Somewhere Between Saviourhood and Depression

There are two comments I, as an adoptive parent, really get tired of hearing.  Take note, because I can guarantee if you know someone who has adopted a child, they feel the same way.

My boys.  Challenging and amazing.

This first is some version of "you are so great to adopt these children!"  And when I respond something like "oh, well we are really blessed to have them," I usually get some form of "well there are so many kids out there that need good homes, and you are so great to take in these kids and give them a good life."  Does anyone else see what is wrong with this?  I'm forty-two years old.  The first time I went on fertility medication, I was twenty-one.  My oldest child is four and a half.  I know you can do the math.  Let's just say I spent many, many years trying to have a child.  Praying, begging, crying, pleading with God to let me have that blessing.  I am not a savior.  I didn't go into it with some altruistic goal of saving some poor child out there.  I didn't set out to save anyone, except maybe myself.  Not only is it uncomfortable to be spoken to as if I had done some great unselfish act for the sole purpose of being unselfish, it's almost offensive.  I am a girl who grew up wanting to have a family.  I am not a charitable organization.  And it's even worse when this kind of comment is made in front of my child.  He is not the receiver of a charitable act for which he needs to consistently show gratitude.  He is a child.  He is my child.  He has a mom, just like your children do.  And he doesn't need to be reminded how lucky he is that someone took pity on him and was kind enough to give him a pillow on which to lay his little orphaned head.  He needs to be reminded that he is loved, like any other child in any other family.  And his childhood should be just about that--childhood.

The other comment I get tired of hearing is, oddly enough, on the other end of the spectrum.  If I am having a difficult day with one of my kids, for whatever reason---maybe one is being a pill, or one is fussy because of teething, or one is sick, or one is just not sleeping much and I'm exhausted--I don't need to be reminded that this is what I asked for so I need to be more grateful.  Or as someone stated just the other day, "yes, but this is what you signed up for." Yes.  You are right.  This is what I prayed, begged, cried and plead for.  I am well aware of that.  I don't need your gentle reminder.  But, you need to understand that I deal with the same parenting issues that everyone else does.  I have hard days.  I get tired.  I get frustrated.  I seek out help with issues my children are having.  And, I need your love and support, especially if you have walked the path of parenthood before me.  Believe me, I am completely grateful to be dealing with these issues, because it means I have children.  It means I am a mom.  It means I am enjoying this long-awaited dream.  I know this.  So please just take it as an unspoken fact that I am more grateful than you will ever know.  I love being a mom more than you could possibly comprehend, unless you also had to fight seventeen years before you were blessed with a child.  And I love these boys more than I ever thought possible.

Like most moms, I ride somewhere in the middle between Saviourhood and depression.  I rarely get close to either extreme.  I ride in the middle, recognizing that even on the most difficult days, life is still so beautiful.  And the best days don't come because I was just so overly righteous that day.  They come and go just like they do for every other mom out there trying to do her best.  They ebb and flow mostly near the middle of the river between perfection and disaster, rarely nearing either shore. And I'm okay with that.  In fact, it is what I consider a successful day.

"Come What May and Love It"

Now picture this in the middle of two large adults on a
queen-sized bed.....yep,,,,

I woke up just after midnight early this morning to my almost 40 lb. three-year-old crawling over me to get “in the middle” between me and daddy.  What he really meant was that he wanted to sleep near daddy—it just happens to be in the middle next to me.  He is a daddy’s boy for sure.  I lay there for a few minutes wide awake, torn between taking him back to his bed or letting him stay.  But, that only lasted for a few seconds, before I was swept up in his sweet presence, and I put my arm around him as he quickly fell back to sleep.  Sleeping with this child is like having a noisy windmill in bed.  Arms and legs everywhere, teeth grinding, occasional snores.  But even with those possibilities, I was caught up in his face this night, lying there peacefully dreaming of who knows what—bikes, monster trucks, chocolate chip cookies, jumping off the highest thing he can find.  I noticed how angular his face has become with the loss of baby fat, and touch his beautiful, shiny, silky jet black hair--the thing that garners the most comments from other people.  It occurred to me in that moment that everything I held most precious in this life was gathered together on that mattress.   An approximately 5’ x 6’ space on this vast earth held everything that makes life the most joyful for me.  This last week, through a few different experiences, I have come to accept that this may be my family.  I had hoped to have a big family, and as every year passes, and the number in my head slips farther down from what I had wanted, reality has begun to set in.  I have been fighting it.  We hope to adopt at least one more, and I have been hoping this last time through the adoption process would bring a sibling group of two.  But, I have started to wonder if I am fighting something that just isn’t meant to be.  And I have started to wonder if there isn’t something else out there I am supposed to be doing.  I have been praying to have more children for as long as I can remember.  But, this past week, it struck me that that is not the hand I have been dealt.  And it’s not a sub-par hand.  It is just a different hand.  

