Right now

Homeschooling as a Lifetsyle Moment:

Grades 11, 8, 6, K, & PreK

Surrendering the master {big family, small house}

When people find out how many children are in our family, they tend to make one of two assumptions:

1. That we live in a sprawling house on property,
OR
2. That we subscribe to the "stacked like cordwood" mentality and have people sleeping in closets and whatnot.

The answer, on both counts, is no.

The entire stateside Blandings clan lives in one 3 bedroom, 1500 sq ft (give or take) townhouse in your basic suburb. We have a 200(ish) sq ft backyard of our own (that opens onto a nearly 2 acre common area). We converted our garage into play space, school storage, and a pantry. And we make do.

We live here because God wants us here. Because we can afford it. And, in all honesty, because we bought this place when we were a family of 5 and it seemed like we were done.

We make do by keeping "stuff" to a minimum, aligning our priorities with our family vision, and by being very, very patient with one another. That patient part? It's usually the most important.

The biggest shock, for most people, comes when they find out that years ago, Mr. Blandings and I moved out of the master bedroom. Doing the math, it just made sense. Four boys or 2 adults? Hmmmm .... I think the four boys rate the space, don't you?

This isn't a revolutionary idea in large family circles, but seems to be rare to the point of absurd to most folks. You gave up your master bedroom? The one with the private bathroom? The one with the big walk-in closet?

Yeah. I did.

So, to satisfy the curious, here's how it looks in our house. These photos were taken on a random day to most accurately reflect the situation. Please note that there is no sweet and wonderful theme to this room. We opted instead to let each boy personalize his own little space on a blank backdrop. Note also that the only real "toys" in this room are the little guys' Lincoln Logs and trains. So while there's a book shelf full to bursting that ends up scattering its contents from time to time, the room is rarely more than five minutes away from being what passes for clean. I've done this on purpose-- it's that whole "keeping stuff to a minimum" that I talked about earlier, as well as the benefit of that garage play space.

This is the view from the bedroom door. You'll probably recognize the big set of shelves from Ikea. They hold special treasures, library books, and things that teens and pre-teens don't want their younger brothers to have. Securing that shelf to the wall beside it was one of the hardest home improvement projects ever, BUT ... the end result is that I can scale it and it won't even think of tipping. Worth the hours of frustration. 

The sides of the room are divided by personality, for sanity's sake. This side belongs to Logan (top bunk) and Oli (bottom bunk). Both of them tend to be a little more on the random, messy side ... so it's for the best that they deal with one another. The wall hooks you see under the windows are for backpacks, clothes to be put back on, belts ... whatever shouldn't be on the floor. Logan's only piece of permanent "collection" is the Pooh Bear print given to him by Benny years ago. He adores it. Right now, he also has Atticus' Moon In Your Room light (also a gift from Benny) and a whole lot of flight school stuff. Oli has wall stickers that glow in the dark. He tells them good night each and every evening.

This side belongs to Atticus (top) and Mani (bottom). As you can tell, Mani is a stickler for making his bed. And Atticus decorates with mementos of his achievements, as well as a Nepali silkscreen of Jesus given to him by Bee. Those small square windows serve as night stands, of sorts, to the older boys, allowing them to keep things nearby in the night. And that stained glass window is mine, y'all. I just don't have anywhere else to put it and it makes my heart sing when I drive up to the house and see it, so it stays there.

Behind the Ikea shelf is a small area for reading. It's also where the plastic bins of trains and Lincoln Logs are stored. Those bins will be replaced with large baskets as soon as we can find large enough options for a decent price at our favorite thrift shops. And see? I told you the place was anything but perfect. That bookshelf is embarrassing.

This shot gives you a better idea of the size of the reading area. The trains and Lincoln Logs usually don't get played with over here; they prefer the larger area under the windows. However, Atticus loves to drag his pillow down from his bed and stretch out in this spot to hang out.

Looking in the closet. Those small dressers belong to Oli and Mani, and area labelled with photos to help them keep their clothes in order. You can't see the large area to the right, which holds a small table (to be pulled out when needed for play) and Atticus' hanging clothes. Those are Logan's above the dressers.

And, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that this is also, clearly, the armory. Check the lightsaber collection!

