The Main Differences Between Embryo Adoption and Domestic Adoption

 

 

As I look back on our family, and how God's hands are all over it, I think about every person who may read this blog and may be at a fork in the road.  We have one child through domestic infant adoption.  We have another child through embryo adoption.  And, we have yet another child through IVF.  And, truth be told, God willing, we may not be done.  Our heartstrings are still tugged at adopting through foster care, many years from now. 

 

So, what if you are at that fork in the road and you are open to adoption, and are wrestling between embryo adoption and domestic infant adoption?

 

Well, I want to share with you the "Top 5 Differences and Similarities With Embryo Adoption and Domestic Adoption (In My Experience)"

 

5. Each costs a good chunk of change.  However, domestic infant adoption is significantly more expensive.  Yet, with certain tax credits, it cuts down that cost quite a bit.  In 2008, our adoption of Brae cost us over $22,000.  But, we also got about half of that back in taxes.  In 2011, our adoption of Sienna cost just over $5,000.  There were no tax credits.

 

4. With domestic infant adoption, you are guaranteed to bring a child home, eventually.  With embryo adoption, sadly, that just is not always the case.

 

3. The wait for each is unbearable, even if it is not that long.  With Brae, we were on the list, officially, for 7 months before we were chosen.  Yet, in that time, we went through about 10 "failed leads." It was heartbreaking each and every time.  With Sienna, from the time we turned in our paperwork to the time we had a transfer, it was 9 months.  Things definitely always felt like they were moving with embryo adoption; there was not a lot of down time.  There were tests, papers to fill out, genetic families to go through, etc.  With Brae, there just felt like a lot of waiting, with not a lot to do to occupy your mind.

 

2.  In domestic infant adoption, the birth parent chooses you.  And you just pray that she doesn't change her mind.  With embryo adoption, you first choose the genetic family, and then they choose you back (in an open adoption).  It feels like you are each mutually "on board" with the decision.  Although we have a remarkable birth story with Brae, and a phenomenal birth mom, I know many adoptive parents who did not experience that with their birth family. 

 

1. With each, I can say that hands down, unequivocally, there is absolutely NO difference in how you feel about that child.  You love that child as if it were genetically connected to you in every way.  You will be surprised at your heart's capacity to grow beyond your understanding.  I feel not an ounce different as a mother to Brae than I do to Sienna, or than I do to Graem, for that matter.  To each, I am simply, "Mommy."

 

And that has always been my heart's desire.

 

This is my last post for an unknown period of time.  It truly has been an honor to share our life story with you. 

 

God bless you in your journey.

 

And I leave you with our family photos, 2015.

 

xoxo

 

Britney

 

 

 

Not at peace.

A dear friend recently asked me, "Do you feel at peace with your infertility journey?"

The question verberated within my soul for hours before I could finally answer.  And this was my email response back to her (in a nutshell):

"Probably not.  Of course, I'm grateful, ultimately, for where it brought me, and the three children that were born out of that painful path.  But, it has left deep-rooted scars in its wake.  I'm a different person entirely because of the last 7-8 years.  Mostly, in a good way.  I have a ton more empathy for others; it has given me a platform to talk about with other women who are struggling; and I grew more dependent on God, and consequently closer to God, than I had ever been.

But, there is still a lot of resentment, bitterness, and jealousy that has remained. I'm resentful of women who get pregnant so easily and take it for granted.  I'm bitter that we had to go through everything we did to grow our family.  I'm jealous of women who are living the dreams I had as a little girl - just get pregnant, no problem, and grow a big, beautiful family without a care in the world. 

I remember, during the pit of our struggle, a dear friend had gotten pregnant, and aborted.  I remember, months after she told me, we got into a  vicious fight.  I can't even remember what the fight was ostensibly about.  But, I knew what it was really about.  I was angry  - livid, really - that she had gotten pregnant and destroyed the one thing I was fighting so hard for.

So, no, I don't think I am at peace with our infertility journey.  I may never be.  It scorched my soul and left me raw.  And, that just takes a really long time to heal."

The Accusation.

Brae started going to our current daycare/preschool when he was just 3 months old.  He went there for nearly 6 years until he graduated last summer.

Sienna started going there at just 3.5 months old.  She is now in their preschool program.

And Graem started going there when he was 6 months old, and is in their daycare program. 

We have loved our daycare/preschool.  It is a small, neighborhood, Spanish-immersion program.  It is run by a husband and wife, each native Spanish speakers.  She has her Masters' in Education.  The providers there are all native speakers.  There is absolutely no technology.  The kids sing, dance, play outside, do arts and crafts, and learn Spanish.   

The community of parents there is united and strong.  There is no fancy bus to take kids on field trips.  The parents volunteer.  There are no fancy toys to play with; most of them are donated from parents.  The summer that Sienna was born, the parents got together to re-vamp the front yard.  We showed up early on a Saturday morning, garden tools in tow, and weeded and planted.

And, just this last week, after a particularly tough several days, a group of parents showed up again early on a Saturday morning, care package in hand.

They did that because of an accusation.  An ugly, viscous accusation made by a en ex-employee.  A disgruntled ex-employee, as it turns out. 

To better understand the reason for the care package, I need to rewind to two weeks ago.  Tygh came home with the kids one evening, confused.  The owners had pulled him aside, and crying and in broken English, told them that someone had filed a complaint with the Department of Human Services.  The best that Tygh could make out, someone had accused the male owner of inappropriately touching children.  They handed Tygh a piece of paper with the caseworker's name on it.  The male owner's license was being suspended while DHS investigated.

I took the piece of paper from Tygh, and immediately started calling my parent friends.  I think I received 60 text messages that night. 

