Stockings, revisited

One for each child born thus far ...

Some days, what it takes to bring you around to counting your blessings is realizing how far you've come.

This morning, I woke up a touch peevish. (O.k.-- full disclosure: I woke up irritated and grumpy and completely unimpressed with the fact that I am still pregnant.) I came downstairs to a puppy whining to be let out her kennel to go potty, a teenage daughter nearly in tears with pain from yesterday's orthodontic appointment, a husband trying desperately to figure out how to juggle a hot iron and a breakfast casserole at the same time, and stinking low blood sugar. None of this was a recipe for A Very Good Morning, and it sure wasn't looking up in the A Very Good Day Overall department, either. By the time I managed a cup of (mostly cold) tea, the entire brood was downstairs sharing this not-to-stellar morning together. Loudly.

I freely admit it-- there are moments when the large family thing is mildly controlled chaos. Where you look around and ask yourself what on earth you were thinking, even considering parenting a kid ready for Driver's Ed and another who pretends to be an elephant half the time-- not to mention the many others who fall in between. Moments where you ask yourself why on earth you have kids in the same developmental stages, or why you ever thought that a three bedroom house could handle the amount of living that a Momma, Daddy, passel of kids, and 2 dogs dish out. 

These are the crazy-making moments. And while they are few and far between, they are there, and they are real. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying--and I say that with love. Mostly.

In those moments of realizing just how insane it really is to live this life, I almost always find that God drags my attention back to the big picture with some irrefutable proof of his desire to do me good, not harm. This morning was no exception. Just as I felt myself starting to go Grinch, just as the noise, noise, noise, noise started to make my shoes just a little too tight, I saw them.

The stockings.

You see, years ago, I pined over stockings. Arms aching, I posted about how blessed I was to have six stockings on our mantle: one each for Mr. Blandings, myself, Jo, Atticus, Logan, and our beloved German Shepherd. But still, I wanted more. My heart was heavy with unanswered loss and open-ended anticipation. I was ending yet another year with a heavy desire for more, and no real answer as to how or when that more would turn into yes.

As we close out 2012, I turn my eyes not to my mantle (the stockings are now too numerous to fit there) but instead to the space just above our well-loved piano. Seven stockings hang there now, just one more than before. But ... 

The first is for Bee, who has never spent a Christmas with us, and whose absence haunts our hearts, but whose love is never far from our minds.

The second is for Jo, who has blossomed into a fine young woman and whose Christmas mornings under our roof now feel so very, very numbered.

The third is for Atticus, a nearly unrecognizable ManCub, who is growing far too fast.

The fourth is for Logan, still, thankfully, a silly, joyous boy intent on living life to its fullest.

The fifth is for Oliver, our much-anticipated more baby, who I never take for granted.

The sixth is for Manolin, the little guy I never saw coming, but who filled a space in our family clearly empty for so long.

The seventh is for Seven, the cup overflowing blessing baby girl.

And next year ... another stocking. Another baby. Another blessing.

No room for stockings for Momma and Daddy. Definitely no stockings for dogs to round out the numbers.

Seven children, seven souls, seven people in whom to delight.

I'll take that over silence any day.

Nesting

Things are looking more promising.

Officially off bed rest, I now find myself in the irksome limbo of "Haven't you had that baby yet?" 

The simple answer is no, I have not had that baby. Yet.

But I take great comfort in the fact that I will. Soon, even.

Sometime in the next few weeks, I will find myself grinding through the terrible, wonderful work that is labor, and will spend a few last minutes in questioning awe, waiting to meet the new soul the Lord has entrusted to us. And then he or she will finally emerge, and I will stare in fascination at this person and wonder how it is that I have managed to live 38 years on this earth without knowing this face.

This is the amazing truth of being witness to a miracle: when all is said and done, you can't remember life before it, and life after its advent will never, ever be the same.

