Reminiscing

'Tis the season.  The Christmas Tree with her ornament on it.  The weather that reminds me that we were nearing the end of our time with her.  I look back on that time with my "other daughter", and the reality of her loss with an understanding today I did not have at the time.  I know that if we had been able to keep her, we would never have the daughters we have today.  I don't know how to fully come to terms with that reality, but I do know that is what it is. 

There is no choice to make.  It's not a matter of who is more loved or who is more valuable, it simply is the reality of loss.  I loved her fully, and I love my daughters fully today.  Without the first, we would have never considered being willing to parent more children again. Because of her, we knew we could and because of her presence, and then her absence, we were willing.

But it certainly isn't as simple as the two replaced the one and life went on.  It's isn't an equation of sum totals of love.  It's apples and oranges or broccoli and spinach or Holland and France.  Equal yet fundamentally different.  Similar yet opposite.  It is truly the unexplainable.

I couldn't share last year's picture with you then, but I sure can now.  And I can share my daughters and how they grow.  Life is truly amazing.

In case you can't tell from the pictures, they are rambunctious, busy, totally adored handfuls of perfection.

Why Blog?

Treading that fine line between being a fun, but rather boring mommy blogger that discusses my cute kid antics and my big kid hockey successes and being an Adoption Blogger that talks about the reality of parenting children in a complicated world with complicated issues is something I face every time I log in. 

There is a part of me that wishes I was more anonymous because it is impossible for me now to write about some of the more difficult parts of our journey because of the necessity of protecting my children, and our family in this community of readers from judgement, or worse, pity.  There are too many friends, family members, teachers and peers that read and so I choose to edit myself.

I could share about endless missed visits, ignored letters and of my anger and frustration of children not deemed important enough to make an effort to know.  I could talk of a normally stoic child clutching a photo of a birth parent while sobbing hysterically over the reality of how abandonment by the one person in the world who is supposed to love you forever really feels, and how it feels to be the other mother of the same child.  I could talk about how awful bullying is and how awful it is to be the parent of the bully and at the same time understand your child is doing the best they can due to no fault of their own.  I could talk about crazy reactions to medications, and how to advocate for your child with doctors and teachers and therapists.  I could talk about screaming fits that make you wonder if the neighbours are going to call the police this time, or wait until your child actually breaks a window.  I could talk about violence and aggression inflicted on a parent or a smaller sibling by a child whose brain has been affected by the choices of their birth parent.  I could talk about typical teenage parenting issues amplified by kids with extraordinary experiences.  I could talk about watching for developmental delays praying that the inevitable diagnosis might just be wished away. 

I could, but I can't because I am not brave enough.

However there is a need for writers courageous enough to share the reality of parenting extraordinary children honestly and with courage.  They are needed because those of us living this need that support.  We need to know that we are not alone in this journey.  That our children, however exceptional, are normal in their experience.  We need resources and ideas, concern and friendship that these brave bloggers provide through their community of sharing.

One such writer is my friend Rachel (aka Tudu / Tudusamom).  I have known Rachel for several years now through the adoption writer community.  She has been a friend, a support and an educator.  We exchange Christmas cards and frequent emails and sometimes long distance phone calls.  She honestly shared the traumatic, harsh, horrid and amazing reality of parenting a large sibling group of special needs, formerly sexually abused, mentally ill and very, very loved children on her blog.  I listed her blog on my own blog several months ago as one of my all time favorites.  

I would link it again but I can't.  I can't because she was forced to sign an affidavit promising to stop blogging all together by a social worker and a Department of Family Services that decided that her blogging placed her children in "imminent danger".  That apparently talking about the reality of parenting special needs children, including the good, the bad and the really, really ugly, is not allowed in the state of Georgia.  And because Rachel has written a public, and completely truthful account of life with special needs, and very difficult children, this same social worker is now attempting to remove the children from their home and family.  The same home and family that has worked endlessly and tirelessly and for years to help their children heal and move beyond the trauma of the abuse they suffered while in the care of their family or origin and in the care of this same DFS  system.

You can read more of this saga here.  If you have benefited from Rachel's writings I would encourage you to reach out to support her, and her children during this awful time.  Even if you would never blog yourself as honestly and as bluntly has she has, her children, without a doubt, cannot handle the trauma that DFS is trying to inflict on them this time.   Their recovery, as much as it is, is because of her skill and efforts as a mother.  I am a better mother because Rachel shared her journey and now she needs my support, and I am honored to provide it.

It's all in a Name

I remember when I got married I felt a brief twinge at losing my maiden name as I took my husband's name as my own.  Was I giving up my identity?  What about that feminist pride I held dear to my heart?  Would I be an equal if I was giving up my name while he gained a wife?  I miss-spelled that name the first time I tried to sign it after our nuptials and wondered quietly if it would ever feel like MINE or would I always feel like an impostor carrying a name that was not my own.

That twinge was forever erased when I stared at the hospital bed that held my newborn son.  Next to his perfect little body was a name tag and that name tag held OUR name.  On that day I became part of a family.  We were a family.  We were THAT family.   That family included my precious first born son and I could not ever imagine holding a name that was different than that of my child.

Naming our adopted sons continued to be important rite of passage for claiming in our family.  Eric's name was not going to be changed except for the addition of our last name but for our oldest, changing his name was crucial to his healing.  He was a "junior".  Named exactly after his abuser, in his mind, at that age, he needed to know that he wasn't the same person.  We kept his first name essentially the same (changing it from Greg to Gregory) and added a new middle name.   Initially we were told that he had no legal middle name, and at 4.5 we let him choose one (with some guidance because Tarzan just wasn't going to be OK with this mommy).  He chose a name we loved and he was thrilled with the princely connotations of his new middle name. 

Home with us three months, he suddenly realized that his new middle name was not the shared middle name of his new daddy and new brother, and he demanded immediate recourse.  "Jon" was added to his name, and that of Eric's name as well.  Jon is a family name.  The middle name of my father, also their great grandfather as well he boys' cousin and of course their dad and both of our biological sons.  At the adoption finalization ceremony the judge literally penciled in Jon as a second middle name to both of the boys and over the last decade, that has been an important part of their claiming our family as their own. 

I have talked to the boys regularly about our decision to change their names.  They are PROUD of their (our) last name, and it does come up often enough in conversation that I know it has meant alot to them as they grow up that they share the same middle name with so many of our extended family.  They have their original birth certificates.  They know what their original name was.  They know why we changed their names, and they know they are forever a part of our family.   They also know they have the legal right to change their name to whatever they want when they turn 19.  But I do believe that being of one name has been an important part of their claiming us, and us claiming them, as family.  A permanent, forever, an ALWAYS family.