Easter Sunday.

Which means there is something else out there that will fill in the gap.  Something else I am supposed to be doing that is not meant for a friend with five children.  It’s not better.  It’s not worse.  It’s just mine.  It’s my own, individual mission.  And the longer I push for something that is not meant for me, and ignore the gentle pushes to pursue other things, the longer I keep from enjoying the blessings that will come from that other pursuit--the one meant for me.  And the longer I will look to my little family gathered on this small mattress in the middle of the night, and not feel it is enough.  And it is enough.  We still plan on finishing this second round of adoption, but this will be the end of it, and I will be happy no matter what.  And in fact, I look forward with a fresh excitement as I let go of old dreams, and open my mind and heart to new ones.  “Come what may, and love it.” (quote from Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin) 

Trading My Mother for "Lots of Toys"

You can try this activity at home.  Do it with your kids if they are old enough.  It is a powerful visual.

We attended a class tonight, and one of the activities really hit home.  Actually, several of them did, but this is the one I’m writing about tonight.  When we adopt a child, we often think about the great life we want to give them.  And, in particular if we adopt a child out of foster care or out of an orphanage in a foreign country, the focus can often be on how much better their life will be with us than where they have been.  But we forget that the best day of our lives—the day that child comes to live with us, is the worst day of his or her life.  It is the day that everything changes for them.  Familiar people, sights, smells, textures, languages that are spoken in the home or city, pets, friends, and the list goes on.  In an effort to give this child a fresh start, sometimes we are too quick to sweep away the things we think are part of the problem, and replace them with the things we think are part of the solution.  And we throw the baby out with the bathwater.

 

So here is how the activity went tonight.  We had to write down on five cards the names of five attachments we have to important people in our lives.  I just picked the first five that came to mind.  My parents, my husband, my son and my sister.  (I really encourage you to do this activity as you read this.  The impact is so much greater than just reading about it.)  Then we partnered with someone and the instructor told us that sadly we were going to lose one of those relationships. We had to hold up our cards with the names facing us, and let them blindly choose a relationship to go away.  The first to go was my Dad.  She asked how that felt, and I said “painful” and I meant it.  My Dad has had a heart attack and two rounds of cancer in the last five years, and so I had already contemplated the fact that losing him might be a reality sooner than I thought.  It brought up those feelings again.  Then she said that now we were going to lose two of them, and she blindly pulled my sister and my husband.  I was standing there holding D and my Mom in my hand, and I can honestly say, I was starting to panic a little.  The thought of losing all three of those relationships was not softened by still having my son and my mother.  Then, she said we had to lose one more and she pulled D out of my hand.  My sweet boy that I have waited so long for was gone in a blink.  By now, my heart was really feeling physical pain at the thought of that loss.  She asked if anyone in the room had been left with the one relationship they would have picked of the five.  Nobody raised their hand.  That is hard for me to say, because I don’t want to think one relationship is above the other, or that I love one more than the other.  But the fact is, my husband would be the toughest one to lose.  He is my partner and his loss would affect every single aspect of my life in a much greater way than anyone else.  He is my son’s father.  He is the main breadwinner.  He is my daily support and best friend and the person I lean on the most.  The loss of my husband would have a much more devastating affect than any other one, even though I would mourn greatly for those losses, too.  Then, they picked five of us to come to the front of the room.  John and I were both chosen.  And they said that we now had to lose the last one, but they were going to give us something great in return.  The first lady’s new card said “My own room”.  I was next.  They took away my Mom and gave me “Lots of Toys”.  Lots of toys.  That was my trade for my mother.  They took D away from John and gave him “a pool”.  The next two people got “big beautiful home” and “dance lessons” in exchange for their cherished relationship.  It was a powerful moment.  The instructor made the trades with such excitement in her voice….something like “that is so cool that you are going to have lots of new toys!”  But how could that ever be a replacement for my mother?  And yet, that’s how we see it for these kids.  You may argue that their mother is a drug addict or abusive or something else.  But the fact is, that person is this child’s mother and he or she will always, always love her and want a relationship with her, and a pool, or a bunch of toys will never replace her, or heal a broken-hearted little child.