Six

Oli, age 6

The worst thing about bed rest is the stuff you narrowly get to be a part of. Participating-- on a limited, slightly removed-- basis from life is somehow more maddening than not bearing witness at all, I think. From the couch, I tell Logan how many potatoes need to be scrubbed and added to the crockpot. From the couch, I remind Seven that it is time to potty. From the couch, I walk Jo through a recipe she's never tackled. I am here. My voice is within reach, I am present and accounted for, and yet ...

I have not rocked my baby girl, felt her head nuzzle into my neck, and sung her bedtime songs in nearly two weeks. I did not bake this year's first batch of holiday shortbread-- that honor went to Jo, who did a masterful job. I did not run up to help Atticus with his math conundrum. I am not washing up the baby diapers and getting them ready for our next sweet blessing.

And I did not put Oli to bed last night, or peek in on him as he lay sleeping, or hang his birthday streamers, or set up the display of birthday gifts. Others stepped in to fill those roles, and for that I am grateful, but also sad. Because, you see, my little man turned six today ... and I feel like only half a Momma right now.

It's probably (most likely) hormones. Or the inevitable "Another baby! How will I do it all?" feelings that sweep over me as I inch towards the moment when our family adds another soul to its circle. Or maybe it's the swirl of complicated emotions that we adoptive Mommas so often feel as we contemplate the rich road of brokenness, grace, and redemption that is simply unavoidable on the days which celebrate births we did not endure, yet somehow became our own. 

At any rate, Oliver is six years old--and while I had a bit more involvement in the marking of the day than I had during his actual birth, I feel so wistful, such longing for more that I can barely look into his shockingly blue eyes without tearing up. He has had a fabulous day, one that truly couldn't have been any happier had we dropped him part and parcel into a candy store. He is delighted that this day is about him, and that finally, finally it is his birthday. He cannot tell you how old he is (we're working on that) but he does know the birthday song, and is quite delighted that everyone puts up lights on their houses just for him. Truly, the Lord placed this boy's birthday exactly at the right time of year.

So happy birthday, precious Oli. May this year bring you much joy, growth, happiness, and delight. And may you never forget that, even though your Momma has seasons of frailty, the Lord who created you never does.

Bed Wrest

The new view from here.

I stepped into last week with the expectations of things going pretty much according to our new norms. There were two nonstress tests (NSTs) scheduled. A maternal/fetal medicine consult. An ultrasound to check amniotic fluid levels. My weekly progesterone injection. A day of Lego Robotics for the big boys. A possible outing to visit our local children's museum. Oh-- and a holiday.

Less than twenty-four hours into the start of the week, it was very clear that my plans were not God's.

At my NST on Monday, the machines picked up fabulous fetal movement and heart rates. The baby looked great, the nurses told me. But there was one little problem. In twenty minutes of charting, I had five decent, sizable contractions. 

Oops.

A quick check of the amniotic fluid Baby is swimming in found it lower than the week before, but still within the realm of ".... yeah, we'll just keep an eye on that."

From there, it was off to Triage.

And that was where my plans for the week-- for the next three weeks, actually-- were completely derailed. 

Too much dilation, too much effacement, and too many doses of heavy meds designed to stall pre-term labor followed. I feel blessed that I only spent one night in the hospital, and am now sitting on my own couch, baby still safely inside, wiggling and kicking and reminding me every moment that the goal is one more day, one more day.

Still, you can't be the mother of a large brood  and not find bed rest somewhat limiting. I can knit to my heart's content-- and have quickly learned how to do so on my left side. I can address Christmas cards, fold laundry, edit our nonprofit's newsletter, read countless stories, play tea party, cuddle with the puppy. But I can't make dinner, bathe little bodies, help find a lost necklace, wipe dirty bottoms, put away groceries, make snacks.

I've been forcibly wrest from many--most-- of the duties that normally fall into the "mom" category.

