“Well, your mom didn’t even want you so that’s why you had to get adopted!” I heard this coming from one of my kid’s bedroom. The next sound heard was that of my crying child. I ran to comfort my child. My husband following to hug our child, while I stood in the bedroom of the child to which those words were spoken. “Why? Why would you say that? That isn’t the truth – about you or any your siblings. We’ve never said that. All of you are adopted and loved and very much wanted. Don’t say that because the world is going to tell you that and it’s not true,” I said, while looking into my child’s eyes. My child looked right back into my eyes and said, “The world has already told me this.”
Taken back, stricken with a twinge of heart-pain, I reassured my children the truth that they are very much wanted and loved by all members of families – biological and non-biological.
Yesterday was World Adoption Day and this memory of a recent conversation just kept playing over in my mind. I chose to take a pic of my empty hand – no words or symbols. Nothing.
Because sometimes adoption seems so full of nothingness and overwhelmed by everything at the same time.
Because all of us (adoptive parents) can’t let it be about us – our wants and our needs.
Because every single day, we have to get up with a blank slate – one that we don’t pour our own expectations all over; one that we let our kids write their feelings on.
World Adoption Day is about bringing support and awareness for adoption by encouraging people to snap a pic of their hands with smiley faces on them. I certainly hope my lack of a smiley face or words on my hand suggests that I don’t support it. I do. I always will. There are plenty of smiling, joyful moments in adoption.
But sometimes, we have to be the blank slate – one that never turns away from our children’s feelings; one that gets rid of what we thought parenting would be like.
One that fully recognizes we have so much to learn.
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I’ve known for years that loss is often overlooked in adoption. I’ve seen it in my own family and the lives of others. This week, loss hit our home.
Legs shaking as I walked down the stairs to my child. “Hey, I need to talk to you about something,” I said.
My child looked up. “Uh-huh?”
“You’re not in trouble. I just need to tell you something. You know how your biological mother calls me from time-to-time?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, she left a message yesterday and I don’t want to wait any longer to tell you. Your biological father passed away this week.”
Silence. My child wouldn’t look up from the Ipad screen as I explained what I know and only what I know. It was my responsibility to tell my child the exact truth. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Adoption is our life experience, but I’m not in competition with your biological family. I care about them. I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes; to have a biological parent that I don’t know. If you ever need to talk or ask questions or any of that, I need you to know that it’s okay.”
“Okay”, my child said.
The truth is I’m just saddened about all of it. To be the one to tell my child about the passing of a biological parent breaks my heart open. I’ve sat in the reality that adoption is both a blessing and a burden.
A blessing that gives every single day.
A burden that continually humbles me.
Loss is paramount in adoption. Anyone who says differently needs to do a serious heart-check about it. While we acknowledge what is believed to be a God-ordained weaving of our family, we also mourn that we will never be able to replace what should have been for them.
God doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want families like mine to have to care for children like ours. He never intended for families to be broken by trauma, abuse, and absolute hardship. This reality smacks me. It breaks me.
When I say that loss is often overlooked in adoption, I mean it. When I say that loss is weaved into every fiber of it, I mean it.
I know it. I live it.
While adoption should be celebrated, at the same time, it should also cause one to consider the deep meaning and reasoning behind it all. I will never replace what my children have missed. I will never be their biological parent and fill that hole in their lives. This agonizes me.
But, I can do what I know needs to be done. I can be honest. Tell the truth. Be open and genuine.
I can welcome questions and console tears.
Barrenness dropped into my life. The only way to become a parent was through adoption. But, friends, the full measure of that emotional responsibility pricks my heart nearly every day.
Yes, loss is often overlooked in adoption but the truth is that loss is weaved into every fiber of it.
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It is easy to get caught up in our own stories; stories of overcoming something seemingly so strong, so encompassing that it envelopes most of our lives. I’ve been guilty of this with my own story of barrenness. Yet, it took one moment with my child to change my thinking. My story of barrenness will never nullify my children’s stories of adoption.
“Do you know where my Mom is?” I heard this question while driving. I knew what “mom” meant. “No. I don’t but if I did, I would tell you,” I said to my child. “Oh…”. Stillness. No other questions.
As we drove to our destination, the silence was thick. My mind swirled with emotions – wanting to grill my child where this question was coming from. I didn’t, though. Instead, I filled my own head with an internal conversation. “Why does it matter? I’m “mom”. I mean, I KNOW it matters, but I matter as well, right?“
Then, the thought hit me,
“Your story of barrenness is not more important than your children’s stories.”