The view from the wall with the small windows. That armoire holds Atticus and Logan's folded items. It belonged to Mr. Blanding's parents, and so is a treasured piece of family history. The door to the right of the armoire is the master bathroom, which is kept heavily childproofed (and has a childproof handle) to keep Oli safe.

So there you have it. Four boys. One room. And still enough space that no one minds sharing. 

Little learners

Too big for the baby bed ...

Seven is two and a half.

A toddler, yes. But more and more a preschooler. Every day she spots a letter or number and asks, "What does that say?" She pretends with her babies and animals and big brothers, and it is real pretend play-- the kind where things must be just right, where reality must be as closely mirrored as possible. Unless, of course, she's pretending to be something with no basis in reality whatsoever. In that case, anything goes.

Because she is, still, a toddler.

I'm so, so looking forward to homeschooling this child. Her personality, her passion, and her curiosity make me eye the Sonlight cores that have been patiently waiting in our school room with longing. To revisit so many old friends with a child already so hungry for the adventures that she finds between the pages of books will be a pleasure. She is the perfect candidate for a Sonight education. She loves to be read to, remembers every detail of every story, and asks questions about everything. Her enthusiasm, I know, will carry wiggly, wily, non-stop Mani along, and even inspire dreamy little Oli to pause and drink in what he can take of the tales.

I look at my three little ones and imagine the afternoon when Seven turns to Mani and says, "Let's play New Toes for Tia." Then I picture the day I realize that Reuven knows all the countries of Eastern Europe but cannot tie his shoes, or that Oli learns about the Civil War just because it was part of a story we read together as a family.

I look ahead and look backward at the same time. Haven't I been here before? Oh, yes, I have. Those memories are, I think, what makes the anticipation of the coming season that much sweeter. The days of Logan fiddling with Legos while I read The Great Wheel, the afternoons where Jo poked grass seeds into pots of squishy soil, the mornings with Atticus on my lap as we paged through the Egermeier Bible .... those were precious times that I hold dear to my heart-- and times that have set the stage for all of the things that have come after. The fast-forward track to midwifery. The love of music. The passion for science. The desire to pilot planes.

Mani will be five in June, Seven is two and a half, Oli six. Reuven is still a four month-old nursling. I remember so well the magic of these days-- when it was Jo who was five, and Atticus and Logan were sweet little tagalongs at three and one. I remember the idyll of those first read-alouds, the stress of worrying over whether or not I was neglecting my baby by spending so much time aiming above his head, the juggling of adding in more purposeful learning activities alongside laundry and cooking and check-ups at the doctor. I recall the rush of saying it out loud: "We're homeschooling." "She's homeschooled." "Actually, we homeschool." 

They were heady days, to be sure.

This time around, I am not incorporating something new into our family routine. Oli, Mani, and Seven have enjoyed "table time" since they were old enough to occupy the bouncy seat that has been perpetually perched on the end of our dining room table for the last 5 years or so. They have sung Bible songs nearly every weekday morning since they could manage to lisp, "Da B-Y-G-I'm me!" (Mani's first attempts at "The B-I-B-L-E."). They adore story time, be it with silly rhyming tales or coffee-table spreads of African lions. They paint, they model with wax, they look forward to sunny days when they can be rabbits and foxes on the back hill.

So, really, they're already homeschooled--by my definition at least.  But soon, they'll be ready for something entirely new to them. Something that won't feel like "school" at all, but which will expand their repertoire of imagination, excite them with glimpses into the bigger world, and ignite in them a greater love of God's creation.

I am thrilled to throw open the doors yet again for a new set of learners, even as I help my older kids find their way towards their callings. Ah, what beautifully full days!

Gotcha' Eve

Four years is 48 months, no matter who you are. But depending on what you're measuring, it can be either the blink of an eye, or an unimaginable stretch of eternity. The funny thing is that sometimes, it's both.

Sometimes, four years is forever. As in, "Oli has always been with us. When was he not part of our family?"

At other times, it seems that four years ago was just yesterday. "Has it really been that long since he first came home?'

