Bleep bloop!

Bleep bloop, says Dad. Bleep bloop, says Mom. Boop Boop, says Miriam. That is how Dad entertains us in the car while driving to Auntie Marie's house. We laugh, because it is so funny.

I wrote previously about beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed, and yesterday experienced some of that. I got to play the harp with the stake choir for stake conference, so I was up on the stand for the practice and then the meeting, and Chuck sat with Miriam down below. After conference was over I started packing up my stuff, and suddenly there was this flash of white and there was Miriam, in her beautiful white dress.

Mama! She put her arms around me and hugged with all her might and her face was lit up, her eyes squinted shut.

Mama! Mama! She hugged me tightly and I was so happy to see her.

And that is the glorious gift that we have every day. We get to see the grins and the squinted up face. We hear the laughing and the clapping and the hurrays. We get to see her take her umbrella to the car for the birthday party at Aunt Marie's. We get to see her load up her backpack, purse, and blanket to go pick up her friends from school. And after she goes potty, sometimes she is so proud and happy she comes back to me and signs potty and cries, "Hurray!"and hugs me. The happiness spills out and her body hums.

Thank you. Thank you. Hurray.

"Life Is Like an Old-time Rail Journey"

My mom sent me a copy of an LDS Church News article from May 23, 2009, which quotes President Hinckley, who shared the following from a 1973 Deseret News column.

"Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed.

"Most putts don't drop. Most beef is tough. Most children grow up to be just people. Most successful marriages require a high degree of mutual toleration. Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise.

"Life is like an old-time rail journey -- delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride."



I love those beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. We have had a few of those in the last few years, but the delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders and jolts come along all too often, and in one of those moments a few weeks ago, I was feeling discouraged and thought that I might need a little therapy. There are times when I get scared and worry about our daughter. When she gets mad and kicks and yells and fights, I think, what in the world are we going to do? We just want her to be happy. Will she be okay when she grows up? What will happen when she is a teenager? Don't even think about that! So I thought about therapy. Maybe that would help me deal with the doubts and fears and sorrow of having a child with special needs.

Then I remembered a new book I had heard about, The Year My Son and I Were Born, and decided to order it. Maybe it would help. Maybe it would be therapy. I read the book and it made me think of so many things, and raised so many questions and was written in such an honest way that I thought I better write down what I learned and thoughts that I had. So that's what I'll do.

And it's not all about the dust and the cinders. There are amazing vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. Like on Saturday, when we went to the movies with Miriam. We saw Ice Age, and Miriam really liked it. At one point one of the characters is disgusted with somebody and says, "Hello!" (like a smack on the forehead). So Miriam shouts out, "Hay-yo!" Then later Miriam shouted "Hoo-way!" during something exciting, and I thought, How great is that. Who does that? We laughed and then told her to be quiet. Then today I asked Miriam if she wanted to wear this shirt or that shirt, and she said, "This one." I looked at her in wonder. I've never heard her say that before. I told Chuck and we looked at each other and nodded. All right.

The Year My Son and I Were Born

The Year My Son and I Were Born, by Kathryn Lynard Soper, is the story of the first year of Kathryn's son's life, who was born early, and who has Down syndrome. So much of this book is our story too, and I am going to write about what this book makes me think of.

When Thomas is born, and whisked away to the NICU, Kathryn and her husband Reed sit in shock. The possibilities of the future race through her head. "Needles. Beeping monitors. A home in tatters, relationships strained pale. Mental and physical and social delays. . . ." (6). Then they hear the Apgar scores, 8, then 9, and he's breathing on his own. In the midst of their relief, two doctors come into the room, and tell them that they think Thomas has Down syndrome. Kathryn looks at Reed and says, "A look passed between us. It lasted only a few seconds, but it held the weight of years" (7).

