their precious son! We're asking folks to bring their nice children's clothing and equipment, and we'll sort it and enjoy some refreshments together. Of course, the children will stay at home, so it's a girls' evening out, and everyone pays a $ 40 cover charge to enter once we open the sale, and shoppers can take what they need for their families, all for the $ 40 cover charge! We'll have some great door prizes, too. I've got my consignment pile ready!

Tomorrow I'll meet with JT Olson, founder of Both Hands. He started this organization a few years ago in response to the Bible verse that everyone goes to when talking about orphan care: "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress..." (James 1:27, NIV) Now, I'm not about to say that my religion is pure or faultless, unless I'm looking after a stray chocolate bar-I think cooking sometimes brings me closer to what could honestly be called worship than anything else I'd want to put the name on. (Ha!) However, JT took that idea of helping widows and orphans and thought it would be worth trying to do both at the same time. He does this by helping an adopting couple find a widow who needs home repairs. The couple sends out support letters to raise money for the adoption and to round up volunteers; JT gathers the construction supplies and the volunteers get together to do the "housework." When the Hollis family adopted their first child, they collaborated with Both Hands to help the widow of one of our heroes, Denny Denson.

Of course, I have more email updates about our sweet one, including photos from Chin*se New Year! I just keep hoping that time is on our side. I can't wait much longer...

Mama has a lot to learn.

2010-02-03T22:57:00.000-08:00

It goes something like this. I was so set against some adoption avenues because I was flat AFRAID. And that changed, in spite of my best efforts to remain static. Husband and I looked at each other last summer and said, "We've said so many times that if a couple just KNEW Older Brother instead of his list of health issues, they'd adopt him already. Well, WE know HIM, so what's our problem?" And the journey began, though we were both afraid. I mean, are we crazy?

Yes, we are. (And we're still a little afraid.)

Every step of the way, every time we've come to a place where I've thought, "Ok, we need this fee now," money has materialized. I've gotten drawing commissions, someone has helped us financially in the middle of the biggest recession since The Great One, or such. Every time.

But then it happened. We got our dossier back from its authentication tour and we had no money to send it to Chin@. I felt betrayed, to be honest. We have risked everything we have (short of Younger Brother) in ways I didn't imagine possible to get to this child. And here we were at the defining moment, and there was no money, no matter how I tried to conjure up work, no matter how many hours we spent researching and applying for grants, there was still no money to send this dossier on its most important journey, the one to seal this boy into our family.

From Friday to Tuesday, I wailed inwardly, sometimes outwardly. By Monday, the best I could do was to put a good face on it and post, in hopes that sounding positive would kindle faith. But deep down, I thought we were sunk. We couldn't really put this next round of fees--$3400 for the agency and $630 for Chin@--on our credit card. Maybe a short term loan from our credit union, I mused. I called our agency to ask for confirmation of the next fee amount. "$2900, and $630 for Chin@." Our contract had been signed before the new fees were posted, so I had the wrong numbers!

Hopeful, I remembered that we hadn't yet filed our taxes. Maybe we could knock away some of the fees with our tax return and borrow a smaller amount. I called husband at work to broach this. When he came home, he began crunching numbers. The result, after 3 hours hard work?

Our tax return covers BOTH fees with some to spare.

When will I learn to not be afraid? I hope I can learn, for the sake of my boys. "Love...always hopes."

Pause...

2010-01-31T23:47:00.000-08:00

Now is the time to catch our breath.

To this point, we've combined our resources with what was raised through the Adoption Walk or given independently; the total is roughly $4000. We've spent $4150. That includes dossier prep, 1/2 our homestudy, application/1st agency fees, and immigrations. We have some gifts remaining.

Our agency tried to give their best estimate regarding expenses, but it seems to always be a guessing game with adoption. In our 1st adoption, travel expenses in Chin@ ballooned from the agency's conservative $1000 estimate to $4000. This time, I have more trust in our new agency, but their dossier prep cost was WAY off. They estimated it would cost "approximately $450" to secure the documents and certifications necessary for our dossier to be ready to go. It has instead cost us over $900! Why? To begin with, TN has its own rules-you have to pursue county certifications, adding $50. We are zoned for the DC Chin*se Embassy. They want everything to go through the State Department first. That adds $104. I'm not sure where the breakdown occurred regarding the remaining extra $300. But that"s adoption.

Our dossier is ready to mail to our agency (an Express Mail fee of roughly $30 that doesn't show up in any estimate, because $30 doesn't really count, right? Ha!), I have three pages of photos waiting to accompany it (pics go with the docs to show what a happy home we'll provide-insert your own snide remark here!), and tomorrow I have to get 6 passport photos of me and 3 of Baba. Mind you, those have to be taken professionally-another $40 that doesn't show up on any estimate!