Everyone here is stepping up beautifully. We had a gorgeous spread at Thanksgiving, thanks to Mr. Blandings and Jo. Mr. Blandings has taken on coordinating with friends for meals and running the ship in every other way. What I can see of the house is neat and tidy, thanks in no small part to Logan, who has taken it upon himself to be the clean-up crew. Jo made the traditional holiday kick-off shortbread yesterday, and it smelled heavenly. And Atticus has learned more about laundry in the past four days than I think I knew when I went off to college.

We've had no attitudes, no bickering, no rolling eyes. Just cooperation and a general spirit of "Let's get this done, guys" that is pretty typical for my crew. The difference this time is that it's not just casual helping. This is a real season of real need. This is, "Look, I need you to basically be a grown-up right now. I need you to put what you want aside and do the hard stuff. Can I count on you?" And the answer, the one that I always hoped I'd hear when the chips were down, has been a resounding "I'm part of this family. I'm all in."

Our goal at this point is to keep Baby Blandings inside until December 10. In some moments-- like when I think of all the Christmas sewing I'm not doing, or how heartbreaking it's going to be to miss out on the trip to the tree farm-- it seems so very far away. In other moments-- like when I count down the days until we wake up on Christmas morning-- it seems frighteningly close. There are newborn diapers to wash up, a cradle to ready, a car seat to wipe down, meals to freeze.

And here I am. On my left side, watching the fire in the fireplace, listening to the puppy snore, counting stitches as I knit, waiting for the family to return from church.

In any case, this is where I find myself. Still grateful that God has this. Very grateful that I am not on a constant magnesium sulfate drip (oral meds are much, much easier to stomach!) or, far worse, spending my days in a NICU ward. Biding my time. Waiting. Feeling grateful for the blessing of the people around me. And anticipating good things to come.

The view from here

Belly, anyone?

I am roughly 32 weeks into the physical journey towards this baby. While I can't say that I've embraced this pregnancy with the same awe-struck enthusiasm that I felt with Seven, I have still found things to relish. Late-night wiggles. Listening to the reassuring thwip-thwip-thwip of the heartbeat on the doctor's doppler. Watching my abdomen grow and fill with new life. The joy that each of the children has had in preparing to meet this new little person. Lounging in bed with my beloved and giggling with each other over how this baby likes to poke and kick him squarely in the kidneys. The amazement that, once again, I get to be the vessel that brings a new person into this world.

Sadly, the balance has tipped slowly towards more negative than positive. About a month ago, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. While that certainly hasn't been the worst thing to ever happen-- and doesn't even register on the "tragedy scale"-- it's been a hump of feeling yucky, balancing meals for a family and myself, and learning that sometimes, medication is the only way to go (which is hard for a natural-loving Momma like me). Just as I settled in to a place of peace in riding out the last few weeks before we meet this wee one with a couple of bottles of pills and a glucose monitor at my side, I got the less-than-encouraging news that my blood pressure is a tad too high, the amniotic fluid is a tad too low, and by the way, we really need to keep a closer eye on this baby. Twice a week, to be exact. And you should have childcare lined up for an emergency delivery on those days. Just in case.

Normally, I'd put up a bit of a fight here. I'm a huge advocate for myself in the area of health care. I know my body. I know how it performs. I know how I feel. And frankly, I am not reckless. I don't take risks on a whim. Those things that the establishment does see as risky behavior on my behalf (no IV during labor, no drops in my baby's eyes post-birth, passing on the hospital-recommended vaccinations before discharge, etc.) are born from calculated, careful education on both my behalf and Mr. Blandings'. There are some hills I am willing to die on, medically speaking. 

This time, though, I have peace.

Absolute, stunning peace. 

Really--considering that 24 hours ago I was sitting in on my second maternal/fetal specialist consult in three weeks, I'm doing fine. My labor and delivery might look nothing like what I have experienced in the past. I am becoming a greater and greater candidate for a c-section. My baby will need to have his or her blood sugar tested frequently during what will probably be a slightly extended stay. I may be whisked off to deliver with no warning after one of my twice-weekly non-stress tests and fluid checks. 