And so we face a decision.  A name change is not automatic with the legal procedure that brought our girls to us as daughters but it is a decision we need to make.  We don't make this decision lightly.   We have talked with a psychologist, we have talked to long term foster parents, we have talked to children raised in foster care and we have talked to social workers.  Universally they state that having the same last name is a psychological benefit for children with this life experience.  Naming means permanence and claiming and legitimacy.  It labels us as a family to the entire world we will interact with.  But I question if I am taking something that isn't mine to take, or am I simply giving something that they rightly deserve to have?

Certain images ring clearly in my memory.  There is the 12 year old (foster child) who cried on my shoulder that all she wanted was the same name as her (foster) parents, not that she didn't love her mother, not that she didn't value that connection but just that she wanted to be part of a "normal" family. She didn't want the stigma of every classroom friend, every teacher, ever coach knowing that she didn't "really" belong to the family that was raising her.    There are my facebook friends who also happen to be kids raised in foster care who change their last names to that of their (foster) parents as time goes on.  Taking the name that the system has not bequeathed them, yet life has.   

There are my sons who are adamant that the girls' names must be changed, and changed quickly.  My 14 year old who can't express why but just tells me through watery brown eyes that is is IMPORTANT and he doesn't know how to say it any different than that.  There is my 15 year old who asks if he can change his own name to Xavier 'cause it's SOOOO COOOL  but that he definitely is keeping Jon and as such the girls should get my middle name. 

Alas, that is the angst of our decision.  I will bequeath our last name easily because I do feel that there is strong evidence that being visibly part of our permanent family will benefit the girls.  But my secret heart has always dreamed of a daughter.  A daughter to whom I can give my middle name as my husband gave his.    Joy.  My middle name.  And merely stating the desire makes me feel selfish. 

I do not want to rob my daughters of their heritage, their name as a gift from their other parents, their first parents, but I do ache to give them this connection to me.  My "experts", the adoptees I live with and raise and call my own, unanimously vote I should.  But I know others would believe differently.   And so we debate and discuss and pray. 

What am I missing?  Is it a gift or a theft? 

There are three options we can do  (well four if we don't change anything).  

Birth First Name - Birth Middle Name - My Middle Name - Our Last Name

Birth First Name - Birth Middle Name - Bio Mom's Last Name - Our Last Name

Birth First Name - My Middle Name - Bio Mom's Last Name - Our Last Name

I am looking for input here.

Earning a Nick Name: Part 2

Miss Tiny was only tiny until she found the right end of a bottle, and then the right end of a spoon and then the right end of whatever she can get her chubby little hand around. 

Jayde is perfectly happy all the time.  Content, easy going, and an absolute goof ball who lives to entertain.  She loves deeply, giggles loudly and sleeps very, very little.

I was her seventh mother.  She didn't make eye contact with me for at least 4 months.  I held, I cooed and finally I sang.  And she would glance.  And then look.  And then stare.  And now she loves.  Oh how she loves.  With her entire entire heart and her chubby thighs she loves. 

And she is loved. 

Our Best Day is Their Worst

I knew that my highlighted quote from the article in the Plain and Valley Newspaper would generate some questions. Out of context, it appears to be very negative and I would like to give a bit of an explanation.

When I dreamt of being a parent, I always dreamt of being an adoptive parent. I planned and read and prepared. I dreamt of all the fun and wonderful things we would do together. I saw a future of snuggles and hugs and Christmas Mornings. I knew by watching friends and family that being a mother was one of the greatest joys in life. And truly, it is. When Tanner was born I discovered how much I truly did love being a mom. I love everything about it. I love the craziness, the tears, the diapers, the snuggles, the joy. Truly becoming a mother was the best, and most important day, of my life.

When I met Greg and Eric I was meeting my SONS. I got to be their MOTHER. I would get to raise them and love them and be loved by them. They were my dream come true. The children I had prayed for and hoped for and longed for. I would get to watch these amazing two little boys grow into amazing men. I would get to shape them and provide them countless opportunities. I would get to be their MOMMY. It was truly one of the very best days of my life.

Now, go read HERE

That is what that first day was like for my sons. Without the maturity of years and experience they had no idea that they would learn to love me. I was a stranger. I looked different, talked different and smelled different. They were losing EVERYTHING they knew. On top of that they were losing many things they had no idea about yet - their country, their connection to their community of birth, their culture. And I was the one doing it to them. Not their birth parents or their foster parents or a social worker or a nameless judge. ME. I was creating their very worst nightmare. I was taking them away from all they knew, loved or cared about. Just like every other child placed into the arms of a stranger.

At that time, on that day, what was my dream come true was their worst nightmare.

Of course there is more to the story in the life of a child than that first day and I fully realize and advocate that there were (and are) many, many very good reasons why adoption might be in the long term best interest of a child or baby, but at the heart of it, at the very beginning of it, adoption starts in enormous loss. I gained everything from becoming their mother, but on that day and at that point my sons lost everything that was important to their toddler selves.

The adults may know and understand why adopting our children is best, and why they will hopefully one day understand, but we also need to know that at that moment in time to the tiny newborn who can't find the only mother it knows or the scared toddler aching for a foster mom or orphanage caretaker, that we are the wrong mom. We are the enemy at the centre of the nightmare of loss and change they are enduring.

Understanding that fact opens our hearts and minds to let our children grieve, to push us to focus on attachment, to truly understand that our journey as parents is not our children's journey as adoptees. To hold to the knowledge that even though our family started in loss, and at times the journey together might be very hard, and sometimes sad and lonely, that it can still be a wonderful journey. We love our children and we are family too.

A Tough Letter to Write

I have had a stack of 60 pictures on my night stand for weeks. Sitting there. Waiting. They need to be sent. They were intended to be sent a long time ago to someone who is waiting for them impatiently. And still they sit.

Today I finally wrote the letter that I haven't had the words or the inclination to write that will go with the pictures. Our relationship with the kids birth father has tended to be happy-happy. ME so happy to hear from him because I know how important it is to the boys, HIM so happy to hear from us because he wants to know about the boys. So when you are clinging to contact and its so infrequent over the years, rocking the boat by addressing the tough stuff is sometimes hard to do.

It was time, however, for me to lay some things out for him that are bothering the boys. It was my job to toughen up and tell him the truth. I never want to hurt him, but if in not hurting HIM, I allow him to hurt the boys? That's far worse.

I ran this topic past adoptee friends, first parent friends, friends from the African American community and came to the determination that sometimes things left unsaid do more damage than saying the truth, with love, but truth none the less.

