I'm Cheating... A little

Today is day three of my challenge to write daily for the year and I, um well, didn't.  Not officially.  So, in the sprit of the challenge I am posting today, but this wasn't written today.  This was written this year for our women's quarterly newsletter at church.  Call it a re-run of sorts...

Disco and grenades

Imagine this scene, I am a mother of three young ones, finally getting to take a much anticipated shower for the day.  I finish up, wrap up in a towel...  Wait!  Scratch that. Imagine nothing.  I will save both of us that embarrassment by just telling you the rest of the story.  Let's try this again.

Back before there were five kiddos running this place, there were just three.  A six year old and his two sisters, ages four and two.  They were good kids, but kids nonetheless and subject to fits of, "kid stupidity"; hence I never left lighters laying around, nor live grenades, etc.  Sometimes even just escaping to take a quick shower could lead to trouble, so I would leave my bedroom door wide open and take the fastest shower known to all humanity, all with one ear finely tuned to the three cherubs innocently watching PBS, downstairs in my family room.

Once clean and happy (a shower for me is like the strongest cup of java you can imagine, it is my boost for the day), I would proceed to get dressed in my room, door still standing wide open.  This took finesse.  I had to listen for said cherubs and maneuver the towel strategically while getting dressed, in case one of the kids should suddenly pop up unannounced in the doorframe.  I have always valued my privacy, even with my young ones involved, so if you will, picture the most awkward disco dancing on the planet while a towel is held to your chest with only your chin.  This is what I must have looked like getting dressed with my door wide open, trying to maintain a shred of dignity and decorum.

After about a half gazillion times of doing this, it finally dawned on me... close the door.  Yep.  Walk the whopping ten feet from the dresser to the door and close it.  It would take me nanoseconds to get dressed sans the disco dancing towel, and the children would be just fine while I did so.  After all I am a mother, and mothers can get dressed faster than the speed of sound if need be.  Just close the door.

Following this grand epiphany, I took pause.  It is just like our lives as believers and followers of Christ.  We live in a world of chaos, where sin is just waiting to pop up in the doorframe and enter our world, as we dance and maneuver behind towels to try and avoid it.  What if we just shut the door?  What if we simply did not allow all that sin and chaos into our lives and the lives of our families?  We deal with it enough on a daily basis, so why invite it in?

I don't know what may pop into your doorframe.  It may be a certain type of musical influence, or media.  It could be a relationship that could spin out of control and become inappropriate, or an influence taking you away from worshipping your Savior.  It could be weekend sports that give you no time for Sunday morning fellowship, or just one more goal to obtain that steals your time and focus from your family and friends.  My list and your list will be different, but they are both very real.  Pray about what may be influencing you in a way that is not Christ honoring.  We need to learn to shut the door on the world and simply stop hoping it will not saunter in, because it will.  No more awkward disco dancing to circumvent possible grenades.  Make the decision to just shut that door.

Day Two

I have been challenged. Challenged to do something that I love, have always wanted to do professionally, and dreamed about doing as a young child (well in between spinning as fast as I could in circles, in a vain attempt to turn into Wonder Woman; I still try sometimes, but thus far, no luck).  I have been challenged to write every day for the entire year.  Every. Single. Day.

Now the requirements of this challenge are not insurmountable.  After all, just by typing this I have met the requirements for the day, but somehow, it isn't quite enough.  I write constantly in my head.  In the shower or in the car I have "written" some thought provoking pieces (well, at least in my own mind), at night my brain works overtime forming sentences, and even making dinner while trying to block out the dull roar that is my life with five kidlets, I can be quite creative.  Yet now, with a quiet house and a keyboard at hand, my brain betrays me.

I guess that will be the norm on some days.  I want to try and carve out time that I can just write, but that may not always happen.  You might wind up getting my latest tirade on who left gerbil food in the bathroom sink (this happens more often than I can even describe), but I promise (umm no, of course my fingers are not crossed behind my back... gulp!), I will do my best to write something each day. Anything.

