It’s November. Those closest to me know what that means. I think it is getting easier. I really do. I was a bit weepy the first week of the month, but then nothing. I don’t think about our first lost baby as much as I used to.

I knew the ninos would slowly and eventually help me heal. I knew it in my head, but my heart didn’t rely on the idea much. And how could it a year ago? This time last year I was a three month old mom to four little strangers who didn’t speak my language. It was joyful to have them in my life. But it was still too early for me to completely let go of my could-have-beens.

I have grown up a lot this year. I feel less of a need to hold tightly to my infertility badge. Instead of feeling like a proud adoptive mom who was wronged by the fertility gods, I feel more like just a mom. I still see and feel a need to mourn the losses in my life that have made me more graceful. That will never change. My compassion meter has increased in ways that only loss can provide. I am grateful to be more compassionate. I am softer.

I have privately mourned two more miscarriages since last November. They were easier to work through than the first four years worth. In fact, I even like babies a little more now. I told my girlfriends the other day that I was thinking about getting a swing and Bumbo for the house so that their babies are more comfortable. After I realized what I had said, we kind of just looked at each other, commented and laughed a little. There was no need to talk about it for hours. It is visibly becoming easier for me. Having babies around is more comfortable for me. That makes me feel a little lighter inside. Walls that were built up so thickly around my heart continue to crumble bit by bit, as I continue my journey through motherhood. The person I want to become is more and more in my sights.

Now, I am not so healed that I never have twinges of hurt or irrational jealousy. At times, glowing pregnant women still take my breath away. Forcing me to hold a baby or play with it probably isn’t the best course of action. But all in all, things are better. I wonder what my November post will look like in five or ten years.

There’s even a song by grandma and aunties!!! :)

Well, it wasn’t the Famiversary we envisioned, due to some health and vacation issues, but at least we were all “kind of” together. My mom and sister remembered our One Year Family Anniversary, and they had hot fudge sundaes waiting for us when we arrive in Utah. We were able to video call Adam on Skype, at least. I think the kids were just happy to get ice cream. For them it was just another party. Next year, when their fluency has increased, I think it will mean more.

My Las Vegas girlfriends sent up a care package with Jaime Lynne including a cake, and bubbles for the kids. And Jes remembered, of course. Thanks for remembering, girls! What a year it has been, huh? Those who have traveled this journey with us, and have seen the kids grow by leaps and bounds every week and month, know what our yearly milestones mean to us.

One year in, the kids are reading three and four letter words, in English. Bedtime routines are smooth (most nights). And behavioral expectations are usually met. I literally shudder when I think about the place from which the kiddos came, especially when I think about all of the little ones we left behind. But my sadness is somewhat assuaged by the happy beautiful home we have created for and with our ninos. They have rescued us, and they have no idea! Hopefully, one day they will understand what their joyful spirits have done to our hearts, and our home.

I think I have a video. I will post it, if I can find it.

When in public, I am usually asked if the children are “all mine?” I have learned that this question has many connotations–good and bad. I think the questioner most often means, ‘am I the biological mother?’ They are intrigued by the small gaggle of four brown children. Which, as my blogging friend, Wendi, just posted today, is somewhat flattering–because there are times that I wish my sweet ninos physically resembled me. Now, sometimes people mean, ‘am I the step-mother or girlfriend or caretaker?’ In these instances, the person sizes me up just a tad more. The head bounces back and forth between me and the kids a few extra times, wondering what the story is, exactly. And, of course, there are times, depending on how the question is asked, that a myriad of hurtful motives are all but pushing the question out of the person’s mouth. I have become pretty good the past year at discerning such questions.

When the question seems sincere, I typically reply with a Yes, and then continue on by sharing our adoption story. And I can’t think of a single time that I have not been bombarded with sweet compliments and further inquiry. And yet, lately, I have become more annoyed by the question. Why? I have a couple of theories, which I will share in my next post. But last week I decided to try something new. 