Why not have the boys write, some may ask? To be blunt, they never would. They would rather the relationship die out than to make the effort on their own. Contact from their first parents is so rare, so sparse, that to expect them at 13 and 14 to be able to write a letter and express their hurt and anger over a parents actions is simply too much of a burden to bare. Add to that the dynamic that this parent was also their abuser - the relationships are tenuous and for now, its my job as their mom to protect them, more than it is to protect the feelings of their first father.

The issue at hand? His refusal to use their last names in correspondence. I so can fathom his pain, the loss it must be to have to write a different last name for your child. A child once your "Junior" now carries the name of another father. A child named after a murdered cousin, now carries the name of another. And because I can fathom why it is so hard for him, I have let it go for years. But now the time has come where the boys scoff when the letters arrive, knowing that he won't acknowledge their reality - their truth. And so I wrote. Buried deep in a long, long newsy letter I tried to share my heart, but with as much honesty as possible.

G, I need to address some things with you and let you know its very hard
for me to do. Sometimes I like to pretend everything is wonderful
and never address the hard stuff, but sometimes doing that is wrong. **** I've deleted some other stuff going on in regards
to one of the boys wishes about contact ****

... Remember he is still just a kid and not able to yet understand
all the grown up issues. And from a parental perspective, the needs of the
adults HAVE TO come after the needs of the kids. Their needs have to be
the most important. This brings me to my third, and hardest, thing for me
to address with you. Greg and Eric both have a real problem with the fact
that you will never write their last name on the letters or cards you send to
them. I am going to assume its not a prison regulation thing, but rather a
choice on your part (correct me if I am wrong).

Greg, I understand how hard it must be for you to realize that they
no longer carry your name but I need to ask you to think of it from THEIR
perspective. They don’t remember ever being “B**s” – and that name, to
them, is associated with a horrible and sad period of their lives. They
were abused, seized by DFS, went through many traumatic things and then sat in
foster care for 3 years waiting for you and L to get things together enough to
parent them – all as B's. It was NOT their fault, nor ours, that the boys
were available to be adopted – but to them, adoption and their new last names
are VERY significant. It’s not their responsibility to help you process
your grief at the loss of your sons and the fact they now carry the name of the
man who gets to be their dad.

I can understand how hard it is for you to face, but if you could please
think of it from their perspective, I think it would help them. Greg
isn’t “Little Greg” or Greg Jr. anymore – he is Gregory J J , Eric isn’t
Eric B's, he is Eric R J. They don’t remember anything different and
what is important – the MOST important thing – is that is how they view
themselves. I so, so, so understand from your perspective that you
miss the little boys who were your sons, in every sense of the word – but if you
want to have a relationship with them someday understanding who they ARE will
help them accept you. I am sorry to say this so bluntly, but it’s an issue
to them, and I hate to see things building up for them, when maybe you had never
thought of it from their perspective.

G we love you and love the support you have given the boys – your words are
always encouraging and exactly what they kids need from you. I am sorry if
anything I have said in here is hurtful – that is NOT my intention, but its so
hard in a 5 minute phone call to address the tough stuff, even when it needs to
be said. I know you would have never, ever wanted this role or
imagined this situation when you first became a father. I know that
sometimes the consequences for your youthful choices must seem too
difficult to bear but I hope you know that always, always we put the needs of
the kids first. We love them with an undying, forever love, as we know you
love them too.

Hugs, prayers and many good wishes,
Jen

So, what do you think?

Adoption Thoughts: Color Me Lightly

Growing up as a white, middle class kid, I had the privilege of essentially ignoring race completely until I was in grade 7. For example, I never remember having any conscious thoughts about race or color until I was 12. And I certainly never thought of my privileges as being a white person or what if felt like to be a minority until then.



In elementary school I was growing up in a town on the northern tip of Vancouver Island; In a community that had a large First Nations population, and I attended at least part of the time, a school that was 50% white, 50% not. I remember learning basket weaving, I remember learning some native language but I never, ever remember playing with an "Indian" child. Somewhere, somehow I had learned that we just didn't. We lived NEXT DOOR to the reserve, and yet their kids didn't cross that ditch, and neither did we.




I remember driving through the reserve, during this late 1970's period and being terrified of what I saw. The disfigured, the drunk, the poor. I remember thinking I was lucky. Worse, I remember feeling glad I wasn't "them". But never, ever did it cross my 10 year old mind that in some way there was a greater problem at work than the fact that "Indians drank too much".


By grade eight we had moved to a the Vancouver area. A diverse, cosmopolitan, interesting city. And I attended a large, white, private, Christian school with a bunch of other white, middle class, Christian kids. I was friendly with people not like me, but in a curious, odd and OH MY GOD YOU DON'T EAT HAMBURGERS THAT'S SO STRANGE sort of way, it never crossing my mind that different was simply different, not worse or less than.



In one fell swoop my glass world shattered when my Social Studies teacher assigned the class to watch a series that was then showing on PBS on the civil rights movement in the seemingly far away USA.



I sat through 5 straight nights of documentary, weeping. I had never, ever felt shame for being white and suddenly I did. Shame for what people who looked like me had done not so very long ago. I could not even understand the whys or hows but I weeped. Weeped for the young men and women I watched being whipped for wanting to vote; for wanting to sit on the bus; for wanting to drink from a water fountain; for wanting to marry the one they loved.




I weeped for my 12 year old self who couldn't understand what I could do to fix it. I weeped for the injustice of it all. I weeped because suddenly I was so very ashamed of the color of my skin. I, Jennifer, age 12, white Canadian child was apparently part of the problem of global racial relations, particularly those of the Civil Rights Movement in the USA, and I felt it deeply. I was nothing if not idealistic and a tad naive. Mock if you must.




But in my heart, at that moment, was planted a seed of hate. Hatred towards prejudice. Hatred towards racism. Hatred towards those who made light of racial injustice. I am sure I made mistakes, but in the glow of past remembrances, from that week on I stood up against racism. I remember calling out friends on racial jokes. Feeling uncomfortable and expressing that when fake accents were used to mock our foreign schoolmates. I understood, as much as my teen self could, that I had a responsibility to be part of the solution because if not, I was part of the problem that I abhorred. Of course, 98% of my world was still white, but that fact seemed to escape me at the time.




As an eighteen year old I travelled to the Philippines and it was there that I was first exposed to the "Color Factor" in adoption. As I strolled the streets of Manila with my new Filipino friends I saw many children that were obviously half Caucasian with obviously full Filipino parents. Freckled faced Filipinos? Sandy haired children with skin the color of cream speaking Tagalog with their Asian parents? I could not understand, and I didn't until I visited Subic Bay Naval Base.




Subic Bay, for those that are unaware, was the home of a large American Naval Base. Full of young, angry, bored and horny men. And the base? Surrounded by young, poor and desperate Filipino women. Some very, very young and all very, very vulnerable. And an industry was born.