Now for a couple quick spins as fast as I can.  I refuse to give up that dream of the golden lasso and cool bullet reflecting bracelets.  A girl needs some bling in her life...

Home Again

Fran drags a big glass.

The frog slips in the mud.

The clam is in the grass.

I haven't written in a while, because THIS is my life lately. Fran and her big glass totally ignore the clam in the grass and the frog in the mud.  Fran is a snob.  At least in my version of the reader that my seven year old is sounding out at a slow pace.  At a staggering, mind numbingly, slow pace.  So, I have to jazz this story up in my mind, or I just. might. lose it.

I must admit that teaching children to read is lower on my "enjoyment scale" than having plaque scraped off of my teeth, stepping on Legos, or navigating my way through the back yard before the kids have picked up the all the dog bombs. I find it that painful.  So I am extremely thankful that this is my last child that needs to learn the basics of reading.  For someone who adores reading and writing, this may seem odd, but it is my reality.  I have a dear friend who was an elementary school teacher before she had children.  Teaching young ones to read is her absolute favorite educational activity.  Secretly, I think she sniffs Elmer's School Glue when no one is looking.

But alas, this is actually the life I begged for, prayed about, and coveted.  My kids are home with me again after a few years in private school and a year stint with a cyber school.  They are learning in their individual styles. We are figuring this traditional homeschooling route as we go along.  And it's all good.  Except for Fran.  Fran with her big glass, is a punk.

The Art of Touch

My nine year old was sitting at the kitchen table this afternoon, happily playing with my tablet.  I had to pass her half a dozen times in my various journeys to and from the kitchen.  After about the third time, I realized I had touched her head with my hand every single time I passed her.  She is not my little personal talisman, but she is my child, and I like to touch her sun kissed locks.

My father is a hugger, when it comes to his children.  When we were little, my dad would frequently hug my brothers and me.  Sometimes just for standing near him.  It was a little girl's greatest joy, to have her superstar daddy show affection.  My dad is a strong man, and when I was little he was even stronger, tougher, and even more rugged in my eyes.  He was just cool.  And he loved me. 

I made a conscious effort to replicate my dad in that way.  I love people.  I hug people.  There are times I have to refrain, and not hug people when I see them, because not everyone is a "hug enthusiast" (no worries, I do know boundaries, but more than likely I will be that crazy lady at the grocery store who hugs each and everyone she sees, when I am in my 90's; Lord willing).  My kids however, are fair game.  After all, they can't escape (insert evil laugh...).  I hug them constantly.  I kiss the tops of their heads.  I swoop in for the one armed "side hug", when they are just standing in a room.  I hug and kiss them goodnight.  We sit close on the couch and cuddle.  My daughters still put their heads on my lap so I can stroke their hair.  Some of the kids will still hold my hand in public.  When they cry, I hold them tightly.

So after thirteen years of employing these methods, you know what I got in return?  A thirteen year old son, who despite trying very hard to find his place in the world and be cool, will come up to his momma and put his head on her much shorter shoulder, to initiate a hug, just because.  I had braced myself for a time when he would cringe in deflection of an oncoming embrace, like he does with his sisters.  It hasn't come yet, and it may still, but so far, so good. 

I can only pray for what my father's efforts with his children produced; siblings who have no trouble dispensing affection upon one another and their parents, for the rest of their lives.  Pursue your children.  Hug them, kiss them on their foreheads, simply put your hand on their shoulder briefly as you pass by.  I promise, the dividends to come are amazing.

Where Did the Time Go?

I cannot believe I have not written here since 2012.  2012?!  Seriously?  Facebook is the death of the blogger, I do declare!

We have news, if there is still anyone here to hear me shout it from the roof tops.  This blog started as a homeschool blog, and then we switched gears after 5 years of homechooling (in the middle of fostering and adopting) to a private school family for the last four years.  Well guess what?  We are switching gears AGAIN.  I want my kiddos back.

Next year we will be homeschooling again and I am so excited.  So are the kids.  We are so happy to go back to what seems more familiar and natural for us.  I expect bumps, hiccups, and tears.  I also expect smiles, laughter, and joy.  I am so ready for this new path to begin.  More to come!