Four years ago, I left a post-surgery Jo home with a friend and drove Atticus and Logan to a local shopping mall. I returned home with Atticus, Logan ... and Oliver. And so our new lives began. Logan became a big brother for the first time. I became the mother of four. And Oli? Oli was well and truly GOT. 


I had dreamed of a dewy-eyed, romantic Gotcha' moment like the ones I had watched over and over on YouTube. I had planned on holding back tears as my child was placed in my arms for the first time. In reality, I was handed a cranky 14 month-old past his nap time and a plastic tub of his toys in the play area in front of a Sears. I hauled the baby back to my Suburban, while my older sons dragged the plastic tub behind me. 


There were no soft-focus still moments, no swelling symphonies. Just the reality of our new family ... and I wouldn't have it any other way!


Happy 4th Gotcha' Day, little man. 

The Long Haul

I started potty training Oliver in February of 2009. His second birthday had been two months before, he seemed to be responsive to my attempts to sit him on the potty and, well ... he was already two months older than anyone else I'd ever potty trained before. 

While it was obvious that Oli wasn't developing at the same rate a neurotypical child would progress, the word "delayed" was still being used as a catch-all to explain his inability to function at the level that his age suggested. It was a full year into his inclusion in our family, and I was beginning to suspect that "delayed" didn't quite sum it all up. But truly, I was still in the dark and just plugging along with the notion that at some point, he'd catch up to his peers and his rough start would be nothing but a sad memory.


So I did what had worked so well in the past. I found a couple of t-shirts that skimmed his knees, put a potty seat in the bathroom, prepared myself to spend many quality hours reading children's literature in the john, and stripped his bottom half nekkid.


Right away, it was obvious that while Oli was more than willing to pee on the potty, he was also completely clueless about the fact that he should rearrange his habits to begin peeing there exclusively. Being totally up front and honest here, I'll say that this was a bit of a shock to me. I'd already trained 3 kids, and only one of them had had more than a handful of accidents once the diapers were gone. Go ahead and hate me, call me a liar, or quit following this blog, but it's true. I was pretty smug about it at the time ("Most of mine have quit having accidents after the first week. A month seems like a really long time.") but if you make it to the end of this post, you'll see that I no longer feel that sure of myself and my training prowess.


My most difficult trainee to date had been my son who had sensory issues, so I shifted to the tactics that had helped him make the connection. No more "Buck Rogers" as we call it in our house. Oli got some thin cotton undies for his bum, and I waited to see how long it would take for him to connect the dots that so clearly spelled out pee=wet, wet=uncomfortable, uncomfortable=I should have gone to the potty.


Four months later, we were still waiting. And you know, it was frustrating. I was playing by the same rules that had worked so effectively three times. Why wasn't the whole thing "taking"?


Meanwhile, Manolin crossed his first birthday marker. We started making motions to move to Nepal. Life was marching on ... and I still had a boy in diapers. 


Things began to feel tense. Oli was pooping in his underwear four and five times a day. He urinated constantly--not trickles, but full-on, I've-been-holding-this-but-now-I-will-let-it-go floods. My house started to smell like a public restroom. Worst of all, the bulk of my interactions with Oli felt like they revolved around pottying. "Are you dry?" "Do you need to go to the potty?" "Let's go read a book in the potty."


It was that fall, after 6 solid months of seeing absolutely no progress whatsoever, that I gave up. With a heaving sigh of what I'll readily admit was relief, I violated the cardinal rule that had served me so well with all of the other kids: Thou shalt not put a potty training kiddo back in diapers. Ever. Not even for an hour.


But I did it. I endured my own guilt, and later--as he hit his third and then fourth birthdays still wearing diapers--I began to endure the judgment of others. Family members hinted that if I weren't so busy with the other children, I would take the time to train him. Moms at the Y offered advice about what had worked for their difficult to train toddlers. Helpers in church childcare pointed out that he was the only one in his class not yet able to use the potty. 


Mani learned to use the potty six weeks before his second birthday. It took him three days. He had no more than three accidents during those days, and he was done. That was it. No fanfare, no drama ... just one more kiddo out of diapers.


Which was, of course, bittersweet. Because Oli was still cluelessly pottying in his dipe. And yet here was Mani--growing up and growing ahead of his big brother in so many ways.