I don't mean to speak for now, but certainly then "American" looks were greatly valued in the growing Upper Class of Filipino society. Round eyes. Light skin. Fine hair. And how better to achieve this than to "adopt" a half American baby and pretend your newly wealthy genes suddenly produced this little off spring?


One of those horny American Navy Men was the boyfriend of a girl I travelled with for a while. It was from him that I heard the American side of the business. Men, really boys, happy to get sex with whomever offered it. Women able to make a seeming fortune selling their light skinned babies to the new Upper Class in Manila. Doctors willing to forge birth certificates and no one the wiser. Well, except me, this 18 year old Canadian white girl trying to understand the whys and hows and really, simply, failing.




I returned to Manila and heard the Filipino side of this issue. Families who would never tell their children why they had curly hair or blue eyes. How many kids? Well, it was enough children that I noticed. It was enough children that if you had a brother, or a son, or a husband serve over there, it might be worth asking them about it.



And so, for the first time, I realized that lighter sometimes meant better, even when your own skin was brown.

Why Obama Matters To Me

Race matters to me. Simply, it has to because it matters to my children and it matters to the world my children live in.

Many years ago when my sons were quite little we made a move that shocked many. We left the church we had been comfortably attending for another. The move precipitated by my son looking around the almost exclusively white church one Sunday morning and whispering none too quietly, "Mommy why don't any brown people love Jesus?" The implication being that HE was definitely not white, and what was HE doing there?

We heard of a church with a black pastor. For that reason, and that reason only, we moved to his church. At that moment I didn't care WHAT he was preaching, what denomination the church was or whether or not anything about it would appeal to me. The pastor was the right color for my sons and what our sons needed to see reflected on Sunday mornings. It was where we needed to be because it was best for our sons. Thankfully, it was also best for us and that church became our home. Our pastor became our family. Just this morning his wife and I fondly dreamed ahead of a joint marriage between any of their 3 daughters and any of our 4 sons.

Boys talking politics at church with friends.

Its not exactly breaking news if you know me in real life or follow my blog that I am an Obama fan.



I have been accused of being a "Stupid Foreigner" and told to mind my own business. I've been accused of falling for the Obama "machine" or being blinded by the media. I have been accused of being not Christian "enough" if I support him. I've been accused of being racist.



I usually reply that I am married to an American citizen. I am mother of two more. Sister-in-law to 4 Americans, Aunt to 6. Friend of many.



My husband's job (and as such the roof over my head) is DIRECTLY tied to the American economy as are many, many jobs in our community. The world is tied to America, even if we hate to admit it.



I have researched the issues and agree with his positions on many, if not most of them. I strongly support his policies. (ok, also VERY strongly disagree with the Republican position on many too, especially the racist hate mongering coming out of many of their offices, if not directly from the leadership themselves, and need I mention the war? the economy? international relations?).



I have read his book. I liked it, thoroughly.



I like the man. I like his ideas. I find him inspiring, interesting and pretty darn cute too.



And the reality is, he is black. To say that's not an issue for me would be a lie. Barack Obama is a BLACK man who has every chance to WIN the Presidency of the United States of America and that simple fact thrills me to my very toes.



Ahead of all else, I am a mother. I am a mother to my sons. Ahead of the church I attend, ahead of the friends I have, ahead of the job I keep, ahead of anything and everything - I am a mother to my sons. And two of those sons happen to be black.



I want my sons to have a President that reflects their face. Their story. I want to be able to look my sons in the eye and say YOU CAN BE ANYTHING. A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G you set your mind to be. Doctor, lawyer, pastor, Prime Minister OR President. You can BE anything.



I want him for every African American senior, and the whites that stood beside them, that faced segregation every day of their childhoods. For those that had to only DREAM of being able to attend the same schools, eat at the same restaurants, given the same chances as their white peers. A black President, in THEIR life time? Unimaginable.



For those that were spit on, hated, hit and feared because of the color of their skin.



For those that heard Dr. Martin Luther King's speech the day it was given and grabbed onto that hope that one day men, men like MY SONS, would be judged for the content of their hearts not the color of their skin.



I imagine what this election means to those who had to put their lives on the line so that I could one day be a mother to my children. So that our family would be accepted by society. So that my children could imagine a future full of hope and prosperity, and see others like themselves living that dream.



I gleefully imagine the shock in every racist heart when they face the reality that the MAJORITY of blacks, whites AND hispanics support Obama for President. I relish the idea that their fear, hatred and ignorance is being challenged.



I support Obama because he represents an unthinkable and an unimaginable dream even a generation ago.



I support Obama because he has given me hope for my sons. That their world will not be full of hatred and racism based on fear of differences rather than the ties of sameness that bind us.



I support Obama.



I'd vote if I could. I can't but many of YOU can. Go. Vote.



Yes we can.



YES WE CAN. YES WE CAN. YES WE CAN.

Adoption Diary: A Life Altered

After experiencing the roller coaster of reunion with my sister, I suddenly found myself experience a whole other side of the adoption picture - The abandoned. The starving. The dying. Baby, after baby, after baby.

I came from a globally minded family, or so I thought. We had sponsored a child through World Vision my entire life. My parents sat us down to watch those Saturday morning "starving child" specials on tv. The high school I attended supported a school in Haiti. We did hot dog sales to raise funds. We made dresses in Home Ec that were sent to children. It made me feel I was doing something. At 16, it felt like I was doing enough. My life was pretty easy. Private school. A beautiful home. Good friends.

And then I went. Flew to the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere. Young, incredibly naive and completely unprepared for what I would see. Port Au Prince with its crowds, heat and constant beggars was shock enough. Hordes of malnourished children. Piles of garbage. Crowded orphanages. It was, I thought, as bad as life could ever get. What I didn't realize is that they were the lucky Haitians.

We left the city and drove several hours. We got out in a small town simply trying to survive in the midst of being decimated by AIDS. 50% of all adults were HIV positive. There were orphaned children everywhere being taken in by neighbours, friends, grandparents, and churches. Disabled children dragged their broken bodies through the dirt. We were shown the morgue. Young people lain on whitewashed slabs. Mothers, Fathers, Children. Body after body. Again, I thought that must be as bad as life could ever get as I struggled to absorb it all.

Then we left the village. No roads, just a foot path. Tired, old and emaciated donkeys carried our young, healthy, teenage bodies up a mountain. A mountain where a village had been found. A village of the starving. The living dead. We were supposed to be bringing them hope. A few boxes of seeds. Assorted medical supplies. Toys.