One of the other great things that was said tonight is that so much of this grieving and healing process is not to fix the problem.  The loss of these relationships is not a fixable problem.  The process is about learning to adjust.  A light bulb went on inside my head.  All the things that have impacted my life in a negative way cannot be fixed.  I have to adjust, not resolve.  I have to learn where to file that memory, not shred it.  It can’t be thrown away.  It can’t be shredded or burned.  It is a part of me.  What a relief.  That really was the conclusion I came to.  What a relief to know that I can heal without having to forget.  I can let go of the need to wipe out certain things and embrace just learning how to put that thing in its place and move forward.  Healing doesn’t mean we were never wounded.  It means our body has healed, and even if it still bears a scar, it’s not the focus of our life anymore.  It has been treated and healed as completely as possible, and now we get up and get on with it.

I stood there holding my “lots of toys” card thinking how superficial and so totally unimportant that was to me, and how it didn’t even hold a candle to having my mother.  I felt a rush of empathy and compassion for these kids who lose everything that is the most important to them.  I felt worse for the kids whose adoptive parents think they are the solution and that starting over and severing ties was the best thing for them.  I hope they are not threatened by their child’s love for these people left behind.  Someone once said that love isn’t a pie, where if I get a slice, that’s one less slice for someone else.  Love is just love and you can give it all away, and still have all of it.  It’s magic that way.  That child can love all of you, so don’t make them choose.  Be a part of the healing process and let them know that they are free to love anyone they choose for as long as they want.  You might find that letting go and just loving these children will allow the love to bounce back and find you again, and it will bless your life an hundred-fold.  

Plan B. It's a Good Thing.

My Sweet Adopted Plan B Child--Running Free

I heard an adult adoptee say once “let’s face it, nobody comes into adoption because that was their first choice”.  I don’t know about “nobody” but I think that’s probably generally true for the majority of adoptive parents.  We are here because this was Plan B, and Plan A failed.  Heck, it might have even been Plan C or D!  This particular quote came from a girl who was a little bit bitter about all she had been through, and even though she had great adoptive parents, there was something in knowing that she was Plan B that bothered her.  I’ve pondered on that statement many times, and wondered how to keep D from feeling that way.  But, as I have thought more about it, I have wondered how many times our Plan A didn’t work out and that whatever came as a result of having to rethink our plans was actually better than our Plan A would have ever  been.  Let’s think about high school crushes we just knew we wanted to marry, or how many times we changed majors in college, or how many jobs we had before we found something we liked, or how often you spent way too much money on something you just had to have, only to find it was not nearly as fulfilling as anticipated.  I’ve heard so many stories of people who suffered some great difficulty, only to find that it was the very thing that propelled them to greatness.  My father wound up with a combination of horrible dehydration and a double kidney infection this summer that left him practically passed out on his bedroom floor in the middle of the night, after having vomited everywhere.  And yet, in diagnosing his kidney infections, the doctor found a cancerous mass in his lung.  He just had surgery in which everything was successfully removed and no signs of spreading because it was caught so early.  We are thanking God right now for that horrible round of infections.  I remember seeing an interview with Richard Dreyfuss about how he was afraid this stupid movie he was in was going to end his career.  It was Jaws.  Lance Armstrong became even more competitive after his bout with cancer.  His body experienced changes that ultimately made him a better athlete.  And perhaps mentally, he was so much tougher having fought that battle.  Whatever it was, the combination paid off in a way that had not happened before the cancer.  There is story after story of incidences in which the thing we so desperately wanted faded off into the sunset and surprisingly left an opportunity for something better.

I won’t say that adoption is better than birthing a child.  I would still jump at the chance to be pregnant and have that wonderful experience.  But I don’t pine away for it like I used to do.  Age has blessed me with the ability to look back on my life and acknowledge that I have learned some fabulous lessons from experiences I would never have wished upon myself.  I have come to know amazing people because I was forced to.  I have had my eyes opened to new possibilities, and also just to the idea of having them open.  I have learned to pay attention to the people and things and opportunities that grace my pathway, and just assume that I have something to gain by taking a closer look.  Years of fertility treatment brought grief and many tear-filled nights.  But it also brought knowledge and compassion I have been able to share with others going through the same thing.  Adoption has caused me to ponder what it is that really makes a family, and what I’m willing to go through to have my own, Plan B or otherwise.  Maybe the “B” stands for blessing, or better, or beneficial or brave.  Or maybe it just stands for best, because that’s what it’s been for us.