The Safe Place

Yesterday was a long day.  After dinner I headed upstairs, opened my bedroom door, walked in, and got that, "Ahhhh minute".  You know the one.

Once I am dressed for the day and downstairs, unless I am putting something away in my room, I rarely venture back in there.  I close the door to spare my, killer-clearance-price-Target-bedspread from sticky toddler hands and smelly dogs, causing the room to get the full benefit of air conditioning, and the scent of shampoo and shower gel from my morning shower.  It just mingles in there, so when you open the door and walk in... "Ahhh".  Purely wonderful.  Almost retreat like.  Nothing to do with the chaos one floor below, even if the stinky dogs follow me in (eyeballing my, killer-clearance-price-Target-bedspread).

I only had a minute to freshen up the last night before I had to run off for a meeting. So, I just stood there for a second and took it in.  It didn't matter that the chair held a basket of laundry to be folded, or that my shoes were sitting by the closet door, anxious to get in there.  It was my place.

That is what I want for my kiddos.  The ones I produced from my body, but especially the ones we adopted.  I want them to walk in the house and know that it is their place, their "safe place", and that all is right with the world when they step over that threshold.

Adoption in the Digital Age

Four score and seven years ago... okay, maybe just even a score ago, adoption did not have quite as many challenges as it does today.  "What?!", you ask.  Shouldn't it be easier now that we are in an age of instant access to information?  At the tip of your fingertips lies a million opportunities and endless amounts of information.  Yep. So, let me tell you where my dilemma lies and then you can tell me your thoughts.  Because I want to hear them.


My brain and my heart are at an impasse. 


Two of my kiddos are adopted.  We adopted them after fostering them through our county agency.  As they were foster children first, we know their families; having dealt with them during the process of possible reunification, and have somewhat of a relationship with various family members (older siblings, aunts, etc.).  Their birth mothers are not raising them for very valid reasons.  Therefore, we are not exactly meeting up for dinner, or the like.  


Our state does not recognize, "open adoption" legally.  As parents we have the right to share anything we want with birth parents, but we also have the right to do nothing. Even if we had agreed to share photos (we did not), the Commonwealth would not enforce it nor compel us to honor our word.


There are several of the boys' relatives that I really like. Older siblings, young aunts, and others, who had no control nor ability to offer respite to the boys before they went into foster care.  The fact that the boys went into foster care and later were adopted, distressed them.  They have been cordial to us and have tried to maintain somewhat of a relationship, even though none of us really know the protocol of a situation that ideally, should have never been necessary.  But it was necessary, and hence my dilemma.


I love my boys.  Adore them.  I love them as much as my biological children, with that fierce, loyal, complete, "Momma Bear Love", that only a mother can understand.  I am also quite protective of them, and probably a little more so because of their life circumstances before adoption.  


I have shared pictures with their biological families before, only to have those pictures wind up on Facebook and MySpace.  It enraged me.  That may seem a bit of an overreaction, but it really upset me, as none of those who posted the pictures had bothered to ask me.  The "Momma Bear".  A couple even just copied them off of my Facebook page (I have since changed their access to photos) and added them as their own.  So I stopped sending the relatives electronic pictures.  One of them took pictures of the hard copies I sent and posted them on MySpace anyway.  I have not sent any more, but she has been asking for them.


I have never approached these relatives with my displeasure.  It is an awkward conversation to even envision.  These are MY sons.  I have the court documents and years of raising them to prove it.  I have an obligation to protect them and their stories.  Unlike my family and friends who are interested in the lives and photos of my children because they not only love them, but because they are a part of a bigger Mr. Clean family entity, the boys' biological relatives seem to only have interest in the life that isn't.  The part of the boys' lives that were irrevocably changed when they joined our family.