You might think you understand what it means to hold a child that is dying. You might think you understand what it feels like to look into the eyes of a child dying from a preventable cause. But until you have lived that; Felt it in your very soul, you cannot begin to understand.

When you realize that I, as a teenager with a stethoscope and box full of deworming medication was the best medical care, the ONLY medical care, this village would ever see maybe you can fathom the enormity of the experience.

6 year olds the primary care givers of 3 younger siblings because their mother had died in childbirth. All near death. All severely emotionally disabled from lack of affection, lack of attention, lack of hope. Pregnant women so anemic that death was inevitable once they went into labour. Starving mothers and fathers. Children so near death you know your touch might be the last. Mothers explaining that they had given birth 9 times but only two of their children had lived to a year of age.

It was a week that you cannot fathom. A week that changed my life. A week that the simple act of putting it into words has kept this post locked up because I fear I cannot do it justice.

It is here I saw the need. The desperate, absolute need of children. Heart breaking, desperate, overwhelming need. Need that can't be solved with rhetoric or policy. Need that even money couldn't find a solution too. The need was simply there. Desperate, dying children. Alone. With no one, nothing and absolutely no hope.

On our last day, the lucky children, if you could ever say that, had parents that begged us to take them. I would be holding one child and a mother would rip it from my arms and press her own baby into my arms. As the translator shared her appeal. "This one is cuter, take it please, take my baby to Canada". Then another, then another, then another. Cuter or younger or a boy or a girl. All mothers desperate to save their child in any way they could. Even by sending them half way around the world with a stranger. A child stranger at that.

We left. A group of 16 and 17 year olds completely silent. Tear streaked faces. The nurse we were working with before the trip had STRONGLY advised us not to "get attached" not to hold the babies or the toddlers left motherless. As we left she said something that I didn't completely understand at the time but do today.

"It's worse for them now. Those kids know what they are missing. Before they didn't know what a hug felt like, now they will miss it."

We silently progressed down the mountain on our donkeys. Spread out. Each needing our own space, deep, deep in thought. I passed a hut. Small, mud bricks with a tree branch roof. Suddenly a woman ran out screaming.

With great force she threw something at me.

Instinctively I reached out and grabbed it as it flew by. I realized it wasn't an it. It wasn't a something. It was a someone.

A beautiful, gorgeous, precious baby boy wrapped in a rag.

He was also a starving, dying baby boy.

And as I held him, his weeping mother hit my donkey so it would run off with me carrying her baby in my arms.

And I turned. And I threw that baby back. Back into the arms of his mother and she collapsed to the ground. Yes, back to his family of origin. Yes, back to his home culture, language and place of birth. But also back to certain death.

My life suddenly became more complicated. At home I faced those questions that maybe some never face. Why am I so blessed? Why, through a twist of fate, was I born to a family in Canada while an equally precious child is born into dire poverty in Haiti.

It is on that trip that I lost all sense of "us and them". My world perspective shattered and then expanded globally. Those children I held weren't any different than my newly found niece and nephews. Than my adored baby cousin. Their eyes were a different color, our skin looked different but we were the SAME.

And I became aware of a world where children died alone. Where babies never were held. A world where brothers and sisters were separated out of necessity. A world where mothers were so desperate for their child to live they were willing to beg another to take them.

Haiti changed my life. It will always hold a place in my heart. We continued to send money to that village for a long, long time. Many, if not most, of the children we met that January in 1991 died.

40,000 children died today from starvation and preventable starvation related illness. 40,000 more children will die tomorrow. Each as precious as the child you love most in the world. Each with as much hope. As much potential. Each with a mother who bore them in love. Not to die an agonizing death before ever experiencing life.

Within a year I would be immersed in a culture where there exists very few orphans, and again I saw another side of story of children without families of birth.

Idiot of the week and other such nonsense

I will start off this crazy, mishmash post with some humor just so all you not touched by transracial adoption readers can understand what our families deal with on a weekly, if not daily, basis. Heck what any person of color deals with on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

I ran into the mother of a child in my class down at the arena this week. She is a seemingly lovely woman and her child is a friend of Eric's. She is also a frequent visitor to the class, has met me several times. She has also met both of my son's at the school, and this time I was accompanied by all 4 of the boys and made the requisite introductions all around.

All 4 boys shook her hand, said hello and moved a ways off.

She then turned to me and said "What language do your sons speak?"

"Ah, English" (I mean she had just had a conversation with them)

"I mean where are they FROM"

By this time both Greg and Eric have turned around. Eric rolls his eyes and Greg does the requisite teenage snort.

I answer, "Here" And yes, I am not an idiot, I know full well what she means. She means because they aren't white ... where are they FROM. Because you can't be FROM here *here being anywheres usually * (from a white person perspective anyways) if you are shaded any color darker than peach.

She begins to stumble over her questions now, because I am not coughing up the information she wants, or feels she deserves to know, simply because we look different. Remember, adoption, birth, race etc NONE of that has been part of our conversation to this point. Yet she feels so inclined, a normally polite person, to inquire about the nationality, heritage and birth of two children (teens) she has JUST met.

"Well I just thought, you know, that maybe, you know they speak something else"

I reply, rather kindly but with a firm edge to my voice, "You can feel free to ask the boys where they are born, and if they want to they will tell you, but they are FROM here"

The conversation ends. Both boys are smirking. Some days I just hate white people.

In other news, my grandma is dying. Her rally from our last visit was short lived and we know the end is days or at the most, weeks away. Tomorrow I am sending my 7 and 13 year olds on ahead of me, alone, by plane for their goodbye visit. My mom will meet them and they will have a chance to say goodbye. Caden is a wreck. Greg is stoic.

I fly out next Friday, Thanksgiving, with the other two boys for our visit, if she lasts that long. I will be a wreck. I will fall apart. Into smitherenes. But watching her suffer is just so hard. Please think of the boys this weekend as they say goodbye to their Grandma Nan. They love her.

I am Tired of Being an Adoptive Parent

Ok, or more honestly, I am tired of being considered a HYPHENATED parent by every joe schmoe. Yeah I have dealt with it in forum land and it really doesn't bother me anymore. But over a cup a coffee? Or in the grocery story? Or the school hallway? I am just really tired of it.



Adoptive-parent


Adoptive-parent



So very, very rarely, just Jen, mom of 4.



Yes, I know sort of silly considering I have this very public blog to discuss adoption and adoption issues, celebrate life with my kids and how very lucky I am to be a mom to all of my sons. But seriously, I am tired of it. I am HAPPY to have thoughtful, considerate conversations about adoption. About special needs. About my kids. In fact I have had a couple this week. But the ignorant ones? I am tired of being thick skinned because "people just don't know". Or being the poster child for adoption because I am a visible adoptive parent. Some days, some times I just want to be a mom.



