I am a happy mom, which means a great emotional current has awoken inside of my body these past two years. I am visibly more emotional because my children’s happiness brings me insane amounts of joy. I am still getting used to having swells of positive emotion overtake my body, but it is a wonderful deficit to endure because it means I am a mom.

I am an adoptive mom, which means that I sometimes get emotionally dirty with my children. When the children and I discuss all things adoption, I weep. I weep for many reasons, but mostly because I cannot change their past. I can help them heal, I can lighten their emotional load, but I cannot carry their burdens completely for that would do them a great disservice in life. They will be better for it. I know that to be true, but it hurts my heart nonetheless.

I am an infertile mom, which means that great amounts of grief and sorrow will always sit anxiously inside a small chamber of my heart. These are the most difficult emotions to predict and control because I never know when something or someone is going to trigger the opening of that chamber. And yesterday, the dreaded MOTHER’S DAY, was one of those triggers.

Adam asked if I wanted to skip church and do something else this year. I assured him it would be fine. Why wouldn’t it be, right? The biggest issues I had to contend with last year were a small bout of crankiness and the decision to stand or not to stand at church. Plus, this year, the kids really knew what Mother’s Day was, and they were so excited to sing at church and have me wear my paper corsage. Like I was going to disappoint them! I figured the most I would have to endure was a couple of gushy mom talks, and a few comments about how the speakers wanted to be sensitive to those who were “not yet privileged to be mothers” or some lame crap like that. (GAG!) Plus, I had already decided that I would never stand at the end of the service as my secret honoring of those who still dreaded the day as I once did, and who were forced to stand because they were, after all, ‘a mother in spirit.’

That was a big mistake. I mean HUGE! COLOSSAL! GIGANTIC! I will never let my guard down ever again on Mother’s Day. Who knew that one of the talks was going to be about a woman who had multiple miscarriages over the past seven years, and is finding faith and strength in the journey as she and her husband figure out what their new path should be in creating a family. What are the chances? Yes, many struggle with infertility. But infertility is painted with a broad brush for good reason. There are many different struggles within, and many different treatments. But this story was my story. It mirrored my own infertility. And there is nothing I could do to keep the chamber in my heart closed. Trust me, I desperately tried for my children’s sake, and for my own.

Instead of feeling more connected to Mother’s Day, I felt like the elephant in the room. I started crying, and I couldn’t stop. It was pathetic. And I was trapped because I knew if I got up and walked out, people would see me crying and that would make it worse. So my only option was to sit in the pew and pull my hair around my face so as few people as possible would see the hysterics building up inside of me and pouring out of my eyes. *permission to laugh out loud*

After the service ended, I thought I had myself under control. I went in to teach my primary class (Sunday School for kids), and I started crying again when I saw a dear friend who recently miscarried her first child. She was bravely and gracefully facing Mother’s Day head-on in the midst of a sea of children. This time I did have to walk out. I made my way outside and I started to sob. I sobbed and I sobbed and I sobbed. It was the kind of cry that doesn’t happen very often. It was the kind of cry that I associate with things like my infertility trials and losing my grandma. You know, the kind of cry that takes you to a place where your mind does not want to go, but where your emotions take you anyway. Luckily, I found a quiet spot outside to work through my meltdown. The experience was embarrassing and annoying–not something I planned or even thought might happen. If I thought for one second that I would lose all emotional faculties in front of people, there is no way I would have went–truly mortifying!

The most significant part of the episode is that people do not understand why I was so emotional. The assumption is that my inability to bear a child is so overwhelming that I must not be truly happy with my “adopted” children. That makes me crazy! And yet, I would probably draw the same conclusion, if I was the outsider looking in. I love my children so much! They are enough! They have breathed life and light back into my soul!

That false conclusion is not why I have moments of residual mourning. It is simply, and only, because I remember! I was not crying because I cannot give life. I was crying because I have lost life. Perhaps someday, when that particular emotional chamber is released, it will not trigger an emotional spiral of remembrance. Perhaps. But yesterday was not that day.

“We decided to go with someone else.” is the dreaded phrase adoptive moms fear to hear (something bio moms never worry about).

Adoptive Parent Translations:
‘You are not good enough for my baby.’
‘You have too many children already, you don’t need another.’
‘You are not exactly what we were looking for.’

