Dear Nathan,

I picked you up this morning to bury you in hugs before I had to leave for work and I could swear that you had grown taller overnight.

I think you're getting bigger, Little Man.

I swung you around and said, 'Not bigger!  You need to stay my little baby forever!" and then you tried to repeat what I said because that's just what you do right now and the way you said, "No bigger baby ever!" made me laugh.

But I do think you're taller and it scares me just a little because I JUST got you and I NEED MORE TIME.

I need the years we lost.

The years when you were in Haiti and I was here and the Haitian government didn't want to process papers so you could come home.

The years that I didn't know if you were OK and you didn't know if anyone cared and we both could have answered each others concerns but the governments wouldn't let us be together yet.

I need to rock you through your infancy and nuzzle your little neck as you start to crawl and swing you around as you chase me when you learn to walk.

We lost that, you and I.  But I want you to know that doesn't make us any less "one" than if we'd had it.

I can still snuggle you and wrap you up in my arms and relish the way you just seem to fit tucked into my shoulder.

I don't even mind the superbly toxic Chambers of Haitian Secrets that are your "stinky butts" (as Papa's taught you to call your dirty diapers).  I'll change them for a few more years if you'll just promise me that you won't grow up yet.

You are such a joy, Little Man.  You are a silly, wacky, busy, happy, stubborn, temper-ridden ball of goodness.  And I can't believe you're mine.

I have to admit that I am constantly in awe of you.  Sometimes I find myself staring at you and wondering how in the world you came to be and why I'm so blessed to get to be your Mama and if I'll ever get over marveling at how amazing you are.

This evening, I told one of my coworkers I needed to head home so I could see my son.

I don't think you'll ever know how amazing it is to me that I HAVE A SON.

You've done for me something that I couldn't do - you made me a Mommy.  I know that sounds silly and that no one can really make themselves a Mommy, but that's what I mean.

Things just didn't work.  And the doctors didn't know why and we didn't know why and I didn't know if I'd ever be a Mommy but you did and Heavenly Father did.

Now I know that I wasn't a Mommy yet because I needed that ache in my heart to grow and grow to where it carried me to you, clear across the country and over the water to the tiny island where you were... sitting... in a boring stuffy house that only had 3 bedrooms but had 68 kids and not enough not enough not enough.

"'Not enough' what?" you ask.

"Anything...Not enough anything."  Not enough room.  Not enough beds.  Not enough toys.  Not enough food.  Not enough love.

And then the earth moved and the buildings fell and hearts changed and they let us bring you home.

I love when we're playing on the floor together, both making "car noises" and driving your trucks, and you look up at me with the most vibrant, sparkling smile that seems to say, "Mama... this is the best day ever!"

I adore that crooked grin you get when something you were trying to do finally works and you're trying to pretend that you're not amazed yourself that it finally came together so you're trying to suppress the grin that is bursting to break out. Your "modesty" makes me giggle.

Today Papa taught you how to say, "Hello, baby.  What's your sign?" and then you called me at work to share your new pickup line.  I love the little inflection in your voice when you say, "Hel-low, BAY-bee", trying to imitate Papa's "fake sexy voice".

I chuckle that you think you can get out of going to bed by pretending the thing you need more than anything else in the world is a hug from Mama RIGHT THEN.

I'm so on to you, Little Man.

Of course, you'll still get the hug because you've been through horrible things and you've been on such a tiring journey to get to this place where you have your own room and you actually HAVE a bed.

We learned this last week of some of the other horrors that you and your friends from the O had to endure and I can't believe you're all sane.  You're strong, Little Man.  You're stronger than Mama, but Mama won't tell you that.

It's one of the rules, I think.  The Mamas are supposed to pretend like they're fine and not that their hearts are breaking over what you've already endured.  And I don't know what I can ever do that will be enough to make up for what you've had to live through.

But having you home... that's enough.

Just don't grow up yet.  I'm not ready.

Love,

Mama

Wishing and Hoping and Thinking and Praying

I heard someone speak today about trials. His mother died of complications from a liver transplant when he was 15. He made a comment while he was telling about the process they went through when his mom was trying to get a liver transplant that really struck me. He said they weren't religious at all, but you still get brought to prayer in a situation like that. But, at the same time, what is it you're praying for? It's not like you can in good conscience get on your knees and say, 'Dear God, please kill someone today so that I can get a new liver and live."

I kind of feel similar about our current situation (although neither of us has to physically die). Can I blame Bernadette for wanting to be the mom to her children? For heaven's sake - I want to be the mom to her children! We're much more similar than it might appear. I guess, in a way, we're each "the other woman" to the other. The one true threat. The one that makes you feel like less of a woman because she takes away your children. Bernadette is the only one with control in this situation, and yet ironically, she's the one that has the fewest options afforded her as far as what she's going to do with her own life. I don't know that she ever got to decide "what she wanted to be when she grew up." I would never want to live in Haiti and I'm forever grateful that I was born in America.