I wish I could say that the first thought that popped into my head was, "That's ridiculous.  Who could possibly say such a thing?", but it wasn't.  And not because I ever believed it to be true, but because when there is an accusation like that, I think the natural reaction from any parent is to just stop.  And think.  To comb your memory bank for even the smallest indication that maybe, just maybe, could there be even a shred of truth?

And I came up empty.  And so did the other parents.  We just did. not. believe. it.  Not the owner that we knew.  Not the owner that our kids adored.

And so, we rallied.  We left messages for the caseworker that night.  She called us back the next morning, overwhelmed by the outpouring of support. 

She confirmed (kind of) that the accusation was from an ex-employee.  But we had the accusation wrong. 

We aren't sure what happened, but something clearly had gotten lost in translation (perhaps literally) between the caseworker and the owners.  The accusation had nothing to do with inappropriate touching, at least not of a sexual nature. 

The accusation was that the male owner had slapped the forearm of a child, one in particular, in discipline.

We were again taken aback by this accusation.  And, again, I think each of the parents stopped.  Again, we mined our memory banks for anything we had witnessed, or thought we had witnessed, that would lead us to believe that this accusation was true.

And, again, nothing.  We just did not believe it.  Our children had never, not once, come home and mentioned that this male owner had ever inappropriately touched them (sexually or in discipline).

Over the next several days, numerous parents were interviewed (including me).  The caseworker confirmed that not one parent voiced any concern, including the parent of the child who had allegedly been hit. 

The caseworker said that, unfortunately, these sorts of accusations are made regularly.  Each has to be investigated (as well they should be!), and each has to go through the paces.  This would be no different.  She said that if she continued to find no evidence to support the allegation, it should be resolved in a couple weeks, and the male owner could return with his license in tact.

But, the damage has been done.  You can see it on the faces of the staff, and the owners.  They have been destroyed.  Their reputation, their life's work, their intentions, their love for these kids, has all been questioned. 

And it makes me sad. 

It makes me sad for the ex-employee who felt she needed to do this. It makes me sad for resources that could have been spent on a legitimate claim.  It makes me sad for our little community. 

I am not naïve.  If I thought, for even a moment, that this accusation had merit, we would seriously consider pulling our kids out and going elsewhere. 

We do not.  That said, I am all in favor of a full investigation that will ultimately clear them.  I am all in favor of any kind of education or teaching that may come out of this that will remind and reinforce to the owners and providers that in our daycare/preschool settings, we do not touch kids.  Period.

But, I'm still very sad.

These are words you cannot take back.  The accusation has been made.  And, for some, that will be all they care about and remember.

Losing Brae.

Over the last few weeks, since we returned from Disney World, since Brae started kindergarten up again, and since I went back to work, something almost imperceptible has changed.

But I have noticed it.

And it makes me so very, very sad.

And, a little bit proud.

We are slowly losing Brae.

He is growing up.  Our grip on him has loosened.  He's coming into his own.  He is a boy.  A school-aged kid.

He has his own ideas, opinions, and interests, and he articulates them like an adult.

He has manners (when he chooses to use them) that rivals most colleagues of mine.

He has sleepovers.  At other people's houses.  And he packs his own bag.

He picks out his clothes, knows the way he wants to wear his hair, and can make himself his favorite snack.

But, it's not just these things.  If it was just these things, I may feel only a little sad.

But I feel very sad.

And the thing that makes me the most sad is that, when I pick him up from a long day at school, he climbs in the back of the car, and is silent the whole way home.  No more jibberish about his days at day care, or his days in preschool.  Those days are gone.  Instead, he gazes tiredly out the back of the window, watching the world go by.  He's exhausted from a big day of learning, playing, and navigating social norms with kids of all ages.  Fatigued by making new friends and keeping the old.  Labored by mounting homework, school expectations, and little boy responsibilities.  He looks worn from the weight of the world on his tiny, kindergarten shoulders.

This makes me sad because he is experiencing real, grown-up emotions, and doesn't feel the need to seek me out for comfort.  Instead, he just wants to sit with his feelings, and figure them out.

This also makes me a little proud because I feel we have done a good job, so far, of equipping him for the world.  He is independent, smart, personable, appropriately cautious, and curious.  And yet, if we are to fully complete our job in preparing him, we need to allow him to feel those uncomfortable, unavoidable life feelings, and figure out how to deal with them.

But, he's also still just a little six-year-old boy, that I see still as my six-month-old firstborn.  And, I'm sad that I cannot protect him from uncomfortable feelings, and even sadder that he doesn't expect me to.

 

 

 

 

Back to Work.

A few weeks ago, I started back to work.

Although this was my third maternity leave, and actually a much longer leave than I had with Brae or Sienna, it was still excruciating to return.

I love my job, and I love the people I work with.  But they cannot compete with the sweet boy's face that I would snuggle with each morning.

I am grateful that I had the extended leave with Graem, especially after his sudden (and scary) entry into this world.  I am grateful that I was able to be at home when Brae started kindergarten, and I could walk him to the school bus.  I am grateful that I was able to keep Sienna home from preschool on certain days, and just have "girl dates" with her. 

I am grateful that I got to watch summer turn to fall, and fall turn to winter, each from my home window.  I am grateful that in a season of tremendous transition for our family, I was able to be at home for many months. 

The first day back was chaos.  I was prepared - or so I thought - for it.  What I was not prepared for, however, was who would be the source of the chaos. 

Brae.  It was going to be his first day in morning extended care at his school.  Up until then, he had been able to take the bus to kindergarten.  Well, since his bus doesn't come until 8:45, and I need to leave for work before then, the plan was for me to drop him off around 8. 