None of us really have any control over our lives.  We have choices to make and reactions to circumstances to decide, but even then, until we are at an age that we can recognize this fact, someone else has to guide us along.  When you adopt a child, there is an added history to manage.  One you had no part in and one your child may or may not want a part of when they come to an age to understand it.  Because of that, I feel like I need to protect them a bit more.  I do not want their pictures plastered all over the internet without my consent.  I freely share pictures of my children, but I chose the circumstances.  I decide for all of them what is seen and who can see it, until they are old enough to make that decision on their own.  By others doing that without me knowing, I think they are stepping over the line.  I do not care if they share DNA or not.


This may sound harsh.  It sounds harsh to me, even though I have read it, re-read it, and even edited it in various ways.  There is no way I have been able to open my heart in this post to show you what I am feeling and thinking, because it comes from a place that is indescribable.  A mother's heart.


We no longer live in an age when school pictures sent to far off relatives (or biological families) wind up on the fridge for a season, then into a drawer or old photo album.  Or even the trash.  The digital age has taught us that photos now live forever and can be duplicated and sent to millions in an instant.  It makes one feel a tad vulnerable to think about your child's image being shared without your knowledge.  Even if it is without an ounce of malice.


My boys will one day have to sort out their own feelings about being adopted, their biological parents and siblings, and if they want to delve into that part of themselves.  It almost feels like a betrayal to them if I share everything about them with a family they do not know now and may not want to know in the future.  Maybe they will, and we will certainly encourage that, but until that time I feel it is my job to protect them.  There is a big difference in having your annual school picture up on Great Aunt Tilly's fridge, and special shared family moments being copied and pasted onto someone else's social network site. A huge difference.


My head wants to share these moments with the boys' biological families.  My heart wants to protect them and save them until my boys can consent to sharing them themselves.

It's The Most Horrible Time of the Year...

I know what you are thinking.  After all, THAT day in April is upon us and we have to deal with Uncle Sam and his Band of Merry Men.  But no, I am not referring to Tax Day.


A day or two ago a package arrived in the mail. My girls were positively giddy, and I wanted to throw up.  It was safe enough looking.  An innocent package, gray with dark lettering.  It was a Land's End package.  And it contained bathing suits.


Now lest you think we are extravagant people, I will just say for the record, the reason my girls were so, "over the moon" is because their bathing suits usually come from exotic places like Sam's Club, in between the dog food and the bananas, or Target, my second home.  But this year I wanted a more modest option for my chiquitas and I saw a really cute suit at Land's End that fit the bill.

The top of the suit for the girls.  I bought matching swim shorts as well.  They look adorable!

The suits were not that pricey and I loved them.  A friend had bought a similar one for her daughter and I loved that it came with shorts.  No more "yanking" when the girls come out of the pool.  A bit more coverage would help my growing girls as well.


My bathing suit was one I bought a couple years ago and is now too big.  Plus, it is a bit worn out from a couple years of daily treks to the local pool, and sadly misshapen.  It is a bit embarrassing.  So, I took the plunge and ordered one along side the girls' suits.


Now, although bathing suit shopping is certainly more private when you do it at home, it is no less terror inducing when you have to try on the blasted thing.  It was time to pay the piper.


I avoided the inevitable by joining the girls in their happy dance over THEIR new suits.  They excitedly tried them on and they looked perfect.  Of course.  On the first try.  My youngest is a petite thing and at seven years old she fit into a size 5 bathing suit.  A five.  I come no where close to that number; girl's size, ladies' size or otherwise.  My suit lay waiting at the bottom of the Land's End package like a snake in a pit, poised to strike.  I carried the offending thing up to my room and locked the door.  And then installed a deadbolt and infrared sensors, lest anyone come within 20 yards of my bedroom and witness the stand off between me and the suit. 

I pulled the pretty, innocent, thing out of the bag and looked at it.  It was a nice suit, maybe it would be kind.  Because I have a long torso and am taller (not "freakishly" tall, but tall nonetheless),

I chose a two piece (like a tankini).  It was time.  I could only stare at it for so long.  I took the plunge.  And then laughed hysterically.  Not the kind of laughter that is a form of relief from a stressful situation, but the kind you may hear, say... in a mental institution.  Which may be where they find me if I do not find a new suit soon.  Needless to say, the Land's End suit got stuffed, no rammed, back into the bag.  It will not be making the rounds at my pool this summer.  At lease not on this gal.  