The Thing About Waiting....

“Of all the hardships a person had to face, none was more punishing than the simple act of waiting.”  This is a favorite quote from the book “A Thousand Splendid Suns” that sums up our entire fertility treatment and adoption process.  My friend, Genie, pointed it out to me one time in reference to our long, tiring quest to have a child.  Not to compare my challenges with those of Miriam’s in the book, but it is such a beautiful, concise statement that is so eternally true. It has been almost nine months since we have been back on the list to adopt again through San Diego County Adoptions.  It has been almost two years since we finalized D’s adoption, and we started pretty soon after jumping through the hoops to get back on the list.  It took six months to get everything finished, and seven more months before we could get our final interviews and home visits.  Two months later, those were finally processed and we were back on the list in January of this year.  I suspect it will be about another year before we get a call.  I hope and pray that it is sooner, but mostly I hope and pray for the right child (or children) for us at the right time.  

(As always, all my poems and artwork are copyrighted!
Please don't use without permission.)

Why is waiting so hard?  I’ve decided that I can handle just about anything if I know there is an end to it.  If someone told me the exact date I would be given a child, then I could have handled the years of waiting more easily.  You would know how much time you had to pursue something else, or to tie up loose ends, or that you could save all that money you spent on pregnancy tests, and you would know exactly when to start getting excited.  It would still be hard to wait, but it would be much, much easier.  The worst thing about not knowing is not knowing.  Five minutes before your trial is over feels just like five years before because you don’t know the difference.  We’ve all waited for something--maybe a job offer, or a wedding proposal, or a raise, or acceptance to graduate school, or a call from the doctor to say you are in remission.  It’s the fear of the unknown that gets us.  We want to know—it is human nature.  We want to know what we are dealing with so we can plan and prepare and have some control.  And we know whenever that thing we are waiting for decides to finally arrive, that we will be so relieved or happy or excited and we will be able to move forward instead of feeling like we are in limbo.  I’ve learned, though, that strangely, the greatest lessons are taught during those times of waiting, much more so than at the moment we are granted that thing we so desire.  And so, we wait.  But, it’s different now.  Instead of crying and stressing over each childless day ticking by, I have decided that this time around, I will enjoy walking the path, and I will pay attention to everything along the way, and I will be grateful that I’m walking this path with the sweet hand of a vibrant, little black-haired tank of a three-year-old boy holding my hand.  I wrote and illustrated this poem about him.  It captures so much the way I see him.  His name actually means “son of the sea”.  It was one of the things that sold me on his name, and I have found that it is very fitting.  He is difficult to tame and a little unruly at times, but magnificent and strong, and I am in awe when I stand with him, as I am with the ocean.  We are enjoying every minute together.  And as much as I want another child, and want him to have a sibling (or two) with whom he can share his life, I know that if that doesn’t happen, we have been blessed beyond measure to at least have him.  That said, we still stand on the shore and wait…

The Five Children We Didn't Take Home

It occurred to me that maybe I should explain the subtitle of this blog, “Inspired by the process, the children and the lessons learned.”  I think it’s mostly self-explanatory, but I wanted to share with you why I used "children" as a plural form, and not just "child", beings we only have one child.  If you read my post about our first adoption that failed, then you might think it’s just referring to these two special children.  But there are more children that have been a part of this process, and that I often think about and wonder how they are doing.

 If you haven’t been through the adoption process (and especially through social services) you may think that the process goes something like this:  You finish your application and then one day, you get a call telling you to come get your baby.  You go get your baby and go home to your new life.  I’m sure that does happen with some adoptions, but through social services, it can be quite different.  You might be surprised to know that we actually turned down five different children before we accepted D.  Often, I think people assume that we are so desperate for a child, that when the call comes in, we jump.  And maybe losing our little Isaac affected that spontaneity a little bit, as he was the first placement call we ever had, and we did jump at the chance to take him home.  But after being burned, the next calls that came in required a lot more thought and reasoning as to what would be right for us.  It is hard to jump in when you know the reality is that you might not get to keep this child.  But to keep a long story a little shorter, I want to tell you about the five sweet children that came before D.  (I have left out their names here for privacy—you never know who might know them!).