He did not support that plan.  The first day, he ran around the exterior of the school, as I'm lugging Graem, and trying to keep track of Sienna.  Brae was crying hysterically, refusing to go in.  Eventually, the teacher came out, and coaxed him in.  My heart broke.

The drop off for Sienna and Graem went much more smoothly.  Sienna took comfort in the fact she now got to watch over her little brother, and Graem, well let's face it, the kid is just easy.  I called his daycare a couple times for the first few days, and then stopped.  I kept getting the same report - he doesn't cry, he's a great sleeper, etc.  That mended my heart a little.

Being back in the office itself has been a bit shocking.  Kind of like jumping into an ice cold pool.  Eventually, you warm up, but it takes a while.

There were four of us coworkers who all had babies (boys!) at the same time, and so were all on maternity leave at the same time.  One gal decided to not come back at all.  Another gal, and a dear friend of mine, took a different job.  Then there were two.

It is hard being a working mom.  But, it's also hard to be a stay-at-home mom, I'm sure.  As a sweet friend told me, she considers me a "working stay-at-home mom."  I like that.  My heart is definitely at home, and when I am home, my time is invested in my kids.  I feel very involved, and I'm grateful that I have a profession, and a job, that allows me to do that.

And I just pray that my kids come to understand, and respect that decision. 

Graem's 6 month check up

Graem is now "officially" 6 months old.  Yet, with his prematurity, the doctor still considers him more like 5 months.

A silver lining to having a premature baby is that I really do feel like I've gotten to experience the "baby" phase perhaps longer than others.

That said, I find myself vacillating between wanting him to start scooting around, and relishing in his immobility.  I find myself thankful that he seems to be slowly weaning off nursing, and yet grimacing that these precious days are at their sunset. 

I will him to be a "normal" 6-month-old baby, and yet scared to death for him to be so, because I know physically he is not ready. 

His 6-month-appointment was typical.  He's 75th percentile for height (over 27 inches) and 25th percentile for weight (16.8 lbs).  He can roll over from his tummy to his back, although not consistently.  He has not rolled from his back to his tummy.  His only real method of moving around is that he "shimmies" on his back, to and fro, using his heels as traction to propel his little body backwards and sideways. 

He loves food, any kind of food.  He has yet to turn his nose at any fruit or vegetable I've given him.  For that reason, he is easily distracted when nursing, and really doesn't care for a bottle.  But he starts panting the moment he sees the food come his way. 

Apparently, the doctor says this is a good thing. 

His eyes have remained a dark blue.  Since neither Tygh nor I have blue eyes (each green), this must be the recessive genes coming through (both our moms have blue eyes).  The doctor says it is unlikely the color will change at this point, but I'm less optimistic.  Brae had blue eyes still at 6 months, and now they are hazel.  Sienna also had dark blue eyes at this time, and strangely, hers lightened to a sky blue/grey. 

He remains the easiest, most chill baby ever.  We are constantly getting comments like, "Is he always like this?"

Yes.  Since he was about 2-3 months old, he's been like this.  He takes after his dad. 

In fact, the only evidence that he belongs to my gene pool is his ears.  They are small. 

That's about it.  Everything else is all his daddy. 

He and Brae have a very special, unique bond.  Brae is the only person that, to this day, can get him to really belly laugh. 

He and Sienna also share a remarkable relationship, but I'd say it is more like pet and owner than brother and sister.  Sienna notices him occasionally, pets his head, and moves on, as he gazes longingly after her. 

I went back to work last week and Graem also did superb.  In fact, I stopped calling the daycare after the second day because I kept getting the same report.  "El es muy tranquilo.  No llora.  Muy facil."  (He's very calm.  Doesn't cry.  Very easy.).

Yup, that's just Graem.

We've come along way since the NICU.

 

Graem and Sienna at his check up.  Sienna helped console him after his shots. 

Afraid of 2015.

As dawn breaks on the start of a new year, the fear of the unknown can be very sobering.

I remember like it was yesterday being in the throws of infertility, and the bittersweet taste of what a new year could bring.

There was hope, sure.  But there was also the fear that all hope was lost.

There was anticipation, definitely.  But there was also the pit in my stomach that grew with the thought that I was only to be anticipating more disappointment.

And there was excitement, of course. But there was also an overwhelming shroud of anxiety that my excitement would give way to agony.

As we step into this new year, I have two dear friends, unknown to each other, but linked by infertility.  One just discovered she is pregnant with twins.  The other is still, well, just still waiting for that other dark line to appear.

Although I'd like to say that infertility is behind me, it has left some very real and tangible scars in its wake.  The blessing of those scars is that the experience of infertility has given me a platform.  I can talk with others who are going through it without just pretending or speculating.  I've been there, and I can relate to every single emotion they are feeling.  And, because the worst of it is over for me, I can also share with others the hope that can come when this season is over.

For some, the season will turn with the birth of a child.  For others, the season will turn with the adoption of a child.  For others, the season will turn when they are consumed by contentment with their present circumstances, whatever they may be.

I am grateful for the three little blessings God has given my family.  And yet, there is still mourning over how those blessings came about.  But, that mourning does not last for long.  Because, those blessings could only come about in the way that they did. 

When I start to dwell on the fantasy children that I could have had, I stop almost immediately.  Because those fantasy children were never going to come.  God had planned, since the beginning of time, for these three children to be mine.  There are no others, at least not here on earth.  And, in His amazing providence, these three children were destined to come about in the way that they did.

So, as dawn breaks on the start of this new year, I remember being afraid of so many other new years, and what untold secrets they held.  And, right now, as I hear the first bird of a new year greet the morning with singing outside my doors , I close my eyes in gratitude that those fears are behind me, and look up to heaven in awe of the blessings bestowed. 

White Christmas.