Right around this time, I had the blessing of meeting a fellow special needs parent who was unabashedly frank with me regarding her experience in helping her children learn to use the potty. As a long-time foster parent and adoptive mom of many cognitively challenged children, she was a treasure trove of tips and comfort. There was no firm time frame, she assured me, but they had all gotten there eventually. Then she added, "I've never had a special kiddo start using the toilet before age 5, though. I don't know why, but that's just been how it is in our house."


I greedily snapped this little bit of information up to refer back to when the disapproval--or pity-- of others seemed especially hurtful. It became something of my security blanket. "He's not even 5! Let it go!" 

On December 1 f this past year, Oli hit the magic age. And like the folks waiting for the implosion that the dawning of the year 2000 was supposed to bring, Mr. Blandings and I held our breath ... then looked around, waiting for the punch line.


Because nothing happened. Nothing. If anything, Oli seemed to get worse--backtracking from pooping on the potty more often than not to actually waiting until we had installed a fresh nappy on his bum to produce an especially disgusting mess for us to change.


And then, just as we settled back in to the status quo, a light switch was thrown.


For no reason, no reason at all, Oli quit pooping in his pants. Just quit. Even better--he started to tell us that he had to go.


Now, this was news. Never, ever, in all those years of escorting him to the toilet, had he ever indicated a need. It had always been Mr. Blandings and I who were actually potty trained, and while we knew it, we figured it was better than just letting him think it was o.k. to use his pants at will. 


But now--now he was asking to go! And then doing the deed! We were ecstatic.


In January, things were looking good enough for me to venture a hope. Should I try it? Put him in underwear? Bite the bullet? With my husband as cheerleader, I did it. Miraculously, he was relatively accident-free within days. Two weeks in, and he was dry all day, every day, with only the occasional accident.


And now, after five weeks, I am proud to say that my son is finally potty trained! Oli is 5 years and two months old, and yes, he seems to be pretty proud of himself. He likes his new undies, and he's rather fond of the additional book time that he gets from mom when he rushes to sit on the potty. 


And me? Well ... I'm relieved. I'm thankful. And I'm a wiser woman. I feel bad for assuming that Oli could do something that clearly he wasn't ready for, but I'm at least happy that we're not the high-pressure trainer type parents who punish for accidents. I regret the amount of time I put into hurrying Oli along, and have nothing to show for it. But maybe there's some redemption in this story, after all. I'm not saying that all special needs kiddos will train around their fifth birthday. I'm not saying that there's one sure way to even get the job done. But I am saying that patience, perseverance, and grace go a long way to not centering your relationship with your child around something that truly is as mundane as knowing where to put your poop. Letting go of my preconceived notion of when the time was right helped to tear down the wall that I had unknowingly been building with my own hands.


 Oli trained when Oli was able. I hope I remember this when he tackles counting, or reading, or learning to swim. Oli does what he can, when he can. My job is just to be the cheerleading support system that helps him get there.

Fully five

... and just discovered the sheer joy of superheroes.


He's kind of a superhero to us, anyhow, so the cape is just an added touch.


HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLI!!!

Thankful

I find that the daily grind of parenting a special needs child brings with it some amazing clarity, even in the midst of so much doubt. In parenting any child, there is the daily opportunity to weigh the good, the bad, and the ugly. But somehow, in watching Oli grow in his own little fits and starts, I can rattle off a list of accomplishments far faster than I can with just about any of my other children. Why?


Because no one has ever been able to tell us if he would have any at all.


He learned to speak in two-word sentences? Wow. Great. That's better than expected.


He's walking now? Awesome!


He's figuring out how to pretend? Wondered if that was even possible, but there it is!


So today, as everyone's blog seems to focus on the big sweep of blessing in their lives, I want to celebrate the small stuff. The Oli-sized victories. The things that don't need a holiday to deserve applause. In no particular order, I present four major Oli milestones for which I am thankful:

Oli is learning some visual discrimination skills. While he still can't name a specific color with any regularity, he CAN match two similar objects with fair frequency. Way to go, Oli!

Oli is learning body awareness. Thanks to this take-home activity from his OT, we were able to see that Oli DOES know most of his general body parts, even though he can't find quite the right words or actions to let us know. But building a "mat man" gave him the chance to wow us with his ability to put those parts in the right places with only a little guidance.