 1. Almost a year to the day of losing little Isaac, we got a call about a baby boy who had been removed from his home and was being put into a concurrent planning adoption.  I wanted him so much.  I had really wanted a baby boy to fill the void of losing Isaac.  But, something the social worker said scared us.  His mother had almost lost his older sister to adoption because of her drug use and her unwillingness to comply with what the county was requiring.  And then, at the last possible time, she pulled it together and got her girl back.  And even though that girl was no longer in her mother’s care (her grandmother had guardianship) the county judged each case individually, and she would have the same opportunity with this little boy.  Our social worker said something like “I just want to warn you that we think this adoption will go through, but this mother might be slow out of the gate and then pull it together at the last minute.”  “Slow out of the gate.”  That has stuck with me to this day.  There wasn’t even a question.  John and I said no, knowing we could just not handle another rollercoaster ride like we had before.

 2.  Just a couple of weeks later, we got a call about an 18 month old little girl.  It was the morning of Christmas Eve 2008 when we went in for the telling (the telling is where you meet with the social workers and they tell you everything they know about the child, and then you decide if you want to move forward).  On paper, this looked like a perfect match, and I still can’t tell you why we didn’t take her.  The parents’ rights had been terminated.  It was zero risk.  But, it didn’t feel right.  John and I looked at each other and just both knew it wasn’t the child for us.  It was a shock for me, as I had so desperately wanted a child, and had hoped one would have already come in the year after we lost Isaac.  But, she wasn’t ours.  We knew she belonged in to someone else.

 3.  In March, I was in L.A. working on a project, when right in the middle of it, with the worst timing possible, came the call for a safe surrender baby girl.  She had been dropped off at the hospital and we could pick her up the next day from the hospital.  I wanted her so badly!  I called John and we had several conversations over the course of the next few hours.  We had to make a decision fast, as she was an emergency placement.  Ann gave us until the next morning.  I tried my hardest to talk John into it, but he wouldn’t have it.  In hindsight, I can understand and sympathize, but I was so upset at the time.  And I was a few hours away, so we couldn’t discuss it face to face (which might have been a blessing!).  He just felt it was too risky.  In California, safe surrender moms get a bracelet with their baby’s information on it, and they have a window of time to come back and change their minds.  And even if the paperwork gets filed to terminate the rights, I’ve been told that until it’s all final, that they have a good chance of being able to get that baby back.  And with an unknown father, who might become aware of his baby being born in the near future, there were just too many risks for John.  I made him call Ann and tell her we weren’t taking her.  I was too heartbroken to make the call.  We worked through it, but it was one of the bigger arguments we’d had in a while.

 4. & 5.  The last two kids were a sibling group we were offered the same month D was born, unbeknownst to us.  It was May, and we got the call about a 1 ½ year old little girl and her 2 ½ year old brother.  I was really excited at the opportunity for two!  I mean, let’s just get on with building our family already!  Oddly enough, even with the risks, John and I were both immediately on board and excited.  They had been in the system for a year after being removed from their home because of domestic issues, and their accessibility to drugs.  The father was in prison, and I don’t remember what was going on with the mother.  We did the telling and saw their sweet little pictures.  We were given the weekend to decide, and one of the things you are required to do before deciding to move forward is talk to the child’s (or childrens’) foster mom so you are fully aware of their current state and any difficulties they may be having.  Well, to condense the story, the foster mom told us she didn’t think the children’s grandparents were aware they would be going up for adoption and that there might be a problem there.  So, we addressed this issue with the social worker, who in turn did some research and found out that there was some planning in place by family members to place these kids with a friend, should they ever be placed for adoption.  It was a big mess, so we pulled out until it was all sorted out.  They told us that if they came back up for adoption after everything was sorted out, that we would be the first couple they called, but for now, we were back on the list again.  We were pretty sad about it.  I was really excited to welcome two kids home, even though I knew it would be a challenge, to say the least.  But it wasn’t meant to be.