We rarely get a white Christmas in Portland, Oregon.

This year was no exception .

So, the following day, we took our tribe up to  meet our extended tribe at a cabin in the mountains.  Although no snow greeted us upon arrival, we awoke the following morning to a blanket of shimmery white.

It made the whole trip worthwhile. 

Brae, Sienna, and Graem enjoyed a fun-filled weekend with their cousin siblings, and it warmed my heart to see them play (and yes, even fight) together.  They are making memories that will last the lifetime, and for that, I'm truly grateful.

It finally happened.

After more than 13 years since they allowed their precious remaining nine embryos to be placed in a vial, and frozen for an unknown period of time, it happened. 

After more than 7 years since they allowed these same precious embryos to be shipped off to a facility to be adopted by an unknown family, it happened. 

After more than 4 years since they learned that although each of their embryos had been adopted,  only one had survived, implanted, and was growing, it happened. 

After more than 3 years since they learned that that one precious embryo had been birthed as a baby girl, some 2,500 miles away, it happened.

On December 16, 2014, the unknown became known.  For this family, and for this girl.

It happened.

Sienna met her genetic family.

It is so hard to describe this moment.  It was surreal.  It was beautiful. It was a moment placed in time by the hands of God himself. 

Each of us had traveled hours to be there, and so much more.  We were at one of Florida's amusement parks. Tygh and the kids and I were coming out of a stage show.  The genetic family was going to meet us outside. 

I spotted them immediately.

I clutched Sienna on my hips, and walked briskly toward them.

I was so excited.

We hugged.

I showed off my daughter to them.  Their blood.

I was proud.

I watched as they studied her face.  Her delicate features.  Her curly blond hair.  Her aqua blue eyes.  Her rosy, plump cheeks.  Her rosebud lips. 

They studied her.  Searched her face and features for recognition.  Similarity.  Familiarity. 

They smiled.  It was as if they could see the resemblances, and yet knew that she was different.  Knew that although the same blood raced through each of their veins, she was a unique person.  Not their child.  Didn't belong to them.  And yet, she was still family.

For the next many hours, we toured the parks together.  I tried to maintain a comfortable distance from Sienna and them, allowing them to get to know her.  To experience her. 

Tygh and I have been through this before, in a sense, with Brae's birthfamily.  We are comfortable enough in our relationship to each of our children to know that the parental bond between us and them will never be broken.  So it is not at all threatening to allow other members of their extended family to really enjoy being with them without us hovering above.

I watched as Sienna bounced her way from exhibit to exhibit, blissfully unaware of the magnitude of what was happening around her.  In one moment, I watched as her genetic mother followed her into a crowd.  As we've grown accustomed to, people fawn over Sienna.  One woman turned to Sienna's genetic mother and asked, "She's beautiful.  Is she yours?"

"No," she replied.

It was a strange and yet, comforting, moment for me to witness. 

It is an odd thing to claim any child as belonging to you.  Children, as with any other blessing, is a gift from above.  On loan to us.  For a time. 

As Sienna's mom, I am her steward.  She is mine to take care of.  But, in our view, she belongs to God.  Perhaps that is why we have always been comfortable with our role as adoptive parents.  Not threatened by birth families, or genetic families. 

Scientifically, there is no reason why Sienna was not transferred to her genetic family, and birthed into life through them.  She could just have easily been chosen by the reproductive endocrinologist as one of the embryos transferred to her genetic family. 

However, from a God-perspective, Sienna was always to be given to us.  From the beginning of time, God knew she would be a child placed into our family, in just the manner that she was. 

So, it was comforting for me to witness that her genetic family recognized that.  I felt a twinge of sadness for her genetic mom that she could not claim Sienna as "her own," and yet, comforted by that same acknowledgement. 

We ended the evening by sitting down for a meal together.  I reveled in the majesty of the moment.  All of us, brought together through the unique beauty of adoption, lost in quiet conversation about each of our children. 

Sienna's genetic mother and I spent most of that meal talking about the similarities between Sienna and her genetic sister, who were each created in the same IVF cycle.  They are so much alike.  Not so much physically, but definitely in personality.

Sassy.  Imaginative.  Creative.  Definitely march to the beat of their own drums.

I was comforted that Sienna would likely be able to relate to her genetic sister as she gets older. 

The evening came to a close and it was time to part ways.  We mentioned that we may be finding ourselves in their neck of the woods in the next few years, which brightened their faces. 

We hugged again, and my heart was full.

We had made an important connection, not only for Sienna and her genetic siblings, but for the donors who lovingly parted with her so many years ago.  And, for us, who chose open embryo adoption for exactly moments like this.

It happened.

Parenting Styles

I took a quiz last week about parenting styles.  There were four different types of "moms" described: 1) the "tiger" mom, one who strives for success and high achievement in her child, 2) the "attachment" mom, who encourages inter-dependence between the parent and child, 3) the "helicopter" mom, who regularly "hovers" over her child, and 4) the "free range" mom, who encourages self-confidence through independence.

First, let me start off by saying that none of these parenting styles, in my opinion, is "wrong" or "bad."  I believe most parents strive to do their best for their child, and that the most effective parenting style comes about organically.  If you as a parent do not feel comfortable with a certain parenting style, it is never going to work for you.

I have friends who fall into each of these categories.  And, I admire traits in each of their parenting styles.  I am, however, most comfortable around my mom friends who have the same style as I do.  That's probably only natural.

I am a "free range" mom.

I've known this for a while, although others have referred to it as "natural consequences" parenting, or even "laissez faire" parenting.  One dear friend even told me I was the most "lax" parent she knew. 

I'm still not quite sure how to take that one.