The five of us were at the post office. This was the second post office and fifth errand of the morning. The ninos handled it like champs. I had them sitting a bit away from me on a bench where they were talking and reading quietly. The elderly white lady in front of me leaned back, not knowing I had any children with me, and struck up a conversation about how bored she was. We spoke for few moments, and then I turned to check on the children.

When she put two and two together, she asked surprisingly, “oh, are those your children?” I gave a warm, but simple, Yes. She looked at me as if expecting me to elaborate. I said nothing (which is hard for me to do:) She then leaned in and said, “all of them?” I said, yes–and laughed genuinely. She then complimented me on how well behaved my kids were…asking where my big stick was. It was adorable, and super flattering. And then, finally, she leaned in knowingly and whispered, “you know, most children today are not like that. You keep doing what you are doing.” I told her I would, and she turned around. Okay, she stole a few more glances back at the children before it was her turn at the counter. But still, she was the perfect person to experiment on.

Was she wondering what our story was? Probably. Should I have shared more? Maybe. But for that one moment, it felt freeing to have a conversation about my children with no labels attached or assumptions made. In that conversation, with a woman 40 years my senior who was clearly full of wisdom and prudence, the children were just mine. They weren’t my adopted kids. They weren’t foreign born orphans. They weren’t troubled children rescued from foster care. They weren’t even, and simply, someone else’s kids. They were just my kids–all mine!!!

How sad that our first Famiversary happened while I was away for the summer with the kids. No computer access. No daddy. No nothing. I do have some pics and video that I will post of the day-after. My mom and sis made brownie sundaes for us as we skyped Adam from the lake on my mom’s laptop. I guess that is how we roll around here, anyway. Adam and I live under the usual assumption that every single day we have with our children is a gift, and so we don’t typically make such a super huge deal about birthdays and celebrations in general. Heck, three of our five anniversaries have been spent traveling in a car to Utah for 4th of July. In fact, our first anniversary is the only one we have truly “celebrated.” Why am I writing about this? Not sure. Whatev!

There is lots I have written in my mind this summer-coming soon. We are finally in our house, and I finally have computer access. FINALLY! I feel like a coming of age is afoot in terms of fertility for me. It’s an exciting time in my relationship with myself, my husband, and my children. Can’t wait to catch up on all of my adoption buddies’ blogs too. I am sure there was much fun to be had by all of the Colombianos this summer.

I know we all continue to experience firsts throughout our lives. Over the past 10 months, with my kids, I have tried to document every first that I notice so that I can make up a little for the undocumented firsts of their past lives. I know that it won’t be enough, but I am hoping that when the day comes that each child starts to mourn the holes and gaps in their early lives that they will be at least a little comforted by the documentation that I have kept for them. I want to leave the impression that from the time I took charge they were loved with the greatest love possible.

I know how much I long to know about their past lives–I can only imagine what the wondering will one day be like for each nino. I long to know what their toddler years were like, who watched them take their first steps, who was there in those beginning weeks to see them smile and coo for the first time, who changed their diapers and perhaps rocked them to sleep. I long to know if they were adored, merely tolerated, or somewhere inbetween. I would give anything to know where all of the nics and scars on the boys’ bodies came from. Whenever I trace their skin, I think of that. I wonder who the first person was to truly bond to each nino. Were they read to, were they bathed regularly, were they soothed when hurting, were they truly loved?

But for now, and maybe forever, all I have are the firsts that we create together.

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1. So the other day, Ezzy came out of the shower very perplexed. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “Mom, I was in the shower and I looked down and my feet were white (pointing to my skin) but my legs were brown.” She was laughing with delight, and then I started laughing because I realized that she had never had a tan line before. We talked for a few minutes about what a tan line is and how the sun makes our skin darker. She thought it was the weirdest coolest thing ever. She spent the next few minutes checking out her bathing suit tan lines in the mirror. Apparently, the girl had never before worn a swimsuit, let alone been out in the sun long enough to notice her skin color changing. Can you imagine? AMAZING. She is eight years old now, and loving her variety of swimwear. :)

2. Wompy learned how to read his first few words this week including “I” and “see.”

3. Last week, the ocean was a huge first, which I blogged about on the family blog. I still can’t get over the wonder of it all. I mean, I know there are lots of people who don’t see the ocean until they are much older, but it is different because these kids never had any expectation about ever seeing something so amazing. In fact, they didn’t even really know what it was until I explained it to them the week before. Imagine?