About six weeks later, at the beginning of July, we got THE call—the one that would ultimately give us our sweet little boy.  Seven children later (including our little Isaac) we finally got to keep one—the one meant for us.  I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and even though we didn’t take these five kids, I know even having the chance to think about them and their circumstances blessed our lives in some way.  I still think about all six of those sweet, innocent children, all caught in some kind of craziness that never was their fault.  I wonder what their lives are like today, and wish the best for them.  I hope we don’t have to wait through six more children before we get the next one, but if we do, I know we’ll learn great lessons from them, too.

****ADDENDUM***  This addition to this post was inspired by Kristina's comment below.  One of the things that comes with being open about adopting is the regular "offers" to take a baby.  Sometimes it's a birthmother's well-meaning friend or family member, or someone that just hears about a situation, but I'm not sure I can even remember how many times someone contacted us about taking a baby and it fell through every time.  I know it's a difficult decision for birthmothers, but it is also difficult being on the other end thinking you are going to get a baby, and then suddenly the rug is ripped out from under you at the last minute.  I learned quickly to be cautiously optimistic.  I always expressed interest, but knowing how many of these never come to fruition, I learned to not even get excited.  I would just say, "let me know when the baby arrives and they are signing the papers."  We had a sister of a coworker, friends of friends, a phone call with a birthmother the day she gave birth swearing we were the ones and less than 24 hours later a family member had taken her and we never heard from anyone again.  We had one that wanted us to come to the doctor's visits and be a part of everything, but we had just lost our first baby and I had reason to suspect she wasn't all that sure about this decision, so a few months after saying we would wait until later in the process, we never heard anything else again (I'm pretty sure she kept that baby).  We had friends with more distant connections to a birthmother....oh, if I had a dollar for every time someone was absolutely sure we were getting that baby....well, I'd have a little extra spending cash.  So, I suppose it's not just the baby we lost and the five we didn't get to take home for different reasons--there are more babies out there who taught us lessons and were a part of this process.  At least a dozen, and if I stopped and really thought about it, probably more.  Patience is a virtue, right?  I still try to be optimistic, but sometimes it's hard to not get annoyed when someone is so sure that a baby is coming to us and just can't understand why we aren't thrilled.  They will continue to insist it will happen and want us to get excited.  Believe me, when it happens, no body will be more excited than I will be, but I can't live on the edge of those emotions 24/7, so I hope you will understand if I temper my excitement until the baby is in my arms and the papers are signed.  And then I can afford to break down and cry with happiness.

A child lives here (finally)

I went in to my little boy's bedroom today to try to wake him up from his extra-long nap, and this was the scene.  Most people would probably think about how messy his room is.  But, I teared up, and went for the camera.  Trains and tracks, a ball, an Elmo, his tricycle that is supposed to be outside, and several other random things were strewn about, and in the middle of the room sat his little bed, with a fast-growing sturdy little boy sprawled across it sideways, one leg hanging off, sawing logs.  I had to snap a picture.  Maybe in someone else’s eyes this is a messy room, but in my eyes, a room cluttered with toys says "a child lives here." 

One wonderful thing about spending seventeen years of your life trying to have a child is that when it finally happens, you find joy in some of the things that others find annoying or repetitive or mundane.  I'm sure if I'd spent that seventeen years cleaning up after kids, I would probably feel the same way.  But I didn't, and I don't.  There was a time when I really wondered if a child would ever live in my home and splash in my bathtub and run through my house with all the gusto of a charging elephant.  And, when our first adoption failed, and our sweet baby boy was returned to his birthfather, whatever glimmer of hope I had left faded even more.  I knew it was in God’s hands, and that I had done everything I could do, and that if it was going to happen, it would happen, and if not, then it wouldn’t.  Sometimes it’s hard knowing you can’t do anything else about it, and sometimes it’s a relief that you’ve done all you can and it’s out of your hands.  Either way, it is a long and difficult lesson in patience.  But it’s oh so worth it.  It’s been two and half years since our little guy rode home with us for the first time.  I still often leave his toys spread across the yard as if documenting the fun we had that day.  In my mind I can see the dotted lines connecting his random path from bike to sandbox to balls to the bushes, over the rocks, up to the deck and back to the bike like an old Family Circle comic, and I smile at the crazy randomness of little kids.  And instead of cleaning everything up and getting back to the grown-up yard it was before, I leave everything untouched, and listen to those toys reassuring me that “yes, a child finally lives here.  You’re long-awaited child lives here.”

 (If you want to read about our failed adoption mentioned here, check out my post "Giving my baby back.  The Worst Day of my Life.")