This is not a style that set out to wear, it just kind of developed over the last six years of being a mom.  It's a little ironic, because in many areas of my life, I have a Type A personality.  But, when it comes to being a mom, I let go of a lot control.  I allow my kids to have a long leash.  From a pedagogical perspective, I recognize I'm not raising kids.  I'm raising adults.  For me, the goal of childhood is to raise well-mannered, God-fearing, respectful, responsible, and functioning contributors to society.

That means that I need to allow them to do things on their own.  A lot of things.  I need to trust them.  I need to trust myself that I've equipped them with the tools to be successful.  They need to try.  They need to fail.  Then, they need to gain the confidence to try again, or, to learn to not do something again, as the case may be.

Some examples of this are that I encourage my kids to do things for themselves.  They want a sandwich? They make it.  They want to play at a friend's house?  They go knock on their door.  They wake up before us on a Saturday morning? They entertain themselves.  They want to run around outside in bare feet and play in the mud puddles? Have at it.  They break a toy because they were playing with it too rough? It goes in the garbage.  They want to climb up the slide (despite numerous cautions that it is dangerous to do that), and they slip and get a bloody nose? I have a tissue.

Sure, this parenting style may have led to a few more scrapes, bruises, and trips to the ER than other kids, but I'm ok with that. 

I'm ok with it because I've also regularly been told that my kids are very independent and self-confident.  I am proud of that.

I think the natural criticism of this parenting style is that it is negligent or, worse, dangerous. 

I see that, but I'm not a Pollyanna.  I know we live in a world where kids get kidnapped, strangers carry knives, and cars drive too fast.

I have a dear friend who I would also classify as a "free range" mom, and her style, quite frankly, scares me.  I would even go so far as to say that I am a little nervous whenever she watches my kids without me.   But, I will also say that her kids are even more self-confident and independent than my own, and I admire her for that.  She is raising good adults.

Because I am not naïve to the world in which we live, I take on traits of a "helicopter" mom or an "attachment" mom when it is appropriate.  For the first two weeks Brae started kindergarten, I secretly followed his school bus in my car, and tip toed behind him to his classroom, to make sure he got their ok.  Every night, I stay up after my kids have gone to sleep to make sure they put themselves to bed ok, and haven't fallen asleep on the floor (which has happened).  When they walk over to a neighbor's house, I text the neighbor before they arrive to let me know they made it safely. 

This is just responsible parenting. 

And, regardless of your parenting style, if your child feels safe, loved, and is entrusted to a responsible adult, I'm pretty confident they will turn out just fine. 

In one week.

In just over a week, Sienna will come face to face with her genetic family.  She will look into the eyes of the loving husband and wife who helped create her, and then selflessly donated her to bless another family.  She will touch, for the first time, her genetic siblings, whom she was created with, more than a decade ago.  They are 13; she is 3.

I am so excited.

I am not nervous. At all.  I have nothing but pure joy and anticipation that this moment has finally arrived.

No, Sienna doesn't know what is going on.  But it is all about her. 

We hope this will be the first of several meetings over her life.  The beginning of a lifelong relationship. 

Just as there is no playbook for embryo adoption in general, there is definitely no playbook for what to say, do, or think the first time you meet your daughter's genetic family in person.

In so many ways, it is a lot like when we met Brae's birthfamily for the first time.  But, in so many more ways, it is completely different.

When we first met Brae's birthmom, she was 7 months pregnant.  She had seen our profile online, and whether she chose us to parent the child within her was completely up to her.

Little did we know at the time, but she was dealing with her own emotional roller coaster and questions about placing for adoption the child growing within her.  I remember being so nervous, I couldn't eat the plate of food in front of me. 

When we first met Brae's birthfather and his family a month later in the delivery room, there was solemn sadness.   There were mixed emotions - for all involved.  And, over the last six years, it has been an exercise in building a relationship between us and his birth family.  It has been a blessing, no doubt, but we've had to build trust between us because of the nature of the circumstances in which Brae was born into. 

We have never spoken to Sienna's genetic family.  We have exchanged videos, texts, and pictures.  They have sent Christmas gifts and birthday gifts each year for Sienna. 

I remember the first time we came across Sienna's genetic family's profile.  We had reviewed 6 others, and not one captured our attention. 

But, theirs was different.  For one, they attached a picture of their family.  For another, we had so many common interests from how we liked to spend our spare time, to what kind of music we liked.

Tygh and I reviewed their profile separately and each decided they were our family.

We chose them, and then they chose us.

Sienna's birth was not accompanied by any fear that she might not go home with us.  There were no mixed emotions; there was just elation.

And, finally, in one week, she will get to experience what Brae has gotten to experience every year for the last 6 years. 

We chose an open embryo adoption to give our next child what Brae had.  We wanted our next child to have a connection to her roots like Brae had. 

In one week, Sienna will get to come face to face with more family. 

That is the beauty of embryo adoption. 

That is the beauty of an open embryo adoption.

Is it because he is adopted?

Last Tuesday was a hard day.

It started with (yet another) email from Brae's kindergarten teacher.  He was acting out in school.  Again.  Throwing things.  Being "mean" to other kids.  Acting silly.  Obnoxious.

Tygh and I were discussing appropriate consequences just as Brae was walking through the door.  I opened his backpack to discover (yet another) note from Brae's extended kindergarten day teacher about more unacceptable behavior.

I about lost it.

Not angry. 

Sad.  Disappointed.  Embarrassed.

We don't model this behavior for him.  We don't teach it.  We don't preach it.

So why is he acting out?

Nothing has changed at home.

I went for a walk to clear my head.

That's when the small nagging voice that creeps up in moments like this began to get louder.

Is it because he is adopted?

I cried.

No, I reasoned.  That's not what this is about.