The morning Miriam was born, I got a phone call about 8:50 am from our friend, whose family had arranged the adoption through their friends in Samoa. She said, "Ruth! The baby is being born! Her water broke! You happy?" She always would say to me, "You happy Ruth?" Her English is limited, Samoan being her language, but her heart is huge, and she always wanted me to be happy. I couldn't believe the news, and my body felt like it was on fire, and my hair and skin tingled, and I ran around the house, trying to decide what to do first. Chuck came home to do a barbecue for the men that worked with him at the housing tract near our home. While he cooked, I tried to get plane tickets to American Samoa on the internet. But planes do not go there every day. It was Tuesday, and we had to wait until Thursday.

Several hours after we got the phone call, we were sitting outside on our patio, just getting ready to have lunch with Chuck's friends from work, when I heard the phone ring. I looked at him. "You should go answer it," he said. I walked calmly but quickly into the house and picked up the phone. Our baby had been born. It was a girl.

I walked outside and I saw the crepe myrtle tree just outside our sliding glass door, and it had pinkish lavender flowers all over it, and it was so sunny. I walked to the table in the corner of our yard and sat down by Chuck. He was talking to his friends. I kicked his leg. He looked at me and said to his friends, "We will be gone for two weeks because we are going to Samoa to pick up the baby we're adopting." Their mouths dropped open. I said, "Don't you want to know what it is? It's a girl."

Later that day, as we wrestled with plane tickets and packing, we got a phone call from the family in Samoa, and we told them her name was Miriam. They told us she was okay, but her heartbeat was slow. We didn't know what that meant, but continued to get ready.

I felt so unreal, and didn't know if I could really believe what was happening. What if we got there and then couldn't bring her home? What if we could bring her home? Did I know how to be a mother? How would we take care of her? We didn't know how to take care of a tiny baby. There were many discussions with our close friends across the street about what we would need. Their oldest son walked across the street with a car seat. In the car seat were some onesies and little clothes for a tiny girl. I went to Albertsons and bought the formula that we calculated we would need for two weeks, but later I realized I had bought the soy formula. They let us exchange it for regular formula the next day. I remember walking into Albertson's and going to the section with baby supplies, and buying diapers, and I was amazed and excited and scared.

I was unsure of who this person was who was going to join our family. Who is she? What will she look like? How will she change our family? We would never be the same again, and we had been a family for eight and a half years, and now someone new was coming to live with us, to be a part of our family. Chuck felt urgent. He felt like we had to get there. She was alone and needed us. But we had to wait until Thursday to fly there.

When we got to Samoa, we had to wait until the next morning to go to the hospital. On the plane that day I kept thinking about who this little girl was. Who is she? What will she be like? Will I know how to take care of her? When we were too late to go to the hospital that night, I was, deep inside, relieved to put off the moment when our family would change forever. But I felt guilty for being relieved and scared. Our lives would stay the same for just a few more hours.

But I must say it was pretty wild being in Samoa. The first thing our new friends offered us were young coconuts, cut in half, with straws in them, perched in mugs. We drank the coconut juice and used spoons to scoop out the coconut. We were treated so kindly. It was amazing, and so hot and humid and different.

The next morning we went to the hospital and met Miriam's birth mother. What can I say about that? Chuck walked right up to her and put his arms around her. She hugged him back, and was crying. Then we went to the nursery. Our new friends, the family we were staying with there, had not told us anything specific about the baby. At the NICU Chuck and I were brought into a little room and sat on some chairs in front of a nice young Doctor who was from the United States. That is when we found out what happened. He kindly told us that Miriam had been in fetal distress and was delivered by c-section. She had very low apgar scores and was given oxygen. Her paperwork says she was "flat." She had been having seizures. They didn't know what was causing the seizures but thought it could have to do with lacking oxygen at birth.

The doctor said that he didn't know what the results of this would be, or what problems Miriam might have. She could have a seizure disorder. She could have developmental delays. There could be brain damage. They didn't know.

I was surprised and I think we were both stunned. What would happen now? But we knew Heavenly Father sent us this baby. We knew she was our daughter. We knew it would be complicated, but I guess we didn't know it would be this complicated. But we never considered leaving her there and going home without her. She was ours. But we still hadn't seen her.