WHAT?!? However you slice it, it is rejection plain and simple! Imagine someone telling you bio mommies out there that you are not allowed to give birth because *they* are not sure you will quite measure up. Imagine your reproductive freedom and privilege was stripped from you just because you were not exactly what *they* envisioned. The difference between a mom like me and a bio mom is that the bio mom can have a baby whether the proverbial *they* agree or not. I, on the other hand, am at the mercy of *they*.

The rejection power of *they* is exercised every time a hopeful adoptive parent has their profile pulled. It is exercised when referrals are revoked, and profiles are not chosen. It is a very scary uncertain proposition that we enter into every time we allow ourselves to be considered for a child. Although I am willing to do it to grow my family, I do not look forward to any part of the choosing ritual associated with adoption.

A while back, one of my dear friends was told that her family’s profile was being considered and that the bio mom had narrowed it down to them and another couple. Their newly found hope was crushed when they were informed that they had ‘come in second.’ As if that is any comfort to a woman whose arms are still empty. She and her hubby were assured that they were so awesome that they would be the back-up if something fell through with the bio mom’s first choice!

Some would argue that we should be more concerned with the happiness of the family chosen because the child’s well-being supersedes the sadness of the family who was not. Okay, sure. We are happy that the child has found a home, but that in no way negates the sorrow of our own loss. Why are adoptive parents expected to be less hurt and more generous when they lose a potential child than bio parents? I don’t get it. Loss is loss. It is personal. It has no time limit. It is necessary for growth.

I have a friend who recently lost her newborn baby to SIDS. The tragedy happened two months ago. So for those around the situation, I am sure it has seemed like a long time. When we are not directly a part of the loss, it is easy to detach ourselves from the everyday emotions that come. But for her, it was yesterday. And that will remain for a very long time ot come.I do not know what it is like to lose a living breathing baby that I alone gave life to. But I do know something of agonizing loss. I know that it does not disappear or dissipate overnight. We learn to compartmentalize over time. We learn to find meaning in the loss so that we can grow.  We learn to move onward and forward for the sake of our family. But the loss remains.

So who are *they* to say “your baby is in heaven, you should be over it by now” or “it was only a miscarriage, you’ve had them before” or “you already have enough kids, let someone else adopt the baby.” I guarantee the *they* who say those things have never experienced significant loss, especially the loss of life. And that makes their ignorance less important to me. Mostly, I feel sorry for *they* because I know better. Hopefully, my experiences play some small role in helping others know better too! That helps validate my own loss so that *they* have no power over me.

We have a large family portrait that hangs in our living room. I love it so much. It is a beautiful reminder to me of the struggles and decisions Adam and I have participated in over the past five years on our path to create a family. Every time I walk by it, I smile. But this was not always so.When we first brought the children home from Colombia I could not envision that family picture any other way. I could not imagine ever wanting to. It was perfect–just the six of us.

In fact, when I would stare at the portrait trying to imagine more children, my palms would sweat, my heart would race, and my knees would weaken, literally! Knowing that Adam and I always wanted a large family, this was devastating to me. And once again, as with fertility so many times before, I felt like the broken one. Finally, I decided to use the picture as my family readiness gauge. If I ever felt differently when viewing the portrait, which I was quite sure I wouldn’t (being broken and all), then I would allow Adam to use his heart-melting magic on me!

Flash forward one year, September 2009. Adam and I went to London on a business trip. (after five years, I finally got to tag along) Adding to our family was a hot topic on the airplane, and I had lots of time to ponder while staying in the English countryside. One day, while Adam was off working, I sat at our room’s picture window people-watching on the golf course. I had the window open to feel the cool damp breeze…a stark contrast to the Las Vegas summer. While thinking of all things Jane Austen, I caught sight of a little family golfing. The dad was practicing his swing while the mom and pre-teen daughter were chattering on in the background. They seemed to be having a good time. What caught my eye was how much the mom seemed to be enjoying her daughter. As I was thinking about that, the wind picked up and it started to rain. The mom quickly and tenderly took the daughter’s hood pulling it up over her head, smoothing the daughters hairs around her face, all without missing a beat in the conversation. She hugged her tight for a moment, and then went back to her previous stance, as if she had done nothing.

It was one moment in time. And as quickly as it came to that family, it left. But for me, it lingered.It was the moment I had desperately been waiting for. The solitary moment in time picked itself up and made its way through the swirling wind, into my open window, and into my open heart. It stamped itself forever on my mind. In that one supercharged moment, I knew I was ready. I knew that when I saw my family portrait again, I would feel peace about adding to our family. And that is exactly what happened. I can’t explain how I knew, how my heart changed….it just did! In one single moment, it changed.