It is back to the drawing board and back to searching, browsing and scouring the web for that perfect suit.  So if you see me in a suit like this one...

...and muttering to myself in between bursts of hysterical laughter, it may be best to stay on the opposite side of the pool.

Mr. Clean is Harassing Me...

Okay, so maybe that title is a bit overstating things.  A bit.  Just a little bit.  For the past few years Mr. Clean has requested a family portrait.  You know the kind.  You get all scrubbed up, put on matching white shirts and trendy jeans, haul the family to some place in the mall and smile, BIG, even thought you want to punch the photographer for saying stupid things, like... "Say Pumpernickel!  Everyone, say pumpernickel!"  I would rather have a mammogram.  

I am not sure what has turned me off of the business side of a camera.  I love taking pictures, and seeing pictures, and admiring other people's family portraits, but the thought of my own stops me in my tracks.  Probably because I have seen pictures of myself and I usually look like I want to bite someone's head off, or I pour on the cheese.  Mega cheese.  And now that I am 30 something, cheese is no longer endearing.  Nor is looking like my great grandmother in pictures from the old country.  Back when you had to wait a hour and a half for the shutter and looked like you were seriously ready to punch the photographer.  He probably said something stupid too, like, "Cha toir a’bhòidhchead goil air a’ phoit."  You know, the classic goofy mall photographer lingo.

Recently my sister-in-law had the complete gall to send us gorgeous photos of her family, taken professionally.  None of them looked like they wanted to hurt someone.  Their photographer was probably mute.  Lucky ones.  But after seeing them, guess who started talking about the lack of family photos in his house. Uh-huh.  Mr. Clean.  The big whiner.  

It made me panic for a minute, as thoughts of me reigning in five kids under hot lights, as my handsome hubby sits looking quite dapper (does anyone actually use that word anymore?), resulting in my forehead so shiny from stressing over what child is, or is not, picking their nose in public and on film, that it could be used as a solar panel, well... makes me want to hyperventilate.  And the mental image of the Mr. Clean clan in their white shirts and trendy jeans all smiling sweetly while Momma is breathing into (or drinking from) a paper bag?  Not so good.

But then the nostalgic Angel kicks in.  The one who can stare off into the atmosphere and dream of a photograph where I look like Rita Hayworth, perfect matte forehead with coiffed tresses, and a three year old who would not dare make his favorite "bad guy face" right before the flash goes off.

This makes me want to call the mall and make an appointment. Or mortgage the house and book a photo shoot with a real photographer, make-up artist, lighting specialist and stand in children who resemble my own, but without peanut butter in their ear or magic marker tattoos.  But then reality kicks in.  And I schedule a mammogram instead.  

My Problem Child

Do you have a "problem child"?  I do. And I am the problem.

During a brief Facebook conversation this morning with an awesome friend that I cherish (thank you, awesome friend), I was reminded that I am not as gentle, loving, caring or as motherly with one of my kids as I ought to be.  Which kid is irrelevant; they all deserve that kind of a mother.


Sanctus Real has a song called, Lead Me, that if you have never heard, you need to stop what you are doing and go listen to it, RIGHT NOW.  I am not kidding, I will wait....   It will give you a lump in your throat.  You know the one.  Or it will make you bawl like a three year old, like I did.  You know... the "ugly cry".  If it doesn't, come on over here and I will smack you in the back of he head for being emotionless.  Maybe that will make you cry.  Either way, the song will be "sniffling worthy". Disclaimer: You know I am just kidding about the smacking thing, right?  I would never do that to you. Unless you stole all my chocolate.  Or said mean things about Ronald Reagan.  Or hate tea.  But I digress...


