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. :)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about just how infertile I really am. Distance and time from pregnancies, as well as recent conversations with friends, have helped me gain additional perspective on this topic. My conclusion is that even though I am medically and technically labeled “infertile,” I am SO not infertile. Let’s review:

4.5 Years of trying

4 miscarriages

1 ectopic pregnancy

1 partially blocked right tube

1 misshapen uterus

And still I could most likely have a successful pregnancy, if I really wanted to. I think I have a few issues related to fertility, but compared to those I consider truly infertile, my journey has been a walk in the park. I believe the badge of infertility should only be given to those who have truly earned it. It is a laborious and heart-breaking trial to endure. And I don’t think it is proper or fair for me to categorize myself along side women I know personally, and from a distance, who have endured and struggled for a decade or longer with no results. I have decided to give myself 10 faithful years of trying before I categorize myself as a true infertile.

In my very humble opinion, one-two-three-four miscarriages does not deserve the badge. Neither does a few years of trying. Do you know what makes me truly insane? Here’s a list:

Pregnant teenagers. Women who try and “relate” as they sit next to you with four little bio munchkins on their lap, the diaper give-a-way and expectant mother sign-in sheet in Relief Society. Overstatements of how long someone has actually been trying. Overstatements of how many miscarriages someone has had so that their struggle seems greater than it really is. Young married girls who think they are infertile after only being married six months or so with “no success!!!”

I could go on, but it is Christmas. I am grateful that I have wonderful examples around me like Jessica and Lisa and others. Jes has been my friend for 25 years now. She has seen it all on the fertility front the past ten years, as she has struggled to become a mother. And she remains a pillar of strength for those of us just beginning this unchosen journey. This Christmas season I am grateful that her son Georgie (in heaven) finally has a little brother to fill his mother’s empty arms. An adoption miracle, truly!!! Tis the season.

Fall is my most favorite time of year…sipping hot chocolate, crunching leaves beneath my feet, the feel of brisk air on my face. (I know, I live in Las Vegas–but a girl can live in her memory, right?) It is a truly glorious time of year, in my opinion. November, however, is difficult for me. This November is the third anniversary of my very first due date. In other words, it is the third “birthday” of our first miscarriage. I don’t really remember due dates and the like of other pregnancies. But the first one, I do. And, as both a good friend and sister have boys that turn three within a month of my first due date, I will always be reminded. 

This November has been especially hard. Now, I’m not talking about the crying every day, not able to function, sinking into a black hole kind of hard. :) It is just that last Thanksgiving weekend we conceived our fourth and most recent unborn baby. (kudos to Brianhead, UT–tmi, I know) It was a wonderfully relaxing weekend with friends–full of hot chocolate, fireplaces, and games–a favorite memory of ours. And since it is a favorite memory, I think of it often. So this November I not only thought of our first little guy, but also our fourth. What else happened this November? Umm, best friend #1 finally ”announced” and started to “show” (for which I am very grateful–you know I am). Best friend #2 lost two more potential adoption referrals–reminding me once again how unfair this world really is. And, on the very day that I happened to unpack a box, which housed a few items that I actually saved from the nursery (a blessing blanket, little “I love daddy” booties, and a giraffe picture that I can’t seem to part with) I got a phone call from another friend with “the news.” Actually, Adam had to come home early and rescue my sanity after that one. I was in a puddle of tears with no end in sight.

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Phew! I am really glad this November is over. I am so grateful for Danny, Ezzy, Nikki, and Wompy. They bring me much joy. I know I posted these pics on the family site, but I can’t resist their adorableness. And as Marisa’s daughter, Lainey, said–they really are starting to look like us, don’t you think?

Adoption is not the same. It is not the same as creating life. I know there are many people who disagree with that statement. But for me, it is truth. My belief system holds that I was put here on this earth to gain a body, find joy, and have children. Okay, that is really oversimplified, but still true. I never thought this adoption would fill the hole inside of me that longs to bring forth life. I never once thought that when we finally brought our kids home my fertility woes would somehow disappear…that the past 4-1/2 years of disappointment and loss would “be healed.” I always knew there would be an emptiness inside of me regardless of the adoption miracle of which we are a part.

And even still, I hoped. I hoped that our four children would fill my empty arms. I hoped that somehow I would no longer be jealous of my friends’ growing bellies. I hoped that my intentions of grace and goodness would overshadow the loneliness and isolation infertility inevitably brings.

But to be painfully honest, that has not happened. In fact, just the opposite has occurred. I find myself a bit sullen when I hear friends talking about their pregnancy plans. Because, you see, they can do that. They can decide if and when and how they will have a baby. They can decide when to “start trying” so that it fits in perfectly with their summer vacation or their debt payment plan or any other topic they decide to plan around. And sure, there is risk involved with every pregnancy. Miscarriage is a very sad and unfortunate side-effect of our imperfect mortal bodies. But the risk is much less for them.

A well-meaning adoptive mother wrote a beautiful letter to me outlining her experiences with pregnancy and adoption just before we left for Bogota. I thank her for sharing so openly. She wrote, “…The thing that (name removed) really taught me is that pregnancy is not that big of a deal. That you love your bio kids the same as you love your adopted kids. That color or blood- ties really do not matter. Pregnancy, nursing, babies, are soooooo temporary, they are gone in a blink, but motherhood is eternal. Being a mother is what matters…………………….The hope that once your children are home and settled and healed, that you will love them so much that you would not want to be a mother any other way. You will actually be glad that you had infertility because it gave you your children. You will be glad that it cost so much and took so long because it helped you appreciate them all the more….”

Unfortunately, I do not feel the same way. I believe that pregnancy is a VERY big deal. If God gave me the power to procreate, how can it not be? If this world ran as it should, there would be no orphans. There would be no need for adoption. There would be no need of rescue. So I disagree. I wish desperately that I had given birth to these four angels that bless our home. I wish that I had been with them since birth. I wish that they did not endure the things they did while waiting for someone to love them. I will always wish that they had come to me another way. And I find no shame in admitting that. I will never be grateful for the $45,000 we just spent to adopt. The suffering of infertility is enough for me to appreciate them. And being a mother is what matters. That much is true. But for me, as the person I am, I will always wish for the experience of bringing life into this world.

I believe my trial will always be to find joy and light in the suffering of infertility. I was sitting in church yesterday thinking of a couple of friends who are on their way to being pregnant, and I got “that feeling.” You know, the feeling that screams out…”I won’t like her baby, I don’t think I can look at her belly in five or six months, I can’t visit her in the hospital–it’s just too painful.” And then I pulled myself back into reality. The thought came to me that Jesus Christ loves me more than the pain he felt during his sacrifice. He could have said, “Oh, it’s too painful. I’m going to stop now.” We all know he wanted to. He cried out for his Father’s help. But he continued on and followed through because he loves me. Well, I love my friends and my sisters. And their joy is more important to me than my pain. People ask me how I do it sometimes. And that is how. Sometimes I lose focus. But I am trying to be better. And focusing on the Savior’s example helps remind me that I have so much to be grateful for. I have four really awesome kids now. I hope that they will someday help heal my heart. But it is not yet.