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Greater lessons can be found in these seemingly meaningless mommy moments. Moments that happen a hundred times a day for those of us who mom. We mom without thinking about it. It is just what we do. Even if we are a little slow at getting there, nurturing is our nature. It is our divine right. And we should each treat it as such.

If moments are the molecules that make up our eternity, then these countless mommy moments are paramount to our existence. They not only impact our own forevers, but also the forevers of our children. Hopefully, my personal mommy moments breathe joy and peace and consistency into my own children’s eternity.

Two Christmases ago we were in Washington when I found out that I was pregnant, again. It ended up being my most painful and prolonged miscarriage for many reasons. A truly horrible experience. Heck, I am still paying it off because we were uninsured for a brief time. Flashing forward to this Christmas…we headed back to Washington this holiday season. This time with four children in tow. YES! We had a wonderful experience. I found superior delight in watching my children glow with the magic of Christmas. Pure Joy.

It was only on Christmas Sunday, while sitting in the women’s meeting, that I was overcome with painful emotion. All the memories of two years ago… hope, pain, tears, sorrow, the “pins and needles” effect…it was all there playing over and over again during the 45 minute lesson. And I could not escape it. Talk about suffocating.

I had not been thinking about babies or pregnancies or miscarriages or anything of the sort. It just came to me, blindsiding me into emotional upheaval. All it took were a few familiar scents and sounds, emotional triggers if you will. For a few moments in time, I was overcome with anguish.

I guess the reason I am writing is to remind myself that it never goes away. Even when I think I have it beat or think it does not matter anymore. It does! Also, to say to others that it really does get easier. I shed a few private tears during those moments. But after I left the meeting, I was able to move on. Sure, I thought about it throughout the week that I was there, but I never let it paralyze me. I don’t even think I shared my thoughts with Adam. That tells me that it is definitely getting easier.

Of course, I am quite sure that if I didn’t have the ninos to fill up those empty mommy moments, my experience last Sunday would have been profoundly different. Another reason to be extra grateful this holiday season.

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.

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!!!

It happened today.  I have been waiting for this moment, and it finally arrived. You know, that feeling of utter helplessness, as if time has stopped right in front of you while the world around you keeps swirling and twirling? And no matter how hard you try you cannot make it stop? I thought I might not feel it this time. Not with this friend’s baby. Not with this experience. Not this time.

But it did come, and caught me completely off guard. It happened at Little League. Adam “got the text.” Finally, baby arrived safe and sound, mama too. Great! I sent a quick text and went back to reading. As I read, it hit me. My mind started reeling. I thought of my dear friends welcoming their long-awaited son into the world. I remembered all the times I had pictured that moment for us, and all the times it never actualized. I saw husband looking on wife, as if she had given him the world. I envisioned the bonding that moment affords, and it was almost more than I could bear. I felt myself fading. I thought for sure I was going to pass out.

I am glad that I had the ninos’ interest to motivate me to the hospital that night. I did not want to miss it, but after the experience earlier in the evening, I would not have gone otherwise. It was unbelievably hard for me…..harder than I expected. Of course, there was no pretense on my part that it would be a walk in the park, but I also did not expect the good old feelings of loss and grief to surface so quickly. The tears started as soon as I hugged Robert, although I did keep it together while at the hospital. Unfortunately, the 40 minute drive home allowed much time to think and to cry.

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Well, it has been a week now and I have realized where my jealousies lie, and why. The good news…I am not jealous of Baby. I am not jealous of Jaime. I am certainly not jealous of the pregnancy or the labor or the breastfeeding. The bad news…I am so very jealous of The Husband factor. As I think about it, this has been the only source of true jealousy with any of my sisters’ and friends’ pregnancies.

I am jealous of how he holds the baby with gentleness and reverence. How he carries him around the house not letting him out of his sight not even when he showers. How he now looks differently at his wife, and always will. How he smiles with that knowing smile that “He’s The Dad.” I am most jealous of the apparent and incredible joy that this tiny little life has brought to my friend’s husband! Since Adam and Robert are close friends, I see it and feel it more clearly. What do I see? I see with Robert what could have been with Adam. And even today, it breaks my heart into a thousand tiny pieces to know that I might never get to see my husband in that light. To give him that joyful gift.

My loving husband offered his shoulder after our hospital visit. He sweetly reminded me that he felt more bonded and closer to me during our first two weeks in Bogota. I appreciated his meager attempt. But he, of all people, knows it is not the same, not by a long shot. Our  “bonding time” has taken place in the midst of tough love, language barriers and paperwork. For some crazy reason, I think that bonding with, and over, a baby is a little different. If I did not love Adam so much, maybe I would not feel this loss so intently.