That’s it. A huge pill to swallow. While I believe that a part of my testimony and refinement as a child of God relates directly to barrenness and that there is power in it, I also believe that the script of my life will never supersede the ones belonging to my children. I refuse to dismiss their histories, their need for knowledge, and the grief they feel now or may feel in the future. I refuse to be someone who is constantly getting caught up in my own story.
As an parent through adoption who has overcome barrenness, here are a few things I won’t forget:
I won’t forget that my children have a voice. They have a right to express their feelings about adoption – regardless if it hurts my feelings or causes a measure of doubt and confusion.
I won’t forget that they have histories before coming into my life. Whether that was 9-months in the womb only or a few months in other families, they still have a history that doesn’t include me.
I won’t forget that they may always long for their biological parents. This truth breaks my heart – not because I’m jealous or anything like that. It breaks my heart because I love my children so much and will never know what it is like to be in their shoes.
While illness and subsequent barrenness came like a rushing wind into my life and it took years to find my wings and fly with it, I won’t forget that none of this compares to the sadness and disruption that caused my children to become mine.
I won’t forget that my children are not “door prizes” for infertility and barrenness. I didn’t earn them because of the hardship I endured. They are far more valuable than that and each have their own personalities and struggles. Kids are not meant to be put on pedestals like some kind of trophy – regardless of how long it took or the avenue to which they came into our lives.
I won’t forget that my children are not really mine. I’m just borrowing them for this lifetime. I’ve been given the task of raising them, but honestly, they belong to the Lord. My desire for their lives will never compare to what the Lord desires for them. His will before mine. Can’t forget that.
Sure, the way the Lord weaved the tapestries of our lives with loss, joy, trauma and relief resonates with others. It may even propel people with similar stories to seek healing and resolution. This is all a truth that cannot be denied.
Still, though. When an adoptive parent (like myself) has a story full of pitfalls and long roads, it can seem like our personal narratives have greater value – like we are some kind of broken-hearted saviors for our children. This thinking can be a trap. It can fool us into believing that our struggles have more weight than the struggles of others.
As we make our way through the years (far removed from the days my children were legally declared mine), I’m becoming more fully aware that when we get caught up in our own stories, we miss the evolution and unfolding of the stories around us – sometimes even within our own families.
I don’t want to forget this.
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My child looked at me and said, “I’m not sure I was made for this world.”
Gut punch.
Eyes welled up.
I did my best to tell my child that there are moments throughout our lives (even as adults) when we wonder about our purpose. We hugged, shared tears and I whispered words of encouragement to my child. This wasn’t the first time my child has said something like this. I thought we had crossed that bridge; met that need, etc. However, that part of my child still leaks.
Parenting kids with extra needs feels like pouring into a broken cup that has a leak in it. No matter how often or how much you keep pouring, the cup never seems to fill up.
Take your favorite coffee cup (or, if you are one of those people who don’t drink coffee, imagine your favorite cup of the beverage of your choice). You love this cup. It has some sort of significant meaning to you. Each day, you greet this cup with joy because you know you can pour your stuff right into it.
Now, imagine if your favorite cup never seems to fill up. You search it and discover a small, ever-so-tiny, crack. You fix that crack and pour into it again. It seems to hold your drink just fine until you notice it leaking again. You search and discover a different crack. You patch that up because you just can’t stand the thought of never using your favorite cup again.
You get up each day with the hope of “This time, my cup will not leak.” Some days, it works! You jump for joy and savor each sip. You go to bed thinking, “Perhaps, I actually fixed it this time.”
The next day, you get up, pour the same amount into the cup, and…yikes. You are pouring into a broken cup. The cup not only leaks your drink all over the place, it literally won’t even hold a single drop. It gets messy. Sometimes, it leaks all over you. You get sad and angry and then sad again. You look at your cup and think, “I’m not giving up on you. I know you will hold liquid again” and then, you patch it up (again) knowing that you may have to repair it in the future.
This is what parenting kids with complex needs feels like; to constantly pour, fix, and pour again knowing that you will never be able to mend all the cracks.
Of course, I’m not comparing children to coffee mugs – at least, not literally. There are days where no leaks seem to appear and your child just goes along the day without any significant issues. You get a glimpse of normalcy.
Most days, though, life is not like this. Before anyone complains that I’m complaining, I truly hope you don’t think that. Although each day as a parent to three children with extra needs is challenging, I know that pouring into them – leaks or not – is worthy of the time and effort. However, parenting kids with extra needs is exhausting. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.