Jen. Mom of four.


Because in the last 7 days I have heard the following and I am TIRED:



"Are they brothers in real life?"


"Do you love those ones as much as you love your own?"


"Did his mother do drugs or WHAT?"


"So you adopt those two or what?"


"Is your husband black or did you adopt?"


"How many times have you been married because your kids sure don't look alike."


"He can't be YOUR son!"

And you know, its been 9 years since we adopted. These are questions we get from people STILL. S-T-I-L-L and some days, some times I get tired of it. Why do WE have to be a poster board for adoption education? I'd like to be invisible, just for a week. Actually, one week a year I AM invisible. Just a normal mom. I love camp. Maybe I need a fall camp booster? Pam? Susan? Do you hear my cries for help here? I just want another week of camp. Please.

So below is my vent. The answers to the questions I wanted to say but didn't. I smiled, I answered politely. You know why? Just so someone, somewhere - probably another adoptive parent - doesn't have to deal with the "but you know, I talked to this one adoptive mom once and she said *********".

The same frustration that adoptees feel when they are told by a stranger that their daughter's friend's hairdresser's mother is adopted and has no questions about it, or is screwed up, or is perfectly happy not know she is adopted.

Read. Learn. And know what not to ask me in case I bite your head off one day.

Are they real?

No (you moron), we are actors in a reality television show. What the heck do you think? Yes they are brothers IN REAL LIFE. And seeing as you are asking whether or not my two sons through adoption are biologically related, what the heck does it matter to you? Does it make a difference? I mean it must because I have been asked this question at least twice a week for the last 9 years. EVERY week. EVERY year. I am tired of it. Yes, all four boys are REAL brothers. Yes, there are two groups of biologically related siblings in our family. NO IT DOESN'T MAKE A FREAKING BIT OF DIFFERENCE IN HOW THEY VIEW EACH OTHER, OR LOVE EACH OTHER, OR IF THEY ARE REALLY BROTHERS.



Caden was born into a family of 3 brothers. None of the kids have conscious memories prior to meeting each other. They ARE brothers. Now leave your judgement of the reality of their relationship ALONE. And certainly don't bother sharing your "wisdom" with me EVER in front of my kids.



"Do you love them?" (as much is the implied judgement)



There is so much wrong with this question I am not quite sure exactly where to start. First off, yes I do. And no, I am not interested in your opinion that you could NEVER love another child as much as the one you pushed out. I don't care if you are that shallow or closed minded, because if you are, I really don't want to be your friend anyways. I would hope you would never adopt. I don't care that you lack the imagination to consider that its possible to love a child that doesn't look like you as much as one that does. And although I don't "own" any of my kids, they are all darn well my kids. I know how I feel and I am just so incredibly tired of having to defend that.



"Are those behaviors because his mother did drugs?" (and all variations that imply that all adoptees are genetically deficient, bad seeds, drug babies and otherwise lesser)


First off, I reserve the right to vent about my kids. Secondly, because I have a bad day with a frustrating behavior does NOT mean I don't love my child. It doesn't mean I am not committed to him and it CERTAINLY doesn't mean I regret being his mother. Thirdly, that's none of your business. Some kids are difficult, and if you are going to try to give me 'parenting techniques' bite your tongue. I know way, way, way more about my children and their issues than you can even guess at. I am a competent parent and NO ONE wants them to succeed in life more than me. You wonder at how I parent, ask me, don't judge. Yes my parenting might be different than yours, but my kids are different than yours and my parenting skills are REQUIRED to be different than yours. And why that is is none of your business unless I volunteer to share it with you.

So that's my vent. Sorry its a bit abrupt, but well I have HOCKEY. In like 3 minutes and well, my mom is back and things are nuts and well ... BYE.

Adoption Diary: Part 3

"The Girls That Went Away"

Through tears, my mom shared her story.

15, Pregnant, 1963. And the clincher, Catholic.

Divorced parents, an unheard of oddity during that era, was probably one nail in the coffin of her impending motherhood. Being Catholic, pregnant and a teen in Coquitlam during the 60's the other.

She was sent away to an Unwed Mother's Home in Vancouver in late 1962. Her friends were told that she was living with an aunt in Saskatchewan. She would write letters to the aunt, and they would be forwarded to her friends just a few kilometers down the road.

The nuns abused them. Verbally, emotionally and yes, physically. They were regularly called whores. Reminded that that no man would ever want them now. That bad girls deserved nothing. They were forced to work in a manner similar to slavery of years gone past.

My mother was violently ill with all her pregnancies, and this first one was the worst. Hospitalized, but segregated from the other pregnant women lest her tainted ways affect the other more deserving, married mothers.

She ran away from the hell that was then was dragged back sobbing and begging by the one relative that she thought would save her, and care for her. Her hope was gone.

The priest was consulted and decreed that the baby would be placed for adoption. There was no choice. No asking. No counselling.

There was no option for a teen mother at this time, during this era. Social stigma was enormous.

There was no welfare available for unmarried 15 year olds. An abusive father, an emotionally fragmented mother, an extended family that was more concerned with appearances around church circles than with the safety of their young niece.

The back street abortion that the baby's father wanted her to have was both illegal and unsafe, and against everything that my mother had been taught was right.

She cried as she shared and tried to make us understand what life was like back then for her. I couldn't comprehend.

I was OLDER than she had been when she had my sister and my biggest concern in life was what was for lunch.

She began to share what happened to her when her baby, her daughter, my sister was born.

Adoption Diary: Part One

Sorry for the delay after the introduction to my Adoption Diary, but life has gotten BUSY.


I was 16. Out for lunch with a friend. A date, sort of. An awkward lunch of small talk. I think his name was Steve.


We drove back to my house so he could meet my parents. I walked in the door and could sense "it". I didn't know what was causing "it" this time, but I knew "it" was there.


Steve was sent on his way without ever meeting anyone. I needed him gone, and probably made my point efficiently. Not so strangely, I suppose, that was the last time I talked to him for a long time. I got a call when he got engaged, and an explanation that I wouldn't be receiving a wedding invitation because his fiancee was jealous of me.


One lunch date that for me was only memorable because of what happened after, but I remember because that lunch was the last moment my life was the way I actually believed it to be. Everything was to change in the next few years. And it all started for me at the moment I walked in to the house and sensed "it".


A child of fighting parents gets very in tune to "it". The tangible sense of stress in the air when you walk in the door. The shut doors. The not talking, or the talking too loud behind closed doors. Red rimmed eyes of your mother, the silent hunched back of your father in front of the television. Normal seems elusive. The only ones pretending to be normal are the kids.


Jess, 14, and I, had acting normal down pat. School, friends, sports (ok just Jess), church, family. Pretend on the outside, be wary on the inside.