Right?

In my non-teary-eyed, logical state, I know, intellectually, that it is absurd to think that Brae's kindergarten behavior is because he is adopted.  Brae knows he is adopted.  We've never kept that a secret.  He sees his biological family once a year, and we stay in regular communication with them.  It's a beautiful, open relationship.

So I know that the "is it because he's adopted" inquiry is not grounded in reality.  Instead, it is rooted in insecurity.

My own insecurity that I'm not doing a good job at being his mom.  That, somehow, the fact that it is not my blood that runs through his veins is the cause of any misbehavior.  That, somehow, because I did not give birth to him will be the direct cause of him failing in life.

Absurd.

Crazy.

Illogical.

But, still, it's a thought that creeps up in my moments of weakness.

When I got back from my walk, Tygh came up to me.  He had news.  He and Brae had a talk.  Tygh was trying to get to the bottom of his behavior.  Why was he acting out at school?

As a 6-year-old, Brae didn't have a lot of answers.  He couldn't really explain his behavior.

As a parting question, Tygh asked if there was anything he could do to help him - with anything.

Brae looked up at him with big, doe-eyes, and said, "Daddy, I can't read.  Other kids in my class are reading big-kid books. I can't."

My heart sank all over again. 

I knew he had been struggling to read.  I didn't know that he felt an inferiority because of it.

Insecurities flooded me all over again.  But, this time, I knew this couldn't be explained because he was adopted.

It's explained by him being just a little boy.  A kid.  A competitive kid.  In a high-performing school.  Coming face-to-face for the first time with a feeling of peer inadequacy.

I cried all over again.  Because, as his mom, adoptive mom or not, I cannot protect him from this feeling, or feeling it again.

This is life. 

And it's hard.

A Great Idea.

I saw another adoptive mom post on her Facebook page today a truly great idea.  I was so inspired, I literally put my blow dryer down, and walked out to the computer, hair still wet.

This mom set up an email account for her daughter.  She is going to give it to her, and the password, when she is 18.  From now until then, she is going to send emails to her daughter.  On her 18th birthday, her daughter can read these memories, some 17 years in the making.

I was inspired.

I immediately set up accounts for Brae, Sienna, and Graem. 

Then, I sent them their first email:

Hello Brae, Sienna, and Graem!

I hope this email finds you well!

Mommy is starting a little adventure. I've created these email accounts for you.  On the day you move out of the house and start your own next chapter of adventure, I will give you these email accounts, along with the passwords.

Over the next many years, I'm going to be writing to you.  So, if you look in your inbox right now, you should have many, many, many emails from me over the years.  Every time I've wanted to write to you, I did, sending you an email.  It's my way of speaking to you over the years, and sending you photos, etc.  I hope you will treasure reading these emails as much as I know I will sending them to you.

I'm so excited for this and I want you to know YOU ARE LOVED.  By the God of the Universe, and by your Mommy and Daddy.


xoxoxo

Private Pain.

At church, we are going through a series about social media and its role in each of our lives.

This series has re-opened my eyes to the deluge of social media in my life, and caused me to wonder a little more about the person behind all those "selfie" posts.

I don't take selfies.  Or, at least I don't consider them selfies.  Someone else takes the picture, so it's not a selfie, right?

I used to be someone who basked in the limelight. Loved attention.

Not anymore.  Perhaps it was the pain of infertility for so many years, or perhaps it is just the maturity that comes with age, but I'm much more introspective than I used to be.  I've retreated from the limelight for the comfort of a more subtle glow. 

I prefer to be the observer than the observed now.

I have hundreds of friends. At least according to Facebook.

In reality, I have a handful of friends I feel truly comfortable around.  Who know my joys, my sorrows, my fears, my delights, and who have walked beside me in my private pain.

Infertility being the biggest private pain I've ever suffered.

Sure, I've been very open and very public about our infertility.  But, unless you've been through it, it is still a very private, raw, deeply personal pain.  I'm not even sure my husband could relate to the vacancy I felt when I was in the throws of infertility.

I'm not even sure I could recognize today the person that I was then.

I can look back at pictures from during that time.  Pictures of me, with a smile on my face.  Hiding a broken heart.

I know I'm not the only one who has concealed private pain behind a beautiful shade of red lipstick.

In fact, I'm pretty positive that when I pull up Facebook tonight, I'll find a dozen other "friends" who are masking their own private pain.

I may never know exactly who they are at any given time, or what exactly they are hiding, but there are some things I can do to connect with them in their time of distress. 

I can be real.  I can be honest.  I can share the joys of my world without bragging about them.  I can celebrate the goodness of life without acting like I'm the cause of it.

I can be grateful.

There is a saying that no one will ever remember all the things you said to them, but they will always remember the way you made them feel.

I try to keep that in mind every time I go online, and comment on someone's post or picture, or share a "status" of my own.

Humility.  Gratitude.  And most of all, a little sense of humor.

Even if I, too, am hiding some private pain.

Graem's 4 month checkup

I breathed a huge sigh of relief coming out of Graem's 4-month-checkup.

After a bumpy start to life, he is finally on par with other full-term babies.  He weighed in at 13.9 lbs (60th percentile, age adjusted), and is in the 75th percentile (age adjusted) for height at over 25 inches.

He also laughed the entire visit. 

He's not yet rolling over, which many 4 mothers are, so there is a bit of his prematurity showing there. 

The doctor gave the "go" for solid foods, and I headed straight to the grocery store.  I love shopping for baby food. 

We tried carrots first.  And, I think maybe he got a total of one teaspoon in his mouth. 

He's sleeping between 5-8 hours straight at night, and averages 4 naps/day.

He loves going on runs in the stroller with me.