Observing other people’s children who always seem to have their cups filled and who are “winning” at friendships, academics and other aspects of life, can be downright depressing. It is NOT that we want other children to fail. Not at all. It is just that the issues that a lot of parents face or worry about pale in comparison to the issues of those of us who are raising extra-needed kids.
When one parent worries about whether her child will make the starting line-up of a sports team, we worry that our children won’t even be allowed to try out due to behavioral issues. When one parent complains about a child staying up too late watching YouTube, we struggle with children who literally can’t sleep without medical intervention. When we look at images of kids at birthday parties or other social events, we grieve that our kids are not invited to any parties.
The saying, “You can’t pour from an empty cup” is true, but it is hard to have a full cup when the ones you are pouring into have so many leaks. Our own cups get depleted – almost to the point that we don’t have anything else to pour out. Yet, we keep pouring into a broken cup. We keep hoping. We keep praying.
Considering this, I also look to the Lord. He sees me as a cup that is always needing to be repaired. I can be fragile. I have cracks. I need to be restored on a daily basis.
I can just imagine him saying, “Girl. We’ve fixed that. Don’t you bring that up again.” I can also hear him saying, “Girl. You are worth it. I will restore you each and every day. There is nothing that won’t cause me to repair you and make you whole.” He is pouring into a broken cup on a daily basis.
Those of us who have been chosen (because I believe that) to parent children with extra needs may question if we are meant for this parenting experience. Yet, we are.
Some days, we hold it all together. Other days, we leak like crazy. However, we are repaired and restored each day by the Lord so that we can do the same for His little soul vessels – our children – our beautiful and broken cups.
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Note: Our daughter’s adoption anniversary was on Monday but due to the flu bug (YUCK) hitting our home, I’m just now getting around to posting this on the blog.
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I think of this quote when parenting my kids. It is a great reminder when I’m struggling to manage the problems and issues we often face. I have also thought of it when considering my own actions.
Sometimes, I’m not easy to love. I absolutely admit that I can be a bit of a grouch at times. I can put expectations on my kids that are probably too high for their level of functioning. My feelings get hurt, I lose my temper, and I struggle to show grace – even when I am the one who probably needs it the most.
Last week at a doctor’s appointment for a recent back injury, my doctor asked me how things are going with the kids. I sat for a minute and thought, “Do I tell him the truth that life is hard or do I grin and say things are going fine?” The word “fine” has become the one I use when things really aren’t that fine. It gives a simple response to questions that I don’t want to unpack.
As much as I tried to keep it in, I couldn’t. The tears ran down my face as I explained the issues we are having and how I have been feeling and failing, lately. The funny thing (actually, not that funny) is when you are told “maybe tomorrow will be better”, deep down you know that it probably won’t be. Instead of offering a rallying cry to me, my doctor let me cry. Soon, he brought in a counselor they have on staff and she also just let me cry. It felt good to release it. I should probably do that more often.
Fast forward a few days from this appointment to my birthday (yes, I just turned another year older). My children were having a rough night. I’ve learned not to expect nights without behaviors – even on special occasions. As I opened my gifts, one of my children handed me a letter…
Dear Mom,
Thank you for sooo much for being graceful, and loving to me and for adopting me and helping me up when I’m hurt, cheering me up when I’m sad and you love me no matter what I do. Thank you for being my mom for the best years of my life.
Did you read that?
Graceful.
Loving.
Helping.
Cheering.
Best years of my life.
I cried as I read it and looked at my child. Soon, this child’s eyes were welling up as I opened up my arms for a big hug. I will hang on to this letter. I will read it over and over again during the good times and the bad.
It is hard to explain what it is like to raise children who struggle with lots of things – mental health, academics, behavioral issues, etc. From the outside, my kids look perfect. Their outside appearances do not match what is going on internally. Because of this, there are false perceptions made about all of us.
Having been down a bit from the past few weeks of challenges, I have been in need of a lot of grace. I have wondered in desperation if I was equipped to handle the arrows aimed in my direction and at my children. I have questioned if there will ever be a relief or a miracle or something that proves the heartaches and hardships will make sense one day.
Through a child’s words, I was offered that grace. It spoke straight to the heart. I was given the gift of encouragement and a glimpse into why it is so important to keep going. I was reminded of the need to offer grace, the feeling of being loved, the importance of helping and encouragement, and that (often) we parents are our children’s entire worlds. My child’s letter thanking me for the grace I have shown actually provided me with the grace I have searched for, lately. What a powerful moment it was.
