to have loved and lost

I am not crying today, though I think I probably should be.

This morning I gathered all of T & B's things- their clothes, toys, blankies & barf rags- and dropped it all off at their parents' house. I went inside the house and gave baby B some long hugs & kisses (though she seemed much more interested in all of the toys I had just brought over) and I gave little T hugs & kisses, too. If you asked me 3 months ago if I loved these children I would have said, "I'm not really attached, so, no." But now? I do surely love them. And I miss them. Just a little.

Don't get me wrong; it is really nice to just be us again. Life will be less stressful now. But, at the same time, it is kind of strange that I won't be picking them up to have them at our house any more. It's okay, though. I know that they are where they need to be. I know that their parents have tried very hard and are doing their best, and as far as I can tell, the children will be well taken care of and they will be safe.

It's funny. We have loved lots of children, but have only ever gotten to keep Megan. I loved all of those babies we were supposed to adopt before Megan. I remember loving all 4 of them (even though we only ever met one). I remember that with each one, I felt intense pain as we lost them. Before adoption, when we were trying to have our own children, I felt love for the children I thought we would have. (I don't really know how that works since we obviously never had any to begin with... but I felt love still the same.) And now these children, T & B, that we so recently gave back, I loved them too. I really did. I do have to say, though, that none of that love is as great as what I feel for Megan. Hands down, the love I have for her trumps all other love I have ever felt for any other child. But still...

I've had all this love, for all these children, and I most likely don't get to see any of them again.  If I think about it too much it could sure take a toll on me. However, I have seen the strength and life lessons that have come to me from each kind of love, and from each experience.  

Our family life is certainly not what we envisioned, but we are so grateful for the way things have turned out thus far. I don't know the reasons for most of what goes on with my life; I just know to trust in my Heavenly Father and I know that He will lead us to children that are supposed to be with us. The thing I do know is that there is a plan for us. It is not all random. I know that our calling as parents is different, but it is still good. I am grateful for the knowlege I have that I can be with my family forever; that all of the struggles and heartache and pain we go through to find our family will be worth it, because we can be with them forever. I wish everyone else knew that, too.

Anyway... I guess that's it for now.

perspective

So, our foster kids will most likely be gone by the end of December. This is fine and we knew it was coming. In fact, they are now with their parents more than they are with us. So, this means my life is a bit easier now. I still have to drive them around all the time, but home life isn't as hectic. The other day I started thinking about them leaving for good. I have just gotten so used to seeing their little faces around my house. I've gotten used to their smiles, their laughs, their preferences, their messes.

Most assuredly, I have gotten used to having a baby around. I have really grown to love Little Miss B. She is just such a darling baby. I wish I could post a picture of her for you to see. I adore her the way I adored Megan as a baby. I love most everything about her. I find myself whispering sweet nothings into her ears. At night, when I put her to bed, I tell her I want her to be my baby forever. I tell her it's not fair that I love her and have to give her back. I tell her to tell Heavenly Father that she should be my baby (even though I know I shouldn't say that). I ask her if she wants to be mine, and then she smiles at me, or laughs. And I hold her close because I won't be able to hold her much longer. Then she'll be gone and I'll most likely never hold her again. I don't want to let her go, but I have to.

So, I found myself grieving for this child that isn't even mine, that I haven't even lost yet. I guess it stems back to the fact that a part of me still aches to bare my own children. Granted, I've told myself a zillion times that I'm over it and that it doesn't matter. After all, it is absolutely true that we never would have found Megan had our lives not set us in this direction. And we wouldn't give up Megan for 15 biological children, and that's the honest truth. But still...

this is not the path we chose. We did not choose to be infertile. Sure, we chose to adopt because we wanted to be parents, but we would rather have had our own (and it would have been a thousand times easier, I think). Now we are foster parents. People put us on a pedastal for doing this. Thing is, we don't do foster care because we're "good people". We do it because we have to. We do it because I can't ever get pregnant and we need more kids and we don't feel right going more into debt to adopt more children. So, you see, foster care is not the path we chose. I would go so far as to say this foster care thing is not the path I want. I don't want to have to raise other people's children that come to us with their own issues. I don't want to deal with the problems. I don't want to deal with the hassle. I don't want to deal with having to love children, and then have them leave and never see them again. I just don't want to do it. But, we do it because we don't have a choice. We need more children and this is the only feasible way to do it.

So anyway, I was getting down on myself, you know, the "why me" statements. The look at so-and-so who pops out children like they're popcorn comparisons. The why can she get pregnant when she obviously shouldn't, but yet I can't when I obviously should be able to resentment. Basically, the life's not fair and I got the short end of the stick, depressing thoughts.