The song's first verse is about the responsibility a husband has to his wife.  I was all ready to tattoo the words on Mr. Clean's forearm (with much self-righteousness) for him to read daily, when the second verse started.  To say I was humbled would be an understatement.  A puddle on the floor?  Probably a MUCH closer description.


I will not quote the entire song as you have already heard it (right? right?!), but this line was the one that was knee buckling, 

"Show me you're willing to fight, that I'm still the love of your life".  

First instinct, assign this to the hubby.  He is my best friend and the love of my life.  He has always been kind, loving, suportive and awesome.  But there are those days when you need a bit more as a wife.  Next, a brick to the head, when I could hear this plea come from my child.  That child.  To say that it applied to all of them initially would be dishonest.  It does apply to all of them, truly it does.  But for that one particular child it echoed from the mountain tops.

"Show me you're willing to fight..."

Are we?  Parenting is not supposed to be easy, we all know that, we all read the handbook.  But fight worthy?  I know I fight with my kids (because, some days I am, well... twelve years old), but am I willing to fight for my kids?


I do not mean the "momma bear" kind of fighting, which always seems to be about us anyway, but really fighting for them even when you want to sell them to the circus (please, no comments about how that is insensitive to circus folk, that was a fear of mine as a kid, although my kids would probably welcome it).

"...that I'm still the love of your life"

Kids are GREAT when they are new.  Then they grow and have opinions and start to talk and all that messy stuff.  Then they get hard.  Trust me, I have five of them and they are all hard some days. If your kid is still fresh from the cellophane and still "great", I will just smile knowingly.  Get back to me in a few years.  


Are we willing to let them know they are the loves of our life when they get hard?  When we want to pull our hair out or run away and join a rockabilly band (or is that just me?)?  When they do not feel like the loves of our lives anymore?  When it is no longer easy?


This was what I heard from that song.  And that one little face came to mind.  That little face needs me to prove to it that it is still one of the best things that ever happened to me.


Oh and Mr. Clean?  I have an appointment already made for you at the local tattoo parlor.  I promise, it will just "sting" a little.

Yep... It's you. Not them.

I got indignant this morning.  With a five year old.  Simply stating that fact means that the five year old acted a little more mature than I did.  I hate when days start out this way.


Last night I went to a ladies' Bible study held at my church.  When it comes to a Bible study at our church we study... wait for it... the Bible.  Imagine that.  No fuzzy books on living well or putting your best foot forward.  Nope, just the Bible.  So, last night we were in Acts and we were challenged to think about how we compare ourselves/actions.  Do we compare them to others, thus finding a way to "rise above" as Saul did; finding faults in others to excuse our own sin, or do we measure ourselves again the King of Creation, the Holy God, as Paul strove to do?  It was extremely convicting.  So much so, that after I was "Saul like" this morning, I was pretty embarrassed about it.  Especially as I was sizing myself up against a five year old and using his "sins" to justify my own parenting faux pas.  Frankly, laying it all out on the table like that makes me look like quite the moron.


So, in about 20 minutes when the bus rolls up I have some humble pie to eat and a five year old from whom I need forgiveness.  I am so thankful that forgiveness is free, or I would have a lot of work to do...


Until later,
Crow eating Angel

One Thought at a Time Please...

As a mother of five children I rarely have time to mutter a cohesive sentence, let alone ponder anything deeper than, say, the complex relationship between peanut butter and jelly.  But I have had a topic on my brain for the last few weeks.  It flits in and out as it pleases, and I haven't had much time to unravel it, but here it goes...


I think adopting trans-racially is easier than adopting a child that blends in perfectly to your family.  Did that just give you whiplash as you reread it, to make sure you read correctly?


This may ruffle feathers a bit and I get that.  I only can talk about what I have experienced, and again I have not taken the time to sit down and write a dissertation on this subject.  Just remember... peanut butter and jelly.  Okay, now that I have the disclaimer out of the way, I will let you into the vast space in my head that holds the millions of thoughts that float around simultaneously.