He adores playing with his older brother.  Sienna still mostly keeps a safe distance from him.

He loves to be tickled on his inner thigh, and his collar bone.

He loves baths.

He is the kind of baby that makes you think you could do another 3 more.

Dot, dot, dot. 

Sigh.

Here he is on Halloween, wearing the same costume Brae wore home from the hospital.

Halloween Baby.

Today is Brae's 6th birthday.  In honor of my Halloween baby, I thought I'd share his birth story for those who may not know.

We had been on the adoption wait list for nearly 7 months before we got the call that Brae's birthmom had seen our profile and wanted to meet us.  She was the first birthmom who had actually wanted to meet us.  We'd had numerous "false starts" before her. 

We drove nearly 3 hours to meet her for the first time.  It was September, and she was due in early November.  We met at a Mexican restaurant for lunch.  It was us, our case worker, her, her sister, and her mother. 

I remember thinking she was radiant.  A petite young girl, age 23, with a basketball under her shirt.  I was so nervous, I didn't eat a thing.

We all stumbled through the conversation, clearly in uncharted territory.  We gave her a small bag of gifts we had brought - magazines, books, little things to occupy her during her labor. 

At one point, she asked us if we had picked out names.  She had decided to not know the gender, so she asked if we had a boy and a girl name.

We told her we did not yet have a boy name, but we had a girl name.  It was Hannah.

The room fell silent. 

Oh no, I thought.  She doesn't like our name.  What could that mean? Will she still allow us to adopt this baby?

Then, she broke the silence with a smile.

"That's my last name."

Chills.  Up to that point, we had only known her first name.  To have our chosen girl name be her last name was truly a God thing. 

The next day, she chose us to be the family for the child she was carrying.

Fast forward a few weeks, and we got the call that she was going to be induced.  On Halloween.  It was a Friday.  The same as this year.

We had our last supper as a family of 2 (we hoped!), and drove the 3 hours down to the hospital.  We stayed in a hotel on October 30, and the next morning, went to the hospital.

She allowed us to be present for the labor and delivery.  When I walked in the room, she looked at me and smiled, "Are you ready to be a mom?"

I lost it. 

Over the next several hours, we talked with her and her family, prayed with her, and otherwise encouraged her as she made her way through the labor process.  At one point, she turned to us and said, "You know, I never asked if you had a boy name picked out."

Tygh and I looked at each other.  We had just decided the day before. 

"Well, it's a little unusual.  But we like Brae." 

Again, the room fell silent.  The familiar feeling of Is she going to like it? raced through my mind.

She again broke the silence with a smile.  "My middle name is Rae."

God was present.

I held her hand as she pushed our baby out, and then when the doctor revealed it was a boy, watched as they placed him on her abdomen.

I cut the cord.

Life breathed. 

Our birthmom is an incredible woman.  For many reasons.  But all could see it that day, from the nursing staff, to the doctors, to the caseworkers.

She allowed us to completely assume the role of his parents from literally his first breath.  We bathed him.  We fed him.  We changed him.  We held him.

And, as the night wore on, she asked if I would sleep in the room with her and Brae.

I did.

Not much sleeping went on that night, however.  She and I just talked.  It was magical.

The next day, she was discharged, and he was officially ours.

The hospital put him in a pumpkin costume, and we saddled up for the ride home.  I sat in the back with him, holding his hands the whole way. 

Six years later, and I haven't stopped.

Working Mom Guilt

I have posted about "Working Mom Guilt" before, and yet it is such a recurring theme in my life, it is never far from my thoughts.  This week was particularly challenging, perhaps because I think for one of the first times, my husband had Working Husband Guilt.

Sienna is in preschool.  Yes, I know even stay-at-home moms have their children in preschool, so I don't know why I associate Sienna's preschool experience with being a Working Mom issue.  I know it is not. 

And yet, every time I drop her off, I feel a sting of Working Mom guilt.

This week, Sienna gave me a good, healthy dose of it.

Three out of four days this week, when I dropped Sienna off, she melted in a puddle.  She even plastered her face and her hands up against the window, crying as she watched me drive away.

Knife. In. My. Heart.

Now, I know she loves her preschool.  She often scolds me when I pick her up, saying I've picked her up too early, she is not finished playing, or doing her crafts, etc. 

So what is it?  This has only become a recurrent theme in the last couple of months.

I think a couple of things.  One, she's there by herself.  I don't mean there aren't other kids there.  There are, including her best friend.  But she doesn't have her older brother anymore.  And, Graem is still at home with me while I'm on parental leave.  She's a sibling of three, flying solo.  And, as independent as she is, I think she misses being separated from her brothers.

The second thing is I think she misses me.  She has become more and more of a Mommy's Girl in the last several months.  She loves her dad, of course, but she is my shadow. 

So, Working Mom Guilt sets in.  As I left her at preschool this week, I'd just pray the whole way home.  That God would comfort her.  And me.

Tygh also got a healthy dose of Working Dad Guilt this week from Brae.  Tygh gets up early, before everyone else, and is often out the door before we are awake.  This week, Brae heard the garage door open as Tygh was getting ready to leave one morning.  He bolted out of bed, flew down the stairs, and raced to the garage just as Tygh was pulling out of the garage.  Tygh saw Brae, crying, reaching his arms out to him. 

Tygh stopped the car, parked, and came inside.  He carried Brae to the couch, who was inconsolable.  "I miss you, Daddy!" he wailed. 

Knife. In. My. Heart.

So where is this guilt coming from and what do we do about it?

I know that we are in the majority.  Two, full-time working parents.  Sure, one of us could stay home if we chose to.  Yes, we'd have to dramatically alter our lifestyle, but we could do it.