How do you have faith and move forward in this situation? Faith doesn't mean that we don't feel. Feelings are relative. We have good days (or weeks) and bad ones. I think we're supposed to grieve. It doesn't mean I don't have faith because I'm human and feeling. Faith does mean that I believe that somehow this will all work out. Whether or not that means that Lexi and Nathan are ever ours again - I don't know. There will be some sort of resolution at some point.

The only way I can think of to "have faith and move forward" is to book tickets for the trip in June and trust that by then, we'll have OUR children - whomever they may be.



We're grieving. We're also Wishing and Hoping and Thinking and Praying.

To Have and To Have Not

So, going along with Saturday's post... We had an interesting experience with Lexi when she was finally feeling up to eat solid foods.

I'd ordered some spaghetti noodles for dinner. Since there wasn't a lot of sauce, I figured it would be a safe bet for her to eat. I fed her some and sure enough, she chowed them down! Since she's 2 1/2, I assumed (never assume) that she'd want to feed herself. I proceeded to shovel some of the spaghetti onto a smaller plate for her.

And she started to scream.

I had no idea what was wrong and she was VERY upset. Our friend Chareyl (with Wasatch International http://wiaa.org/ ) said, "Feed her from the big plate again." I looked at her funny and she said, "just trust me." So I gave her another forkful from my plate. She immediately was at peace again. Like a switch had been flipped.

I looked at Chareyl, baffled as I couldn't explain what had just happened. She said, 'We see this all the time with kids that have been put in orphanages. She knows what it's like to be hungry and she wants to be sure she can have ALL the spaghetti if she needs it."

This mommy's heart broke.

I've heard parents who have adopted internationally say that their children will go to the pantry multiple times per day and just LOOK at the food - to make sure it's still there.

I pray and pray that we can get these children home soon, that their bellies may be full, their health may improve, their minds may be comforted as they learn what "home" means.

It's been 20 days since we've been able to hold and hug and kiss you.
Mommy and Daddy love you, Lexi and Nathan. Come home soon.

Ties That Bind

I took all sorts of toys to Haiti, hoping to be able to play with Lexi. I had no idea she was sick until we got there. She didn't want to LOOK at the toys, let alone play with them. I can't blame her. With everything her little body was going through (parasites, worms, ringworm, scabies....) she was exhausted and just wanted to rest.


I had purchased a little necklace and bracelet made out of brightly colored wooden beads. I had envisioned that she'd like to wear them and "dress up". She cried the day I tried to put them on her. And the next day when I tried again. It broke my heart that we couldn't play at all. I wanted her to have some pleasant memory of Mommy and Daddy.


The next to last day, I was holding her and rocking her when an idea struck me. I reached over and picked up the necklace and looped it twice around my own wrist. Then I set my wrist back down where she could see it and waited for a minute or two. Then I reached over for the bracelet and held it out to her. She lifted up her little arm and held it out for me to put the bracelet on. It was OK to wear it if Mommy was doing it as well. At least, that's how I chose to view it.



So, I still wear this bracelet. It reminds me of my daughter and I hope she's still wearing hers, 2800 miles away in Haiti.


I love you, Lexi. I hope we'll soon have happy memories together.

My Little Man

My little boy babbles, coos, dimples, sings, yodels, drools, grins, giggles and is generally just plain happy.

Given how sick Lexi has been it was a total blessing to have such a happy, cheerful, content little man. He and Daddy are deeply tied to each other now. He likes to touch Daddy's goatee when Daddy gives him a bottle. He loves Daddy to tickle him, play with him, or just plain hold him.

I hope I can hold onto how his soft, baby-fine ringlets feel when you stroke his head.

I want to remember the depths of the softness of his cheeks,

the squishy little rolls of nourished babyhood on his little thighs,

the crooked, blinking, lazy little smile he gives when he first wakes up or is almost asleep,

the way he starts to panic when Best Friend Thumb gets stuck in his blanket,

the strength he already has in his back and legs,

the perfectly stacked little corkscrews of his beautiful, black hair,

his dimples that he flashes most often for his Daddy,

his sparkling, bright, black almond eyes.

The first two nights we were home, Mommy would hear a noise and find herself jumping awake and feeling around on the bed for the child that needed comforting. I was actually disoriented when neither of you were there.

Our last night in Haiti, as he was putting Nathan to bed, Daddy broke down and said, "Daddy's going to miss you something terrible, Little Man. You are definitely someone special."

Mommy loves you, too, Little Man.

Come home soon.

Packages...

I may have mentioned earlier that Utah in January is not a good place to find children's clothing for tropical countries. I've even had trouble finding much on Target/Walmart.com.