And I feel pretty good about it all.

Call me crazy, but my motto this entire pregnancy-- from the shocking realization of its existence to the less-than-stellar health record I am currently enjoying-- has been "God's got this." And if you've read my past few posts since coming back to the bloggy world, you know that I wrestled with this stance mightily this summer. 

But this ... this feels like God's hand. It feels like God's comfort. And it most certainly feels like God's careful working out of His plan.

So God has this. He has me. He most certainly has this baby. So the view from here-- clouded though it is by specialists and appointments and tests-- is pretty darn beautiful, after all.

The road to Philly, pt. 1

Oli enjoying a summer outing.

Asking God for clarity, I have learned, is nearly as dangerous as asking him for patience. Unless you are really, truly, ready to have yourself smacked upside the head with it, well ... don't go there.

Mr. Blandings and I have been asking-- no, begging-- the Lord for a vision for Oli unclouded by our hopes, our dreams, our shortcomings, our thoughts. Lord, just give us clarity. Who is this little man? What do YOU want for him? What are we to do, as his parents, to lead him to where you want him to go?

Yes, we pray these things for all of our kids. But with Oliver, I'll be honest, the path has seem more muddled and less sure than I'd like to admit. What does one teach a little boy just weeks away from his 6th birthday who cannot remember his sibling's names? How does one handle an elementary-aged child who regresses from even the simplest of acts (like remembering how to stab food with a fork) with seemingly no warning? And what on earth do you dream of for your child when so many of the "norms" seem unattainable on the worst of days?

While some seasons of parenting Oli have found us with our eyes set firmly on the positives ("Look! He's using the potty!" "Did you hear that? He said a sentence with four words!"), this past summer was a low spot that left us grasping for straws and leaning heavily on the fact that while we felt completely and utterly unprepared for the job at hand, we knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God had no such doubts about us and was fully expecting that, with His help, we would find a way to be the parents our special little man needs.

Some days, our prayers for clarity were quiet, hushed whispers as we watched beautiful scenes of blossoming unfold in Oli's life. Other days, they were agonizing cries as we fought hard to maintain patience and perseverance. But always, they were there. We ran like jackrabbits many days, pursuing new tests, specialists, therapists ... anyone who might give us insight into where God wanted us to be. And those days, we felt like we were doing something. Like we might just find the magic pill after all. Like God was going to show up in a white jacket and hand us the answer in the form of a prescription.

And then came the day that God answered. 

It was a gorgeous day, but one that had most certainly not found me at my best as Oli's mom. We had driven to Seattle Children's for yet another appointment, fighting hellacious traffic at an hour when both of us wanted nothing more than to be on the couch reading Curious George books. Oli responded to the stress by kicking me firmly in the forearm as I struggled to get him into his carseat, and then offering me his newest defense mechanism when things are not going his way: "I don't like you!" (I have never had another of my children say this to me, and it cuts me to the quick every time.) Mr. Blandings, at home with the rest of the crew, called me no fewer than three times on the drive to tell me that Seven had flooded her training pants, Atticus had lost his Teaching Textbooks math disk, and Mani seemed to have a fever.

And this was the day God chose to give me clarity?

After the long drive, I found myself shaking the hand of the endocrinologist. After his latest round of neurodevelopmental assessment, Oli had been referred through the matrix of medical offerings at Children's. Audiology for his hearing. Cardiology to double check the valve that had once been wonky. Hematology for more tests than you can shake a stick at. Radiology for diagnostic scans. And endocrinology to perhaps figure out why, once and for all, he is the size of a very small 3 year-old even at almost 6.

The endocrinologist met us in an exam room, a huge file at her side and a computer screen full of graphs regarding my son in her face. She clicked a few times, scrolled, then finally made eye contact.