Although my child wrote the letter, I see God’s hand all over it. I hear Him saying, “There you go…there you go. See? I told you it is worth it. You do matter. Your children matter. You may not see it every day, but your children do and so do I.”
Parents of children with extra needs, moments like the one I experienced reading my child’s letter may not come around very often. I know this. You know this, as well. We find ourselves not only managing the typical antics and activities of childhood but also managing the extra stuff; the kind that yearns to siphon whatever energy or hope we have left at the end of the day. Some days, it isn’t very much, is it?
We have to remember that we are making a difference even if we don’t see the results immediately. We must believe that even though a miracle may not occur, our actions, stability, support, and love are miraculous to our children. It is okay to admit our failures. It is totally acceptable to dwell in the knowledge that we are desperate for a measure of grace on any given day.
Keep going. Keep the faith. Even if you think no one is noticing, remember that your children are.
So is the Lord.
Praise Him for that.
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Here’s a little note on the adoption anniversary of our youngest son. Just a reminder that he’s not a burden.
A few nights ago, our oldest two kiddos were just not into it (meaning getting along, playing nice, communicating with us, etc). My awesome husband suggested I take our youngest son out to eat and that he would hold down the fort with our two older, cranky kids.
As my young son and I scarfed down our meal, I delighted in his whimsy. He is quite the character, says the most random things and dreams of being a rock star one day (insert my fear of him living in our basement as an adult).
Anyway!! As I sat and listened to him, I realized how lucky we are to have him as our son. We hadn’t planned on adopting again but life throws us a curveball and we chose to take the pitch. We hit the ball out of the park with this kid. I’m so glad we did.
Five years ago today, our adoption was finalized. As we celebrate Thanksgiving today, we are thankful for being his parents. Children are a blessing, not a burden (even on the hard days).
P.S. I’m totally fine with him being a rock star one day as long as he can pay his own bills…
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As a parent to kiddos adopted out of difficult situations, here are the things I wish I heard prior to adoption:
1) It’s not gonna feel good all of the time. 2) Nurture is awesome, but genetics are huge. 3) You might have days where you wished you had made a different decision. (don’t guilt yourself about it)
4) Raising children with extra needs causes you to live life around a schedule of medicines, appointments, triggers, and other issues.
5) It does hurt when you are told that you are not their “real parent”. (even though you pretend it doesn’t)
6) Fear causes you to overthink…a lot.
7) There will be things that come up in your child’s life that you never had to deal with.
8) Don’t compare your own upbringing or the way you were as a child to what you expect or wish of your child.
9) Adoptive parenting can be very lonely and isolating.
10) Don’t underestimate your voice in all of it.
11) Never underestimate your child’s voice in all of it.
12) Get used to advocacy. It will become one of your best assets.
13) Adoption = loss. It just does.
I never want to paint a rosy or perfect picture of adoption – not even during National Adoption Month. Instead, I want others to know that while adoption is incredible and totally life-changing, it is also hard.
In order for us (people who work and live life within the realm of adoption) to make a difference, we need to take off our rose-colored glasses. We need to tell it like it is.
We have to understand that adoption is wonderful but also challenging. The gavel’s declaration of adoption does not mean that hard stuff ends. If anything, it is just beginning.
For any of you who are parents through adoption and are struggling, I see you. I get it. I am right there with you. These things are what I wish I heard prior to adoption, but I’m thankful to have learned them along the way.
Keep your chin up. Keep it real.
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November is National Adoption Month in the US. We set aside this month to focus on adoption stories as well as the plight of many children waiting for families. I’ve been an “official” adoptive parent now for a little over ten years. We’ve stretched out of our comfort zone, dealing with issues that we never thought we would face, and we’ve laughed…a lot. To say I’ve learned a lot is an understatement and there are several things I would tell my (pre) adoptive mother self.
Even on the hardest days – the ones where we have really struggled – my husband and I do not regret our decision to adopt our children. We would have missed so many precious moments.
Ones like this,
Or, this one…
Thinking back to my “(pre)adoptive mother self”, I totally wish I could say that I was 100% prepared for parenting – not just parenting in general, but adoptive parenting. I know that there are many similarities, but I also know there are many differences.
If could go back, here are a few things I would tell my (pre) adoptive mother self:
When the gavel falls and adoption is declared, that is when the real work begins. Meaning, adoption can get much harder. Sure, there are difficulties getting to the place where you are on the eve of adoption, but oh boy, all of the trials we experienced during that time seem kind of trivial compared to some of the issues we now face on any given day.