Nathan's shorts arrived today. It's also terribly hard to shop for a child you've never seen. The last weight information I received for Nathan was taken when he was less than a month old. Methinks a child at his age may have possibly grown since then. A bit. Or more. There's really no clothing scale to tell me how much a newborn orphan in Haiti may weigh now. Our friend Nichole, (who has actually been to our orphanage and is escorting us on this trip) says that ours is about the "only Haitian orphanage with chubby-cheeked kids". It's still hard to say how big he is now. I ordered the closest I could find to "6 month" since he'll be almost 5 months old when we get there.


Lexi, I got your swimming suit today. It's pink and has flowers and ruffles. The hotel we're staying at has a pool. We can play together there as one of our first family activities.


I ordered the classic "Love You Forever" in French so the orphanage has a copy. I'm also taking our copy in English.




The optimist part of me wants to believe that you'll somehow be FINE with tall, white strangers taking you from the home you have now and smuggling you to a hotel for a week, Lexi. In the daydreams from that side of my mind, we get to snuggle up on the bed and read bedtime stories and I read this to you in English. I dream that even though you don't know the English words I'll be saying, you understand the feeling I'm trying to convey. In that dream, when we leave and the nannies at the orphanage have the same book and they read it to you in French, I dream that you'll possibly remember a bit about those bedtime stories and how safe you felt with Mommy and Daddy. Maybe you won't feel so far away from home. Maybe I won't feel so far away from you.


If, upon arrival in Haiti, reality drags my optimist-self out into an alley and pummels her senseless then at least the nannies will still have the French book. And knowing that I did SOMETHING to try to make things better until you can come home will help me feel not so far away from you.


18 days.

Yeah, Malaria!

Never in a gajillion years would I have guessed picking up malaria medication would make me happy. Well, today when Pharmacist Karen put that bag in my hot, little hand I felt another reassurance that this is really happening. To us. We're really going to Haiti. We're really going to be able to hug and kiss and tickle and hold and snuggle our babies.

It's funny how life turns out. I'd never guess that somewhere in Haiti were two little children that would give our hearts a purpose. They need us and we need them. Risking bizarre, tropical infectious disease doesn't seem too much to ask for this chance. It's like my own warped version of a holiday carol: "On, Yellow Fever! On, Giardia! On, Malaria! On, Typhoid!" (OK, it sounded better in my head, but what are you doing to do...)

So today, I'm thankful for malaria (and on the appropriate preventative medicines) for the reminder that I have that there's a greater purpose to all this. And that's what it's all about.

Sweet Sandwich...

Monday, November 26, 2007

My beautiful sister is 8 years younger than me. We shared a room from the day she was born. When she was about 3, and I was about 11 we had a little ritual of sorts. I'd tuck her into bed and then we'd say, "Good night.... Sweet dreams." to each other. One night, however, the exchange when a bit like this:

Lori: "Good night, Lindsay"
Lindsay: "Good night, Lori"
Lori: "Sweet dreams!"
Lindsay: "Sweet.... sandwich!"

... Silly Sis....

And thus a new tradition was born. "Sweet sandwich"... "Silly sis". I've been thinking about my own siblings and thinking about all those inside stories/random happenings that grow to hold a tender place in the Family Hall of Fame. They become a part of who we are and they help us relate to ourselves and each other. They create links and bounds that hold us to one another.

People say things like, 'you get that from your dad's side of the family" or "you said that just like your mom would have." In my family, we all have a wicked wit and I personally hold both my parents responsible for that.

I do wonder how that impacts adopted children - not just mine, but those in any situation. I started this entry by relating a story about my sister. My children will be able to develop a family identity at that level. How will they feel with respect to the unknown parents and grandparents. Lexi may, very well, laugh like her mother. But we'll never know that. Nathan may well like horses like a grandfather once did. We'll never know that either.

Tonight I'm thinking about what has defined my family and helped me feel secure in those relationships. The two things I keep returning to are "love" and "time". Good thing we've got plenty of those.

Sunday

It's amazing how many weird moments cause me to think about my children - these two little souls so far away that don't even know they have a new mommy and daddy waiting for them. I wonder what they're doing at different points of the day. Are they getting enough to eat? Are they healthy? Are they lonely? Does Lexi understand why she's in the orphanage? Is someone loving my Nathan to sleep? Does he sleep through the night? Who is meeting his needs? Is someone there to rock him back to sleep?

I hope that someone is there to wipe their tears and comfort them... to provide some love, even though it's not the unconditional, eternal kind we long to shower on them. I hope they sense that we are waiting and that we are theirs as much as they are ours.

I need to carry a notebook so I can jot down the random things that I need to remember to pack. I want to put my little girl in dresses, but I need to remember to make them lightweight cotton - no scratchy frou-frou and lace. Bubble bath... Goldfish crackers... Spray-on sunblock for my sweet, bald husband's head... Add it to the list.