"So, we met as a board to discuss Oliver's file."

"Oh," was all I could say. A board. Interesting.

"And we've looked at his thyroid testing, and his cognitive scores, and his iron levels, and the bone scans. All the testing you've been doing the past few months."

"Uh-huh."

"And, we, well-- we can't help you. There's just nothing here that indicates anything at all that we can do. Medically, I mean."

As if on cue, Oli crawled into my lap from his spot beside me on the narrow little bench we shared. His feathery weight in my arms kept my head from spinning, but only so much. 

Because there it was, in plain black and white. In angering, full disclosure, I finally had the truth spelled out for me: There is nothing they can do. 

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I expected a great many answers from God, but this was not one of them. If Oli had lead in his blood, had low iron, had a genetic something that we could point to and say, "There's the issue," then I would have been relieved. If someone, somewhere would finally (finally!) use a big red marker and scrawl "FASD" on his file, I would feel vindicated.

Instead, I got nothing.

But sometimes, nothing is exactly the clarity you need.

I'll be the one to say it: some people SHOULDN'T adopt

Mani rides a pony

If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that I am a big proponent of adoption. I believe every child deserves a family. I believe that God calls people to open their hearts, their homes, and their families to children who have been orphaned. I believe that the term orphan is nowhere near as cut and dry as we think-- meaning, some children are orphans even when their biological parents still walk this earth. 

Most of all, I believe that it is God's desire for us to enter into the complicated, life changing relationships that adoption brings to bear. Because really, if you want to know the heart of God, try explaining to a four year-old that it doesn't matter at all whose tummy he grew in ... he's just as much a part of your being as the little one he feels kicking under your ribs this very minute.

Adoption has done amazing things in my family. I have seen my husband open his heart wider and wider and wider still. I have watched Jo grow into a young lady who has no fear or awkwardness around people with physical or mental disabilities, but instead a deep, abiding compassion for those people who so many others can't even make eye contact with. I have had Logan approach me and ask why it is so that so many children wait for homes around the world. "Don't people know they're there?" I have felt a warm glow when hearing Atticus plan out his own future family. "I don't know how many kids I'll have. But I know we'll adopt and have biological kids." I have had to explain time and again to Seven that no, she is not adopted and that yes, that's an o.k. thing, too.

And, of course, I have had the honor of raising, loving, knowing children who share no biological link with me at all, but still call me Momma. Without adoption, there would be no Bee telling me about her science exams, no Oli chasing the new puppy, no Mani asking endlessly if I will read him "just one more" book.

Adoption is a good thing. It is a worthy cause. It is a gift from God.

And yet ... I still fall into the camp that cannot believe that adoption is for every individual or family.

The truth is, I cringe when I see the phrases tossed out: "If every Christian adopted just one child, there'd be no more orphans on the entire continent of Africa!" "Adoption is so affordable, everyone can do it!" "Adoption saves a life ... YOURS!"

Adoption is complicated. It is messy. It is painful and hurtful and beautiful and awful and terrifying and blissful. Adoption is so many things, all wrapped up in an amazing bundle of emotions and spiritual growth. But one thing that adoption is not is easy.

Now, please don't take this as a negative ad for adoption. Please don't think that I'm saying that only the toughest of the tough need to apply. And definitely don't think that I'm advocating for only those people with a stomach for self-abuse should sign on. What I'm saying is that people who walk into adoption should do so with eyes not only wide open, but with hearts prepared to take whatever comes.

Adoption, people ... it's not about you. Truly. It's not about your new child, your new baby, your growing family. If you think it is, you've got it dead wrong. Adoption is about your new child. It's about your new baby. It's about your growing family. It's about people with faces and pasts and futures and problems and dreams. You are only a player in the story. Just one in a cast of hundreds, really. It's not about you.