Don’t take it personally. There is a special kind of guilt that seems to tag along with adoptive parenting. It is hard to not take things personally when you witness your child struggling or when your child says things to you that take your breath away (I’m not talking about the sweet statements, although there have been some of those). When you work tirelessly advocating for and managing your child’s life to the point of not being able to capture just a glimpse of forward movement, it is hard to not take it personally. Just don’t. Or, at least, try not to.
Listen. Like, REALLY listen to others who have walked in the shoes you are about to walk in. Learn what you can about trauma (in the womb and out). Be prepared to have a host of professionals in your life (doctors, specialists, teachers, therapists, etc). Definitely advocate and ask questions but also choose to listen and learn. It will serve you well.
It is not going to feel good all of the time. The reality is that parenting (of any type) can break your heart from time-to-time. With adoptive parenting, the things that break your heart tend to be ones that you really do not fully comprehend and certainly cannot control. I’m talking about genetic issues that come into play as the years go on. I’m speaking of the damage done in the womb that is hard to explain to someone. I’m thinking of the challenges that you never faced growing up but now dwell in your home because your children face them. Nope. It does not feel good all of the time.
No matter what, don’t give up and don’t you dare second-guess your importance in the life of your children. Don’t do it. Never do it. Your kids need you. They don’t need another set of parents to not come through. It will get rough. You will think, “Am I really being the best parent I can be? What if I didn’t answer that question the way my child needed me to? Maybe, I’m the problem? What if I tried a little harder?” These questions have circulated in my mind a lot through the years. They are made up of guilt mixed in with a sliver of grief. Just don’t go there.
Looking back to my “(pre)adoptive mother self”, I totally thought I was prepared for all of this. I thought I had a grasp of trauma-informed parenting, adoption issues, loss and grief, and a whole host of behavioral issues. I totally was not. I can’t even pretend that I was.
Yet, would I do it all again? Absolutely.
Can I imagine a life without my children? No way.
Without (foster parenting) and adoption, I could have missed this:
There are plenty of things I would tell my (pre) adoptive mother self, but perhaps the best thing is not missing any of these moments.
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I wrote an article for Adoption.Com recently regarding the lessons I’ve learned from my children. It seems that as each year unfolds, I find myself learning more and more about children, adoptive parenting, parenthood (in general) and myself. Thank, goodness!
1. Children have the desire and right to know where they came from.Adoption is a part of our language. Despite the openness or maybe because of it, our children feel comfortable about asking us questions. They know we may not have all the answers, but we welcome their questions. My kids taught me that history is important, and it is okay (more than okay) to want to seek it and understand it.
2. Children don’t expect perfection. They yearn for presence. I have found myself comparing the parenting of others to my own. I have carried guilt and grief over not showing my best side all the time to the kids. The truth is that my children do not expect the “best of me” all the time. Instead, they just need “all of me”—my time, my love and my presence.
3. Resilience matters. My children did not have the best start at life. They each suffered less-than-ideal womb experiences (and describing it that way is being gracious). They each have struggled in various settings, socially and academically. We have had multiple specialists, medication regimes, and evaluations. Despite a few odds being against them, they are all incredibly fierce in their own ways. My children have shown me resilience, and I do my best to show it to them as well.
4. Love is greater than biology. I know that seems like a no-brainer, and if you are a parent through adoption or provide foster care, you live in this truth. It is hard to fully explain to people, who question the ability to love a child not born of them, how deep and true loving an adopted child is. Sure, there are areas and kinks that must be worked out. There might be lots of behavior problems and attachment issues, but sometimes, these things only deepen the feeling of love and protection. I have experienced this and continue to do so as my children get older.
5. Parenting does not have a one-size-fits-all standard. In our family, we allow certain things to fly. Our schedule is different. We are stricter about bedtime than other parents we know. We must advocate in a different way per the needs of our children, and we discipline in ways that others may not understand. It is not wrong, and it may not be completely right, but it is what our children need.
6. Adoption is a humbling experience. The statement, “Those kids are lucky to have you” often stops me in my tracks. Sure, they are safe, and we do our best to provide them stability and love, but I do not consider what they have experienced in their lives to be lucky. Instead, the reasons they needed adoption are heartbreaking. I know that while my husband and I strive to be the kind of parents our kids need, we will never be able to replace who their biological parents are, nor do we want to. So, yes. Adoption is humbling.
BARREN TO BLESSED 