I hate it when I think this way. Thinking this way does not make me feel better. Wishing to have something I don't have never makes me feel better. So, instead, I tried something else. I got on the internet and started looking at a friend's blog who lost a baby last year. Her blog led me to many other blogs, with stories of grief and pain from lost children. So then I just started feeling grateful instead.

I'm grateful that Megan is healthy and happy. I'm grateful for a loving husband who has supported me emotionally when many men would shudder away. I'm grateful for my warm home. I'm grateful for my piano. I'm grateful that I have music in my life. I'm grateful that Jared is such an amazing dad. I'm grateful for the good family I came from, and for the good family I married into. I'm grateful for good friends, I'm grateful for the beautiful mountains across the street. I'm grateful that foster care is available for people like us. I'm most grateful for my Savior. I'm grateful that He knows me and helps me. I am grateful to know that my family can be together for all eternity; that life does not end at death. I am grateful to know that my Heavenly Father loves me and has given me every tool I need to return to Him some day.

With so many things to be grateful for, I find it hard to feel sorry for myself. I really have countless blessings. I truly am happy with my life. When I look at life in this perspective, I wouldn't have it any other way.

frustrating chocolate addiction

The first step to getting over an addiction is admitting your problem. I will freely admit that I am a chocolate addict. However, I don't want to get rid of this healthy addiction. The chocolate I'm addicted to is the sweet yumminess that is my child.


She is such a delicious chocolate and I cannot seem to get enough. I just want to hug her and squeeze her and kiss her all day long. I love her so much that I want more chocolate. More. Give me more. One sweet piece of chocolate is wonderful, but two pieces of chocolate would be even better.


Every time I see a chocolate baby on television I just want to grab through the screen and give that baby hugs. I can't stand those commericals where they show malnourished little African children and ask us to send money. When I think of the 150,000,000 orphans in the world I am sick to my stomach.



Can I have some of those orphans? Will someone send me just one? Give me another little chocolate baby. I want some more sweetness.


What happened to the days when you could just go to an orphanage, pick out a baby or two, and be on your way? Things are so complicated these days. It's either pay thousands upon thousands of dollars to buy a new baby, or wait months and months to be foster parents and maybe adopt through that-- if you're lucky. Geez. Talk about jumping through hoops.


I just want to go to the chocolate baby store and pick me out some more delicious chocolate.


If you find a store like that, please let me know. For now I will enjoy the sweet, beautiful chocolate that I have. What a perfect little morsel she is.
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my daddy's moustache

My daddy has worn a moustache for as long as I can remember. I have seen a few pictures of him without one, but I maintain that the man-without-a-moustache could never be my father.

I know there are millions of great dads out there (the one living in my house included) but I am going to focus on one dad today: mine.

I was born in the same hospital as my dad, in a little town in northern Michigan (the Upper Penninsula) called Hancock. We also share the same cleft chin (or "dimple chin" or "butt chin" or whatever you want to call it). My father & I are certain that the hospital must have grabbed a hammer and gave all its' babies butt chins. Genetics? Nah.

My daddy was always the calm one. I don't ever remember hearing him raise his voice. So, when we were naughty and wanted to confess something, we'd go to him, hoping for a lenient punishment. Instead, he'd always say, "go tell your mother."

We have given my daddy all sorts of nicknames over the years. I think it was my older sister, Jasmin, who first coined the name "Popparoni", and from there it went on to Papa-Rapa, Papa Romano, and many more. My favorite name for him, though, is daddy. Whenever I see a man with a moustache, I think of my daddy and how much I love him.

My daddy is totally handsome and this picture doesn't do him justice:

I always wished that I got my daddy's good looks. He's half Italian & he has the darker skin & dark features to prove it. Not to mention, he's always been skinny, which is a dream of mine.

There's just something about a daddy and a daughter. I love my daddy SO much and I'm so grateful for all the things he taught me. I'm grateful for his calm personality, his smile, the way he will call me up out of the blue just because he hasn't talked to me in a while.

I have so many fun memories of my dad. He used to "hang and quarter" us, in which he would hang us upside-down and give us a quarter. He would go on weekends to the National Guard and always bring us home something. He brought home hamburgers on Friday nights. If I remember correctly, he was always the one to give our Family Home Evening lessons. Another thing I loved is that he would sit at the piano and play his favorite songs while he sang along- which is also one of MY favorite things to do.