4. Yesterday, I taught the kids Yahtzee for the first time. And they did surprisingly well. In fact, Wompy kicked our butts. Danny really gets it, and I was able to see their different mathematical skill levels come out as we played the game. Although they’ve been taught Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, etc…this is their first “real” game that I took the time to teach. And now, they are begging to play again. YES!

5. DICE–when we were playing Yahtzee I realized that the kids had never actually played with dice before. We take for granted that the dotted symbols on the dice are known by everyone. I don’t remember having to “learn” what the number on each dice looked like because I had watched my parents play boardgames from the time I was born. Just another little thing I never thought would be a first. And just in one day, Ezzy and Danny know what the numbers are without having to count the dots. Nikki is getting there. Wompy decided to play with blocks instead. :) 

6. First Fruit Pizza–Wompy’s birthday on Monday night.

I took the kids out to eat at Cafe Rio last night (shhh, Adam was away for a Scout training). I am so impressed with our eating out skills that have developed–I only spent $15 for the five of us!!! Anyway, we had a good time eating and talking and teasing each other. I noticed a lady a couple of tables over stealing glances here and there. I am pretty used to that now because people naturally wonder what our story is. I figured she was just curious about our situation. So we went on eating, and she went on staring.

As she was on her way out, she stopped at our table(s) and said, “I just want to tell you that I have so enjoyed watching you enjoy your children. It is so refreshing, and I thank you for the opportunity.” I told her thank you (slightly embarrassed, of course) and told her that I appreciated the compliment. She and her husband left, and I teared up just a little because she did not preface her compliment by asking if the kids were adopted/fostered/babysat/fill in the blank. She complimented me based on what she saw–and she clearly saw that I was their mom, regardless of our situation. That was a first for me, one that I will not soon forget.

She did not witness perfectly behaved little robots, nor did she witness little terrorists. She just witnessed a mom who was engaged and happy. Her compliment, after watching me handle dinner time with four shining ninos, gave me more confidence that I am doing a great job.

Adam thought I was acting weird when I rolled over Saturday night and told him I was not going to stand up at church on Sunday. He also took that to mean that we were not ever going to have a happy carefree Mother’s Day. I explained to him that my stand for injustice did not mean that I wasn’t happy, that I wasn’t excited to spend Sunday with my family, that I wasn’t looking forward to hearing my children sing at church. It simply meant that I refused to forget.

Remaining seated when the women were asked to stand was the only way that I could think to support and remember all of those who are still longing, and those who are still hoping. I remember what it was like to sit there, when I was dumb enough all those years ago to actually attend on Mother’s Day. The worst part of the service was always the end. If I did not stand, people would tell me I was a mother in spirit, or something else lame, and badger me until I stood. If I did stand, I would feel like a pretender, as if all eyes were on me feeling sorry for me. And the entire service, I thought about nothing else–just the decision to stand or not to stand. I suppose exiting is always an option, but that is even more lame. Now, after years of practice, I really don’t care what people think about my decision. And, truth be told, not many people notice, unless they are specifically looking. It is mostly in my mind. Of course, poor Mindy H. looked so confused when I did not want the gift she was passing down the row. Who could blame her. :) Whatev!

For me, enduring sappy mom-centered talks, and listening to the children sing (which was very sweet), was more than enough. The rest of my day was way better than church. I know that old habits die hard. I know that. We will see if, and how, I change over the next few years. But my current stance is that I would prefer to spend Mother’s Day away from church with my husband and children.

For me, it was just weird. And I really did try!!!