By all accounts, we were your All-Canadian Perfect Christian Family. My mom was ultra conservative, incredibly involved, over protective and very loving. My dad was hard working, loving, family oriented and also involved in our lives.


We went to my grandparents' house for Sunday visits and Kentucky Fried Chicken picnics and my Nan's house on Saturday nights to watch hockey. I knew there was disfunction "out there" but for the most part my parents did a stellar job of protecting us from it. Except of course, for the reality of their failing marriage, "stuff" happened to other people and by all accounts our lives were fairly boring and extremely middle class normal.


And then that day I walked into the house and sensed "it". Something in the air. Some stress. Some tension. Some very strong emotion.


After Steve left, I knocked on my mother's office door. She was crying. Sobbing in fact.


I was scared.


"I need to talk to you girls" she said, "and its very, very important".


I found my little sister and we sat on the floor in my mother's room and waited for the news that would open our eyes to a whole other life. Another world.

It was, in many ways, the first day of the rest of my life.

Reunion Thoughts: The Post Script

Greg and I have now been home from our trip six weeks. Six weeks to readjust, settle in, process and reassume our normal lives and roles.

A friend told me that there was a possibility that Greg might pull away from adoption completely for a while as he processed all that he saw and heard on the trip.

He has. And his first family (birth family) has as well.

Senior called once on the day we got home, and sent the pictures of the prison visit, but didn't enclose a note or letter. Greg and I sent 200 pictures back to him and have not received a response.

This week, Greg commented on this to Shel and I with some disappointment in his voice.

The only person Greg has mentioned having on going contact with is his brother. Greg has initiated 2 emails to him, with no response. What Greg doesn't realize yet, and I haven't the heart to tell him, is that brother has blocked both of us on My Space, Facebook and on msn. I think that this relates to what I saw in Missouri regarding L's desire to control the friendship between the two of them. On this front, I am heart broken for Greg. Brother's birthday approaches, and I am hoping this will open a door for Greg to write a letter and send a gift.

Speaking of L, there has been no further contact from her. Her birthday came and went and Greg adamantly refused to initiate contact himself. I have texted her twice, and received a response once.

Greg himself has been quiet about it all. The odd mention now and then, but not much discussion. Normal life has continued with nary a bump, so far. We look through the scrapbook I made of the trip and he is not overly interested in it. It seems his curiousity has been sated, and his desire to return to normal life has been strong.

From my point of view, he and I are closer. We talk more about everything. With a new sense of confidence that the trip gave me, I am tougher on him in some ways. I can read him better. I can often tell what he is thinking. I am more empowered to put boundaries in place specifically in regards to him, he is more prone to accept them. He also gets more privileges. I trust him, I respect his level of responsibility.

For those that fear reunion or talk lots of losing their child to the pull of a first family, I'd like to offer a counter arguement. My son is still my son. I helped him fill a NEED he had, a need that scared and saddened me at times, and thrilled me at others. Because we listened to him and his needs at the time when HE needed it, not at the artificial age of 18 or 21 or "some day when we think you are ready" we were rewarded with a child that trusts us MORE. Needs us MORE. Loves us, if possible, even MORE.

Greg came home still Greg. He is still grouchy in the mornings and giddy in the afternoons. He still has a mask expression on his face most of the time that others thnk means he is grouchy, but I know means he is bored or uncomfortable. He jokes, he laughs, he cries. He plays with his brothers. He laughs uproariously at home, smiles shyly when we are out. He gets mad a me, and he hugs me. He is super competative, and nervous about change. In essence, he is still Greg. Still my son. Still the child of my heart.

I have no regrets.

Adoption Thoughts: When Letting Go is Hard to Do

I am a mom. I love being a mom. I love mothering. I have always been a mom who has wanted to stay home with her kids. Although aching at times for adult conversation, I have never, ever ached to leave my kids with other caregivers. To escape into the work force. To miss out on the days with my boys.

When my boys attended school, I was the mom that drove every field trip. I walked them into class every morning, and picked them up after school every day. They acted disdainful, but I heard about it if I dared miss a day. Ever.

And then, in 2004, we began to homeschool. Together all day, every day. Lots of good, some difficulties. But overall, mostly, it was fun. We are closer in many ways because of it.

And that's all about to end.

Tuesday. September 2, 2008

The day my boys will walk out our front door and enter the halls of various schools. Entrusted to various teachers. Leaving my kitchen table. Leaving ME. 6 hours a day. Every day.

For four years we have been together. Schooling together. Learning together. Being together.

It's time. But its hard. Harder on me than on the boys.

I would like to say that the separation, the letting go, starts next Tuesday, but in reality this entire summer has been a long process of loosening my grip. Letting my boys experience life without me by their side.

There was "family camp". Family camp that really means the boys are off with their friends from dawn until long after dark and if we were lucky we saw them for meals. I actually missed them despite the fact we were in theory all camping together.

There was the Missouri trip. Letting Greg see I trusted him enough to make the sorts of decisions that are involved in meeting his other family. Reality was, for me, there was tearing and sharing involved in that process and it wasn't always easy.

Plus, to go to Missouri, I had to leave my other 3 boys at home. 12 days. The longest separation ever. I had to trust others to parent them. Trust that they would be ok. They were.

Shelby's accident. Kids left behind. Scattered. Shared. Not planned but necessary none the less.

Greg left for hockey camp. He was scouted. He is now noticed by people to whom it counts. Invited to play in front of college scouts in Vegas in the spring, Burnaby next May. Words like "drafted" and "junior hockey" discussed. He is 13.

Imagine if letting my 13 year old walk to school alone causes me to lie awake at night in dread what hearing those words does to me?

"You must be so proud, Greg could be playing in the Big City soon"

"How awesome for you, finally some free time"

No! No! No! I don't want my boys gone. I don't want school to start and daily separation to begin. I don't want to think about my future 15 year old choosing to move out to play a SPORT away from his family for 10 months of the year. I want my family here. I want to be a mom.

And I wonder ... is this because I am simply a mother? Or is this because I am an adoptive mother?

Greg and Eric weren't "mine" until they were 3 and 4. Its been 9 years this coming week since I first held my sons in my arms. I am not ready to let them go. I AM, slowly, and because its the right thing to do, but I do not FEEL ready.

Parenting the older adopted child is some days like parenting in fast forward. Life skips ahead at an alarming rate. Today you meet your child, tomorrow they are grown up. Independent.

You work on attachment with a pre-schooler and then have to let them go to kindergarten. They play their first soccer game and then want to reunite with their first family.

It feels like days, in reality its years. But not enough years for me.