My dad has a great hobby of building with wood. When we were kids he built us a kitchen set out of wood. It was awesome. I'm sure all my friends were jealous of it. He also built a huge wall unit for one house, and added built-in cabinets for another house. It's kind of hard to explain, but he's REALLY good at it. He was and is always in the garage working on something.

Around the time Jared & I got married, my dad was really sick with something he caught while on a business trip to India. The disease is called Amyloidosis, and as explained to me, is worse than cancer. The survival rate is surprisingly low, and my dad had to do go on dialysis. He also received a kidney transplant which only lasted a few years. Now he is back on dialysis. Through all of this, he never complains. You wouldn't even know he has gone through so much, and you wouldn't know that he is in so much pain. He is so brave and optimistic and wonderful and I love him. I could go on forever about my daddy but I think I will stop here.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy! I love you!

Something right

It is so fun to watch Megan develop. It is intriguing to watch her play. The way she takes care of her dolls, pretend-washes her clothes, and mimicks every thing she sees us do just thrills me. It's amazing to think that a year ago she could barely scoot across the floor and now she has become a person full of likes and dislikes, a silly personality and a vocabulary to boot.

Sometimes I wonder how many things I am doing wrong. But then, there are the moments when I know we're doing something right.

These percious moments- like when Megan folds her arms and bows her head before a meal; when she sings lullabies to herself long after I have left the room; when she recognizes a church song- help me know we're on the right path. I love the moments when she stops what she's doing, says a gibberish prayer, and keeps on playing. Megan asks to read the scriptures before bed; she has now begun to repeat our family prayers as we say them.

It's little things like these that let me know she is learning the important things in life. Knowing her colors and being able to recognize letters may be helpful, but the best, most important things are the spiritual ones. I am so glad that Megan already knows when and how to say prayers and that we read scriptures every day. I'm not trying to toot my own horn; I guess I am just thankful that I was once taught these things, and that I can now teach them to my child.

And, most of all, I hope she continues to do these things long after I am gone; that she will grow up one day and notice that she has done something right, too.

my band-aid

Today I was asked by a friend to share my experiences with inferility. When I look back upon those horrendous times, I feel like a stone. When I write about all the things we did to figure out what was wrong- the surgery, the trials & errors, the different things we tried- it's all kind of like a blur. I don't really have any emotion when I speak of those things.

The emotion comes in when I start to talk about our precious Megan. When I think of everything we went through and all the pain we experienced in the years previous to her coming to our family, I start to choke. I choke because she was worth every heartache, she was worth every penny. Our little slice of heaven. She is worth the world and I would never change anything we have done... because it led us to her.

Megan is my little band-aid. She makes everything better. When I think of what the future holds- that this Foster Care thing is going to be difficult, that we can't just go make another kid like all my friends get to do- I get a lump in my throat. Our desire to have more children is going to be just as hard as it was to have our first child.

But, like I said, Megan is my little band-aid. All she has to do is smile, and mommy feels better. She knows just when to give me a hug or a smooch on the cheek. Her laughter melts my heart and I know that the Lord sent her little soul to us. She is such a pure child, full of spunk and truth and beauty. My little band-aid of love. I am so grateful for my little band-aid; she mends my soul.

Beautiful disaster

Megan has gotten to the point where she doesn't have many "firsts" any more. Sure, there's the occasional new word she says, or the new trouble she decides to get into. Today she actually did have a "first". And, this first trumps all other firsts.

She smeared poop. Yep. Stuck her hand in her diaper and wiped her feces on the baby gate while I was taking a shower.

If I could guess what was going through her little head it was, "Fine, mom. You won't let me in the bathroom? I'll show YOU who's boss!"

The grossest part of it all is, I didn't even notice she had done this until about 3 hours later. Makes me wonder about all the things she touched or ate in between. Yuck.



As nasty as it is to clean up misplaced poop, the situation made me smile. I'm so happy to be in a position where I get to clean up poop. I'm so happy to deal with her tantrums and messes, and, of course, her overall cuteness, because it means I get to be her mother.

Sometimes I look at my little poop machine and I still can't believe she's mine. I still find myself thinking she is too good to be true, that this can't have happened to me. Really? I get to be a mom? I still can't believe it. I wake up in the morning, and I'm so grateful to have my day revolve around her.

Megan is, afterall, the the child we waited 6 years for and the joy we always desired. So, if I have to put up with poop on the gate (or wherever she decides to smear it next), I'm happy to clean it up with a smile.

So, smear on, my daughter. Smear on.