The one year mark must be approaching. I feel so good about mothering these days. Even on a morning like this morning–Ezzy is crying in her room, Juan P. is cleaning up his drenched pull-ups and pajamas, and Danny is pranking his sisters at the breakfast table–I feel great! As the effects of survival mode slowly wear off, I find myself settling into my own skin. Peaceful.

Maybe it is experience, maybe it is time, maybe it is simply the magical year of 33, but I feel much stronger these days. Is stronger even the right word? I am sure the added strength I feel is somewhat corollary to becoming a mom. But also, life is just better in my thirties! It is a similar feeling as to when I married Adam. I was 27 and life was pretty darn good. In fact, I could not imagine being any more fulfilled. This beautiful person came along, however, and filled up a part of me that had not existed before. Suddenly, life got better–in a blink.

We always hear that life gets sweeter as we age. In our juvenile brains, and in a society where the newest of anything is valued, we wonder how old(er) could possibly equal better. It seems counter-intuitive. And yet, at 33, I finally get it. I have entered into that wonderful phase of life where outside validation has little impact on the decisions I make, or how I feel after making those decisions. My peer group does not influence me like it used to. My confidence in how I parent, how I spend my time and my money, and how I treat my spouse is solid. I don’t care if people think we are weird for resisting television, wanting to homeschool, etc… It doesn’t matter to me because I know what is right for me and my children. So yeah, I am stronger.

I was on auto-pilot for the first three years of my thirties. But year 33 has found me. I literally feel myself hitting my stride. And I am so pleased to be exactly the person I envisioned being at this age. My children look different than what I expected. I can’t fit into my wedding dress (yet). I live in the desert–yuck! But the person that I am on the inside…what I value, how I act….is exactly who I want to be.

I love being thirty-something!!! If my thirties are this good, I can’t wait for my forties.

I saved this post for far too long. Now I have an appropriate place to post it. :)

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To no one in particular,

I am quite sure that your slight remarks, quick roll of the eyes, and obtuse views of my parenting are due to the fact that you are completely incompetent at parenting yourself. If you think I am too structured, too strict, too hands-on, that is fine. I know it is completely counter-intuitive for you who takes no responsibility. If you have a problem with my expectations for my children, please feel free to talk to me in private.

Heaven knows, you would not want me to talk about your parenting in front of everyone…like how your children are starved for structure and attention because you cannot seem to get off of My Space, Facebook, U-Tube, whatever! Or how your children are complete terrorist having no consistent consequences EVER for their behavior. 

Contrary to your view of the world, children do not need another friend–they need a parent. They need structure. They need engagement. They need a mother who models strong moral character and sacrifice. They need a teacher. But hey, who I am to know anything? I mean, I have only “been a mom” for five months (so now it’s been nine :). I never thought I would use this line because I have hated it for years. But you have no clue! And just as I have no idea what it is like to dodge responsibilty my entire life, while having multiple children in the interim, you have absolutely no idea! 

If you think you can do a better job at raising four adopted children, I invite you to spend a week in my home, solo. You’ll need to be engaged 24 hours a day. You’ll need to actually do housework and laundry, keep the family budget buzzing, and cook dinner every night. You’ll need to practice letters, sounds, and words with all of the children every day after homework time. You will need to juggle four children chirping in your ear after school that they need your help with this or that or the other. You will need to go to the park and watch the kids ride their bikes outside–yes, you will actually have to play with them.

You will need to deal with Juan P’s tantrums firmly. You will have to actually say “no!” You will need to be off of the computer most of the day. You will need to spend your free time giving attention to each child–reassuring each of them every single day that they are loved and wanted. You will need to run interference every few minutes. You will need to get used to not having TV. Aside from normal kid stuff, you will need to monitor and correct food issues, intimacy issues, bonding and attachment issues, language barrier issues, etc… And you will need to put extra time into a thriving loving marriage so that it stays as strong as possible.

Good Luck!!!!

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Okay, I feel better now. Thanks for listening.