Shouldn’t I be grateful for what I have? I mean the ninos are now woven into our lives, our families, our legacy. We wouldn’t trade them for 100 billion dollars (give or take:). And yet, I still–and probably always will–mourn our losses when times like these arise. There are no conclusions or resolutions here, just feelings. Honest emotion.

Zackary has blessed his parents’ lives, and I am so grateful to be a part of the experience.

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.

So my best friend is pregnant. And we’re not talking a little pregnant. We are talking bursting boobies, peeing constantly, going to have the little guy any day pregnant. I haven’t blogged much about my personal experience with her pregnancy because 1. this is a sacred experience for her and her husband, which I have done my best to honor, and 2. I haven’t wanted to jinx the good luck she has had with this pregnancy.

It seems like just yesterday that she called me in Bogota terrified and sobbing. I will never forget that moment. Jena and Brian were trying their best to wrangle the wild beasts (that really is what they were at the time) into bed so I could step out on the balcony and take the phone call. It was rainy and dark and cold, and I could hear the franticness in her voice. I knew those emotions and thoughts all too well, and I felt her desperation through the phone. It killed me to know that my house was just down the street, but I was thousands of miles away.

The realization of another pregnancy left us both fairly faithless that it would develop into something miraculous. I am not ashamed to admit that. When you have experienced miscarriage after miscarriage, your first thought isn’t “Woohoo, I am pregnant again.” It is, instead, ”Oh crap, here we go again. Are you kidding me?” We end up checking ourselves every hour for the inevitable spots of blood. We remember the physical pain, and emotional anguish, of all the grief we have felt before.

And yet, we still try. Why do we try? Because we are believers. And because faith and hope are tightly and inseparably intertwined. So when we feel like our faith is almost depleted, those little glimmers of hope–however shiny and tiny–pick us up and push us on. Hope that something miraculous could eventually happen. Hope that tomorrow is always better than today. Hope that God knows us individually and is keenly aware of our most righteous desires. Now, eight months from that phone call, we are hanging baby clothes, having baby showers, and sprinting happily toward the baby finish line. A true miracle. A true strengthening of faith.

For me, there have been moments of jealousy, of course. There has been some sadness for our own fertility hopes unfulfilled. But those moments have been surprisingly few, actually. Part of it is due to being so busy with our little adopted sunshines. Part of it is me consciously deciding to be happy, no matter what. Part of it is the ability I have to talk to my friend…there is no pretense between us that everything is always okay!

But also, I am just different now than two years ago. I am so grateful that I purposely allowed my recent trials to refine me and to strengthen me. I can’t wait to hold Baby Lea for the first time, truly. I can’t wait to cuddle him, smother him, and spoil him. And I know that the allowance of these feelings are only due to the compassion and strength I have gained from miscarriage and adoption. Look at what I would be missing out on, if I had allowed infertility to consume me. I am so grateful that my faith continues to be strengthened by wonderful experiences such as Jaime’s pregnancy.

And it is not a moment too soon, since all of my friends have decided to be pregnant at the same time. Blech!

And it feels so good. I have decided that this is something I need to do for me, and for others. I noticed that my last post here was in January. Obviously, we have updated on the family blog regularly in that time, but it still feels like I have been gone from adoption blogging. Today, I am going to repost two of my recent rants from the family blog here. I feel like this space should be their permanent home.

Recently, as things have calmed to a lull around here, I have lit my own fire to seek out more Colombian specific adoption blogs, and other adoption blogs that deal with real day-to-day adoption issues. I want to always stay connected to our adoption process, and to those who fight the fertility fight. Blogging helps me keep that focus. Blogging allows me to share our story–I know the kids will appreciate it one day. Blogging, in some weird way, makes me be more honest about what really goes on around here. :) Blogging affords me opportunities to talk about fertility, and our continued struggles.

I know there are things I can/should be doing to help our little ones continue to heal, but when things are running relatively smoothly it is difficult to make myself get moving on it. I know that blogging about it helps me stay motivated. I feel much more brave when I blog. I miss the honest and non-sugarcoated posts of my past. So, here we go!!!

 Oh, and after months (years at this point) of complaining/whining from our beloved friends and family, we have made it easier for you to comment. You do not have to register anymore–or remember your password.

You can thank me later. :)