But so many (too many) Christians I meet who are adopting don't seem quite ready to grapple with this reality. They have given birth to a dream child, waiting for them on another continent or in some corner of their hometown. They know what pattern quilt this child will adore, how his or her personality will fit into their family, what sports he or she will want to play. They already know that this dream child will be gracious, and kind, and will never question why God chose to place him or her in the category of "adopted kid" because their adoptive family will just be so fabulous, so unique, so perfect for them, that it will all be crystal clear. This child will not have a difficult time attaching, will love American cuisine, will take to English as easily as a fish to water, and will forget all about the first (or second, or third, or fourth) mothers who came before. This child will not hoard food, curse when angry, have developmental delays, set things on fire. This child will, in short, be perfect and unscathed, despite having walked through hell to get to the comfort of that middle class lifestyle he or she now enjoys.

Put that way, you can see the recipe for disaster. But no one thinks that way in real life, right? No one is in that much denial. Think so? Think again.

I'm going to say it as gently as possible, so that I don't scare off every single hopeful adoptive parent who might ever stumble upon this post: That parent you'll never be? The one surrendering their child because the dream has turned into a nightmare? Listen to her. Learn from her. Because while nothing can every truly prepare you for every twist and turn you might possible encounter, sometimes just hearing the horror stories can open your eyes that much wider and bring you to a place where you're at least willing to look at the dark side before you commit.

Some people just shouldn't adopt. If you are already overwhelmed with the number of children in your family, your home situation (marriage, job, difficult child), your circumstances ... you shouldn't adopt. If you think that an adopted child is going to fill a still aching void in your life left by infertility or loss, you shouldn't adopt. If you have never picked up a book on attachment, you shouldn't adopt. If you think that children--even infants-- who have suffered loss will not be affected by their past, you shouldn't adopt. If you are uncomfortable welcoming--even just verbally-- another mummy and daddy into your world, you shouldn't adopt. If you are adopting to "save a child," "do the right thing," or"be a good Christian," you shouldn't adopt.

I have personally known some very well-intentioned, good people who adopted under the wrong motivations. It is not pretty. In fact, it's so not pretty that one has to step back and ask the horrible question: Would this child have been better off remaining an orphan? I never thought I'd be at a place where I could even consider that as a possibility but there it is. Sometimes, it's just that ugly.

This is a very un-PC statement that goes against a huge movement currently taking place in the evangelical wing of the church right now. Record numbers of Christians are adopting and yes, by and large I am sure that this is a good thing. The stigma is gone, and the culture of ignorance is largely being stripped away. People who may not have even considered adoption before are now familiar with families who have been there, and done that, so a certain comfort exists. For this, I am glad. Truly. The world will be a richer place for it, and the lives of so many people are being blessed with an abundant, beautiful gift.

What I worry about are the people who jump on the bandwagon without counting the cost, or who go in with blinders on. These are the dangerous folks, and frankly, I haven't been impressed with the ability (or willingness) of agencies to screen them out. Christian agencies, especially, seem more concerned with simply making sure that prospective families line up with their statement of faith than of vetting the background and stability that a child will be moving in to. This terrifies me. I have seen the effects of this practice in day to day life, and it is every bit as heartbreaking as a child languishing in a children's home or bouncing from foster home to foster home.

Are we all called to help the widows and the orphans? I believe we are. For some very blessed people, that will look like a family portrait that is more of patchwork quilt a simple afghan. For others, it will look like donating to a missionary working with children or supporting an orphanage on a monthly basis. For others, it will be opening their home to latch-key kids after school and being the ear to listen and the mom with the cookies. For others, it could be collecting clothes to donate, or becoming foster parents, or volunteering, or buying Christmas gifts for kids whose parents are in prison. 

So yes, do something. Get involved. But please, weigh very carefully the full measure of whether or not adopting a child is the right thing for your family. Ask God to be more clear in His calling than He has been with any other message to you in your life. So much is riding on this one decision. Make it the right one.