Oli is figuring out that toys are a representation of real things. Up until fairly recently, Oli played with a toy truck by running it repeatedly around in circles to watch the wheels spin. He's recently made the connection between the vehicles on the road and the ones in his toy chest. Nice deduction!

The sensory stuff is easing off a bit! Oli loves to play with playdough, dry rice, and other textures that used to make his skin crawl. He's also able to seek out these activities and use them to regulate his system occasionally. This is a big improvement in his quality of life and has opened so many doors for him.

What's on your "thankful list" today?

Gentle

We've reached the stage where people have no idea what to make of Oli. He doesn't talk intelligibly--or at least not the way that a boy just weeks prior to his fifth birthday should. He doesn't maintain eye contact, engage, or ask questions. His play is repetitive, often little more than the imitation of a routine act like tying his shoes. He doesn't understand the concept of personal space. Sometimes, he stares blankly into the air, and even when you call his name he doesn't snap from wherever he is back to the reality of now.


This makes people--children, adults-- uncomfortable. They ask him questions, wait for answers, then fidget and look slightly embarrassed when nothing comes. They smile at him and seem slightly put off when he does not immediately smile back. They finally tend to look just past him, or avert their eyes altogether and settle on one of the children who seems able to meet these minimum human standards.


People don't know what to do with folks like Oli who just don't fit into our notion of what it is to be a man, woman, or child of a certain age, or certain standing. Mental illness, cognitive difficulties, processing disorders ... these things make the general populace squirm, I have found.

The funny thing is, animals have no such qualms. If I had a dime for every puppy that bounded a ten feet out of its way to throw itself into Oli's lap, or every horse that patiently let my little man nuzzle into its neck, or every rabbit that stood stock still to let Oli stroke its long back ... well, I'd be rich.


Oli is gentle with animals. He connects with them on a simple, mutual level. There is an ease about him when something small and fuzzy settles into his lap. It's not something that I see when he mashes his play-doh in frustration, trying so, so hard to mold it into the same ball he sees Mani mastering with ease. It is something else. Something instinctual and yet profound.

With animals, Oli can simply be. They don't ask him questions that he can't answer, or rate his performance based on a set of skills he can't comprehend. They don't look at him funny when he flaps his arms or covers his head and shrieks for no reason. All they ask is that he doesn't tug too hard at their vulnerable spots, or squeeze in places that hurt. If he does either of these things, they will shy and he will be left empty-handed. No more stroking of velvet fur. No more warm, sweet snuggles. No more rough tongue lapping at your wrist.


Oli gets this.


And the animals get him.

It's good to be accepted and loved, no matter how small the creature offering you its trust.

The miracle

Days go by without much to note in Oli's world.


Breakfast is still called "breakfast," or "lunch," but never dinner, because, well, no meal is called "dinner."

There is toilet time afterwards, where Oli (5 years old in 6 weeks) sits, unsure of what may or may not happen. We sit until the stack of picture books is exhausted, or until Mani bangs on the door demanding to use the facilities, which ever happens first.


Songs are sung at preschool Bible time, and Oli knows many words by heart. His toneless voice can't hide his joy as he flings his arms in the air and performs the hand signs. This is his favorite point in the day, I am sure. He can't tell me this vital bit of information, but a Momma just knows this kind of thing.


The teenage girl reading his favorite book to him is adored, but he has no idea what her name is. The two older boys who flounce around this place are both called "Logan." When corrected, a dull, "Oh," is all he offers.


The same skill is practiced over and over until it seems old hat. And then, magically, it disappears. Oli shows no frustration, only bewilderment. I bite the inside of my cheeks and pray hard, harder, hardest.

There are therapies, small motor skills, flashcards, speech exercises, physical activities. There are food allergies to navigate and boo-boos to kiss and short, Oli-sized explanations about everything he encounters, in case this is the moment when the world opens up and he grabs onto something and doesn't let go.


There are always sweet bedtime sighs and a contended, blissful relaxation as he snuggles deep into the jersey knit sheet that he has claimed as his sole property. There is a prayer that he repeats but does not understand.