We have to mail a 2nd agency fee with our dossier, as well as the fee to the C govt. These are what we hoped to cover with grants. Except that we don't have those monies yet! That's OK-for the moment, it seems we've been granted a reprieve-a chance to turn our attention to some other facets of the journey.

We received word from the home last week that Older Brother is doing well in school-they sent us the same kind of report we got when we had Younger Brother's first parent-teacher conference! Get this-he likes math, but it's not his strongest subject-we'll have to work on that! We also learned that the orthopedist from NYC who met OB last year saw him again, reassessed his development, and concluded that OB needs a surgery on his knees by this June. ! Don't know how we'll get that worked out yet! YB's specialist has told us of an excellent orthopedist in Nashvegas. I don't think we can envision getting everyone up to NYC for surgery as it stands now! We're resuming work on our house (the "wheelchair friendly" project) this week as soon as the snow and ice melt outside!

This child's Creator loved him, rescued him from death and decline, rescued him from being kidnapped and forced into heavy labor, and gave him education-words!, loving loving caregivers, and substantial medical care, YEARS before we even knew his name. Now that we hope to make our claim as his parents, any attitude of presuming authority over the workings of OB's days seems ostentatious at best. We. are. powerless.

What a great place to start! We have the memory of OB loving YB and the hope of restoring them to each other to spur us forward!

Whew!

2010-01-26T10:04:00.000-08:00

And now for an all-happy post!

We did it! I sent our dossier to DC to our courier on Friday. Sometime this week, she'll trot our stack of papers round to the State Dept. and the Ch1nese Embassy to get their authentications...and then overnight it back to us, at which point I can send it to our agency and then they send it to Chin@!!!

(An aside for anyone reading this who hasn't adopted or isn't familiar with the process) Our agency estimated it would take 6 months to get the dossier together, and I scoffed at first. We took one month to get our papers together: police records, physicals, fresh copies of birth certificates and marriage license, employment verifications, financial statement, and adoption petition. By the time our BCs and ML were certified by the Secretaries of their respective states, six weeks total. Still, pretty quick. By the two month mark, we were at the end of our 4 homestudy meetings. Then through no fault on the part of anyone involved, our homestudy took a month to get approved. As soon as it was finished, we sent off our immigrations paperwork. The immigrations process took a total of 7 weeks, 5 days from the point at which we mailed our I-800A (the application) to receiving our approval notice, the I-797. In fact, it only took 7 business days after our fingerprints were taken to get that approval notice. Yeehaw!

Those 13 documents had to be notarized, then certified by the County Clerk. This extra step is required in TN and maybe 4 other states. Our homestudy was notarized by our social worker's agency, so it had to go to the Davidson County clerk, but the other documents went to the Williamson County clerk. Then, all 13 had to be authenticated by the TN State Secretary. Total time from the beginning of our journey in August: 23 weeks, 5 days--or 6 months. Point, agency.

Now we're waiting for federal and international approvals. Someone asked me why we use a courier for this step. Simply put, we could overnight the documents--our dossier--to the State Dept/Embassy, but it takes 4-6 weeks for them to process dossiers that arrive by mail. A courier can hand-carry the dossier into each office and return it to us inside of 2 weeks.

Pastor Smith and family came by this week for dinner, and we had some great discussion about the changes we have in mind--mostly ripping down walls ;)--to make this home more accessible! And then the Hollis family came over last night for dinner and brought their sweet beautiful daughter, who they brought home from Chin@ just a few years ago! (She and Younger Brother really hit it off!) They are in the process of bringing home another child! (We really hope to be in the country at the same time!)

I'm happy to say that I also sent off our application to LifeSong. This organization helps manage adopting couples' funds by providing a "bank"--if we collect donations, folks can make their checks out to LifeSong with our account info and it's tax deductible. Our church has an adoption fund, and LifeSong administrates that to some extent, so if we're awarded any amount from that fund, then there's the possibility of qualifying for a matching grant from LifeSong. As if that isn't enough, another organization, Both Hands, based in our hometown, helps adopting couples rally volunteers to assist widows needing home repairs (sort of Habitat style), and in the process, the adopting couple raises funds and the widowed homeowner receives physical assistance. Both Hands's funding process is administrated by--you guessed it--LifeSong!

I'm going to leave off for a while with photos and continue to refer to our boys as "Older Brother" and "Younger Brother." If you haven't heard, Google has challenged the boys' home country over hacking into emails and databases of human rights organizations and supporters. Our involvement, as well as the process we're in right now, renders us a little more vulnerable than we'd like. So, if you think I'm a little paranoid when you read "Chin@" or code names instead of normal spelling, you're correct--I am paranoid. Hoping it's just being cautious and careful!