You do not know this yet, as it has been AGES since I have checked in, but I am working very part time right now as a parent trainer for our county's department of children and youth.  The county contracts me to supervise visits between children in foster care and their parents, provide training to said parents in an effort to prepare them for reunification, and offer a support to the parents.  Right now I have only one case.  My client has two children who are vastly different in their skin tones and at the last visit we got into the discussion of race and perception.  Hang on while I hop back up that rabbit trail and get back on track...


Anyway, this discussion had me reflect back to other conversations I have had with friends who have adopted and friends and family who are adopted.  Some were trans-racial (or whatever the right "PC" word is right now) and some were not.  You will never doubt that there is a story behind my two youngest sons.  You may not know the story upon meeting us, but it is extremely obvious that there is one.


A recurring theme I hear from people my age that are adopted and from friends who adopted a child who blends in (looks wise) is, "When did you find out you were adopted?  When do we tell our child that they were adopted?"  In our house, it is not an issue, as my five year old can tell you all about the day he was adopted and some of his life before that amazing day last January.  My baby however, is clueless.


We brought home our youngest son at three days old as a foster baby and he has never spent a day away from us or home since.  A year ago we adopted him and while we celebrated, he concentrated on playing with my necklace.  In his world, it was barely a blip on the radar screen.  His sippy cup had more meaning to him that day.  But there will never be a day when he will not know that there is a story to unravel.  My baby boy has beautiful caramel toned skin.  My skin is about the shade of a piece of printer paper and just about as blinding after a long winter.


Because of this obvious daily reminder that we are not matching salt and pepper shakers in my family, there is always room for conversation.  I remember one day my now five year old told me that his skin was "brown" and mine was "blank" (see? "printer paper").  I got a giggle out of it and it started a great chat about why, and how cool that it was that so many tones can make up one family.  My three older kids who are all biologically linked to Mr. Clean and I, also talk openly about adoption and fostering and all the parts that make up our world.  It is natural, because it is who we are.  But what of our story was different?


Suppose we adopted children who easily could be mistaken for sharing our genes?  Perhaps they were too young to remember being adopted and had no older siblings to tell them about it?  Would it be easy to slip into family life and avoid the topic altogether (whether intentionally or unintentionally)?  I know that happened to my peers and perhaps it was simply due to "the times", but some of them found out about their adoptions in very jarring ways.  


We will never have that question.  We will never have to decide on the right timing to have the "adoption talk". I also find it easier to talk about my boys' ethnic heritage, as their Caribbean tones greet me with each sweet smile.  It just, "is".  Their adoptions are a fact of our lives and a celebrated daily acknowledgement, simply due to the obvious differences.  And please know that I am not ignoring all the other topics that my boys may want to discuss in regard to their skin tones, I am only talking about the joy of having a transparent adoption.


And, I also know families who have always talked openly about adoption to their children who could be exact little replicas of their adoptive parents.  They made the conscious effort to make it a natural part of their world and conversations, even though it may never come up otherwise (you would not believe the "conversation starters" that perfect strangers in the grocery store think they have a right to throw out there to you).  But I know more who would rather sweep it under the rug and talk about it, "later".


I am so thankful that "later" is not an option for us.  Our adoption reality is all over our faces.  Although the big cheesy smile may have given it away already.

So, Here We Are. Now What?

A million moons ago I somehow lost my RSS feeder. It was low on my priority list to try and find it again. You know, with raising children and being a fabulous wife and all. Little things like that. So today, for some unknown reason, I was inspired to find it again and see what was happening in the blog world. Boy, are you all quiet!

Many of the blogs I used to read daily are gone. Others are not updated often, some are still active. I tried to catch up the best I could after being gone for so long. Then there was the question of my own blog. The last entry was in February. Gulp.

I love to write. I have loved it as long as I can remember. As a child I had a writing desk in my room stacked with pens and paper, notebooks and stationary. I wrote all the time. Today, I have my laptop. I rarely write anymore and I miss it. So maybe it is time to dust off the blog, crack my knuckles and get back to it. I am not sure if any of the three people that used to faithfully follow this blog are even around anymore, but regardless, I will start again.

Tomorrow.