And then the lights go out, and the day is over. Tomorrow will be exactly the same. Two steps forward, perhaps. Three steps back, most likely. But still, another day. Another chance for a miracle.

Some days, we get those miracles. Full sentences. Abstract thoughts. Questions that poke at deeper places. A shred of a song sung at random that hasn't been heard in months.


These are the moments that keep me going, keep me giving, keep me chasing the spark behind those brilliant blue eyes.


Today, we had a miracle. Today, Oli walked through the kitchen while I stood measuring out tablespoons of his special wheat-, dairy-, and egg-free cookies dough onto the waiting tray. He paused, craned his neck back to see what I was doing, then grabbed my left knee impulsively. I was slightly caught off guard. Oli rarely shows  any unsolicited emotion, let alone such enraptured joy. 


Then he whispered, "I wush you, Mommy," into the folds of my skirt, and walked away.


I wush you, Mommy.


Be still my heart.


Tomorrow I will spend precious time making a special batch of allergen-free goodies to tide Oli through the rest of the fall baking season. Hours will be poured into pottying, reading, laboriously coaxing him through countless tasks that might--maybe--serve him as he grows. I will remind him yet again of Seven's name, not to bite Mani, to stop banging his head on the glass door. And I will do it with a lighter step, a cheerful heart, and renewed optimism.


Because today, I saw the miracle. I wush you, Mommy. It goes a long, long way.

Special

"Your little brother is retarded."

"Huh? Which one?"

"The really short one."

"Manolin?"

"No, no. The other one. The one that doesn't grow. My mom said he's retarded."

"Oh, Oli. He has special needs."

"He's retarded."

"You keep saying that. Is it supposed to mean something to me?"

"Duh. Your. brother. is. retarded."

"Maybe. But at least he's not rude."

"Well I'm not coming down here to play with any retarded kids."

"That's alright. I think we'd rather play with Oli anyhow. You should probably go and find some really smart kids to play with. Kids who value intelligence over, say, manners, huh?"

Jo, you make this momma proud. And to think ... I worried what having a special needs child might mean to my other, neurotypical kids. Turns out that what it means is compassion, day in, day out. Compassion and love.

Why do we call them the Wonder Twins?

That's why.

The hindsight post

I am not an expert on adoption. I am not an expert on foster care. The only thing I can even remotely claim to be an expert on is being me and, frankly, sometimes I don't even do that too well.


But I am an adoptive mom. And I am a licensed foster care provider. I guess that gives me some standing as maybe knowing something about the whole process. Well, our whole process., whatever that's worth.

People ask me quite regularly for advice on adoption and/or foster care. I completely understand, because I was the same way for months before we submitted our very first agency application. I voraciously gleaned details of what to expect and what kind of paperwork chase we were in for. Most importantly, I longed to see pictures and hear tales of those fateful first meetings. Nothing filled my heart like a video of stills set to rising music, a toddler placed in a teary-eyed Mommas arms, a proud Daddy cradling his new child with that vaguely uncertain but bursting-with-love look in his eyes. Posts elaborating flight plans, chronicling social worker visits, or outlining the time frame for bringing a new child home were my manna in those early days. Simply put, I lived vicariously, knowing, just knowing, that one day, that would be me.


And it was. All of a sudden, there was Oli. Within months, we were welcoming Mani. The hits on my sitemeter confirmed what I already knew about us hopeful adoptive folks: we hunger for glimpses of what our hearts desire, and drink in each placement, referral, and finalization with gusto knowing that there, with the grace of God, we go also.


Nowadays, I am the giver of information more often than the seeker, even though not even a year sits between the issuing of my boys' new birth certificates. I get emails on a fairly regular basis from people just starting out on their journey. They want tips on agencies. They want my thoughts on the process. They want fundraising ideas. 


But most of all, they want to know this:

If you knew then what you know now, would you still do it?

The answer is yes. With my whole heart. Yes. I can no more imagine waking up in the morning and having Oli and/or Mani erased from my life and my heart than I can imagine growing wings and flying. Yes. These are my boys. My sons. The ones that God intended for my family from the beginning of time. It was worth it. All of it. Completely, utterly worth it.