We have chosen, however, not to.  Tygh and I both love our jobs.  Our careers.  Our professions. 

We also dearly love our children.  The two are not mutually exclusive.  For me, I firmly believe I am a better mom as a working mom.  I am at my best when I feel fulfilled in my profession, and at home.  I need that balance.  My kids need me to have that balance.

But, I still feel guilty.  At times.  Not all the time, but at times. Like this week.

The ironic thing is that I'm not back to work full-time yet.  I'm still on leave, and have chosen to work part-time, from home.  So, yes, I could pull Sienna out of preschool (I suppose) and have her home with me, too.  I have chosen not to. 

And this is where some raw honesty comes in.  I want to be home, alone, with Graem.  I want Brae in school, and I want Sienna in school.  With Brae, it was just me and him, at home.  With Sienna, I kept Brae in preschool, and it was just me and Sienna at home.  I'm doing the same with Graem.  I need this bonding time with just him. 

I've accepted Working Mom Guilt.  So what do I do now?  Well, I've chosen to let some things go.  When the kids are home with me, I'm completely devoted to them.  The laundry sometimes stays in the dryer for days.  The dishes pile up in the sink.  The beds aren't made.  We've hired a housekeeper so I don't spend my weekends cleaning house.  I say "no" to other commitments that would keep me away from my kids. 

At church this week, the sermon was about living in the margins.  Creating more white space on your pages of life. 

I believe in that lifestyle mentality.

Because life happens in the margins.

Precocious

pre·co·cious

adjective \pri-ˈkō-shəs\

of a child : having or showing the qualities or abilities of an adult at an unusually early age

CloseStyle: MLA APA Chicago

 

Full Definition of PRECOCIOUS

1

:  exceptionally early in development or occurrence <precocious puberty>

2

:  exhibiting mature qualities at an unusually early age precocious

child>

 

 

This is Brae.  At least, according to his teachers.  I must admit, I had to look it up when they told me this is how they would describe him.  I didn't know if they were giving me a compliment or not.  (In truth, I still don't know).

 

You see, since Brae started kindergarten, we have been in regular communication with his teachers.  He throws pencils.  He can use potty words.  He has to be at the front of the line.  His paper has to be on top.

 

The teacher has a "behavior" chart.  Red is bad.  Yellow is a warning.  Green is good.

 

Guess where Brae has spent most of his kindergarten days.

 

When the teachers have called, asking for advice, I tell them the truth.  Yes, he's tired.  He's adjusting to a long day.  Yes, he is very smart, and if you do not keep him occupied, he will act out.  And, quite frankly, yes, he's a 5-year-old boy with a big personality. 

 

I don't want to break his spirit.  However, I also want him to get a job one day, get married, and stay out of prison.

 

So, we have been working on his behavior issues at home.  I'm told things improved last week at school.  "Improved" being the operative word.  "Improved" meaning he still got removed from gym class because he couldn't keep his hands to himself.  "Improved" meaning he still got removed from music class for using potty words.

 

Sigh.

 

Dear Brae's teachers, don't you see what I still see?

 

 

In two months...

In two months, we will meet Sienna's genetic family for the first time.  Face to face. 

In two months, Sienna will get to meet the genetic parents who chose life for her.  She will get to look into the eyes of her two fully genetic siblings.

And smile. 

We live in Oregon.  Sienna's genetic family lives in Ohio.  We've decided to convene in Florida. 

Disney World.

This trip has been in the makes for nearly a year  now, and we are beyond excited.  (Apart from the whole flying across the country with three small children thing). 

We have an open adoption with Sienna's family, and since her birth, we have regularly exchanged pictures, videos, emails, texts.  We are even Facebook friends.

This level of openness has probably been instigated mostly by me.  I am an open person.  Period.  And it is important to us that our children know their roots.  I'm just grateful that both Brae's birthfamily and Sienna's genetic family have welcomed this level of openness. 

But, we have never spoken on the phone with Sienna's genetic family.  Although we've heard their voices (via videos or recorded storybooks), I'm excited to hear their voice when they see our daughter in person for the first time and say, "Hi, Sienna!"

No, Sienna won't know what is going on.  And we haven't really shared the depths of Sienna's story with Brae yet. He wouldn't understand. 

But, we will take lots of pictures, and lots of videos, and we will make lasting memories.

And I hope this will just be the first of many visits over her lifetime.

There are a few.

There are a few people whom I would call "friends" in my life who still do not know the stories of Brae's and Sienna's journeys into our family. 

I had one such friend over yesterday for a playdate.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her.  We've known each other for over a year and I want to tell her about Brae and Sienna's adoption stories.  I want to tell everyone, because Brae and Sienna have the coolest stories. 

But, I hesitated.  And, by the time she left, I still had not told her. 

Don't get me wrong, I don't lie to anyone.  If I'm ever asked a straight up question that requires me to disclose that either one of them is adopted, I answer it truthfully.

But, I no longer volunteer.

Why?

Because, I've come to realize, Brae's story and Sienna's story are each their own.  They are not mine to tell. 

I've learned this more and more as Brae has gotten older, and developed friends outside my group of friends.  He has friends outside my circle of playdate friends.  He has friends at school, he has neighbor friends.  He is his own person.  He knows he is adopted, knows who his birthfamily is, and if he wants to share his amazing adoption journey, then who am I to trump that? Similarly, if he does not want to share his amazing adoption journey, or wants to select with whom he shares, again, that is his choice.  

As proud as I am of him, of Sienna, and of each of their journeys, I recognize that adoption is a highly personal journey.  Yes, I have my own part in that journey that I am entitled to share, but I have to be mindful that Brae and Sienna do too.  And, their choice to share may be different than mine. 

I need to respect that.