Folks who are smart ask deeper questions, things that are both uncomfortable and yet, on a heart level, more telling. The other day, I received this one:

You have said that Oliver has some pretty intense special needs. Can I ask if you ever regret adopting him? Be honest.

Be honest? Sure.


Have you ever heard that saying, "Love the sinner, hate the sin"? I admit that I never really got it. Yeah, yeah ... you can separate a person from their actions, but then what? What's left? The whole idea seemed somehow trite and, well, religious to me. Not Christ-like, but religious--simply a little saying thrown out to excuse that bitter taste in one's mouth.


Then we met Oli.

The very first moment I laid eyes on the little boy who was meant to be mine, I felt a knee in the gut. Why? Because it was obvious--so terribly, glaringly obvious--that he had been alcohol-exposed. Behind his beautiful blue eyes and written all over his sweet, pale face were the landmarks of FASD. I knew it. Mr. Blandings knew it. Our social worker, who had held our hands through the "shalts" and "shalt nots" of our placement preferences, knew it. 


As we walked away from our initial meeting, the feel of Oli's little body still fresh in my arms and the reluctant, heart-broken smile of his aunt still frozen in my mind, our social worker asked, point-blank, "So ... he has FASD. Are you guys still interested?"


We said yes, of course. Even though we knew what we were signing on for. Even though we had read enough to be not just scared, but terrified. Even though we had checked all of the red boxes that declared us unwilling to say yes to a child exposed to alcohol. We said yes. 


From that day forward, I have learned what it means to "love the sinner, hate the sin." I adore Oli. Love him in ways that only a vulnerable, innocent little one can bring out in a Momma, to be honest. He has my heart in ways that the others don't need to. He is fragile. He is sweet. He loves to be loved.


But the FASD? The FASD I hate. I hate that someone weighed her own fleeting pleasure against my son's future mental health on a scale and decided to pick up a drink. I hate that my boy chews board books, can't keep his siblings' names straight, is unable to have playdates in the homes of others without major stress on everyone's part. I hate that I watch Mani and Seven like a hawk, fearing that FASD will overrule the bits of reason that shine through and cause someone real harm. 


I love Oliver. I hate FASD.


So do I regret adopting him? No. No, I don't. Because while Oli has FASD, he is not FASD. They are separate, and emotionally, I keep them that way. It's a struggle. And I know that it always will be. But I cannot for a moment think that God didn't bring Oli to us. So no, I don't regret adopting him. I celebrate it with all of my heart.


Another question:

Do you ever wish that you could go back and have your family the way it used to be again?

The day before we picked Oli up for good, I sat at my desk for my mid-afternoon writing time. The house was silent. Jo was in her bedroom, sleeping off her post-tonsillectomy pain meds. Atticus and Logan were also in their room, quietly reading or playing with Lincoln Logs or whatever they did to keep themselves occupied. I looked at the clock as I hit send on this post, and I nearly burst into tears. Two hours. I had been sitting, sipping tea, enjoying my warm fuzzy slippers, warm in my little happy place for two hours. Oh, how I loved that time. Loved it. Craved it. Needed it. It was my daily respite from the busy-ness of life.


And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was giving it up. I was going back to the land of nap times and cranky toddlers and "he's getting into my stuff!" Could I really do this? Did I really want to do this?


There was also the realization that we were permanently, for better or for worse, shifting the sibling dynamic in our home. And asking Logan not to be the baby anymore. And ...


The list went on and on. I was nearly crippled with doubt for the better part of an afternoon. Happily, just before dinner time, I pulled myself together and revisited my prayer journal. I poured over my petitions for the past few years and remembered what it was that had called me--us--to adoption in the first place. And I found peace.


Since then, I can honestly say that I have never longed for "the good old days." Part of that, I guess, is the realization that regardless of the number of people in our family, or who those people are, we can never go back to those days. Even without Oli and Mani, Jo, Atticus, and Logan would not be themselves at 5, 7, and 9 today. They would be themselves at 13, almost 11 and almost 9. Different without the influences and experience of the past few years but no, not who they once were, regardless.

So what about you? Are you an adoptive parent who fields curious questions? Are you a hopeful adoptive parent who wants to know what it might feel like on the other side? Feel free to share in the comment section of via email.