I think there is a process to mothering. A slow, methodical process that allows moms (or at least moms like me!) to let go as their kids grow up. My heart, my mother heart of my boys, is 9 years old. But I am parenting a 12 and 13 year old.

On Tuesday, I will let them go with a smile and a hug.

"You will do great"
"This is so exciting for you"
"I am so proud of you"

Inside? Inside I will be aching for the days missed. For those baby cuddles I never had. For those toddler years shared with another mother. For the memory of a newborn smell I will never know and can't recapture. Coping with how the shock of their teenage independent selves wreaks havoc on my emotions.

My big, beautiful, amazing, mature boys will walk out the door. They will never know, never understand, how much it hurts to let them go.

I want a pause button on life.

Adoption Thoughts: The "Bad" Adoptee

We arrived at Greg's hockey tournament Wednesday night. Thrilled to see my giant, independent son!

He was beautiful but oh the stench! I am pretty sure he had been wearing the same clothes for a week. He SMELLED like he had been wearing the same clothes for a year!

We were introduced to Greg's friend, "Nate". We met Nate's dad. Happy, friendly introductions were made all around. Exchange of stories. Exchange of information about mutual friends.

We parents have much in common. The adoption world is not that big. We share friends. We share social workers.

Our boys also have much in common.

Adopted.
American Born.
Black.
Excellent Hockey Players.
Friends.

An hour after we met him, Nate was kicked out of the hockey program.

He was arrested.
He was charged.

Drugs. Weapons.

Nate was gone. No warning, no goodbyes. The police came and searched the boys' room. The kids were all sat down and told what had happened.

Drug paraphernalia found in his bag. It fell out on the ground in front of the counsellor when he reached into his backpack to grab his cell phone. A search found 3 knives and more drugs.

Arrested.
Charged.
Kicked Out.

Shocking and traumatic, as you can imagine, for ALL the boys. Horrifying for the parents.

And then the added burden for Greg. The added burden that unless you have walked in our shoes you don't even think about. Because in Nate, he sees reflection of self. And WORSE, others see a reflection of self.

Adopted.
American Born.
Black.
Excellent Hockey Player.
Friends.

Greg is the OTHER adopted child on the team. The OTHER black player on the team. The OTHER. The child who sticks out. The child the other parents would associate with Nate.

I sat in the stands of the arena and heard the parents discuss the situation.

"Well you know he was adopted, right?"

"He's probably trouble from way back."

"Why do they let kids with problems COME anyways?"

I understood their frustration. I didn't send my 13 year old child away to an elite level athletic program and expect them to be exposed to drugs or weapons either.

But I also ached for my child. For every adopted child and adult.

Every time a negative adoption news story comes out. Every time an adopted teenager makes a mistake or screws up royally. Every time someone looks at my child and see how he excels. How he succeeds. How he stumbles. How he chooses to live his life. Adopted is the label. Adopted is in the mirror of his reflection of self.

"Well he was adopted you know"

"That's Jen, she adopted those boys from the states"

I have no answers. No quick fix. I can only tell my son that I understand its complicated. That its more complicated than it should be. That I understand when Nate got taken away in a police car, that for GREG it was a big deal. A big deal because no matter what, there is no escape from the adoptee reality.

The Long Road Home

We arrived in Vancouver Sunday night. Immediately after 9 other jumbo jetliners from Taiwan, London, Fiji, LA, Alaska and other assorted exotic locations landed. Locations that require their passengers to go through customs. The same customs line up we were required to go through.

We met a man who tried to merge between Greg and I in line. When I explained that Greg was my son he apologized profusely for budging between us.

"Oh its ok", I said "It's kind of hard to tell I'm his mom".
The man, clearly embarrassed at his faux pas profusely began to make excuses. "Oh no!" he said as he took a step back and stared at us closely, "I can see the resemblance, you two DO look alike. You sure look like your mom young man". And on and on he went.

I glanced at Greg and began to giggle. After 10 days of Greg being told over and over and over again how he looked just like EVERYONE and ANYONE, here he was on our final leg of the trip being told he looked like ME. I laughed until tears poured from my eyes. Greg and I laughed together. And then I laughed some more. The poor man had no idea what he was so funny as he desperately looked around trying to make his escape.

This little interaction made me spontaneously laugh the rest of the day so thanks for the laugh Mr. Politically Correct to the Point of Desperation. I appreciated the meaning behind your efforts, but seriously, no need to be quite so sincere.

Greg and I stared down the two thousand person line up ahead of us and DIDNT CARE A BIT. We were HOME. Well almost home. Vancouver will always be "home of my heart".

The line up snaked through for quite a while and eventually we got through customs, out the doors and into the waiting car of my mother. My relationship with my mother is, well, somewhat complicated, and her relationship with adoption is also somewhat complicated. She is a "BSE" mom, reunited. Supportive, confused and maybe a tad overly personalized in our journey, we had a chatty drive back to my sister's.

Oh my baby boy Tanner was there! He had spent the week with his Godfather, his dear friend and my sister and hadn't missed me a bit. Ok, so he was taller than me with his shoes on (how did THAT happen in 10 days??!!??) and tanned and gorgeous and agreeable to be stuck on my lap the rest of the night. My sis commented on the authenticity of Greg's huge hug he offerred her. He was one happy kid to be back in familiar, safe space. I fell asleep to the chatter of the two boys comparing experiences, sharing stories and giggling long into the night.

And I slept. And slept. And actually rested. Because in the morning we would be going home.

Just for Aunty Jess' Sake

This blog has kinda gotten away from me a bit, and what started out as a private journal at an adoption forum has turned, in less than a week, into a 2000 hit experience. My dearly loved sister has pointed out that I have done a very poor job of introducing the entire family.

This is Greg. Greg is 13 years old and a really amazing kid. Yes we realize how good looking he is. Yes we do find this rather scary. Add to that he is smart, athletic and responsible and you have a mother who is terrified that he is starting high school in September. Greg has played AAA hockey for several years. He will be attending an International Development Tournament, as a great honor, in August. And, in case you noticed, he just got back from meeting his first family in Missouri. Greg was born in St. Louis and joined our family when he was 4.

This is Eric. Eric is 12 years old and is Greg's full biological brother. Eric has a killer smile which is always flashing across his face. His personality might best be described as "fiesty". Eric loves all sports but especially enjoys hockey. Eric loves having a 'fro and spends much time each day picking it out. He is entering grade 7 in the fall and joined our family when he was 3. Eric has had some struggles dealing with his past, and the way his brain learns, and he works very, very hard to deal with the deck life has dealt him. We are VERY proud of him!

This is Tanner. Tanner is almost 11 and has the sweet and gentle personality of his dad. Tanner is a pretty quiet kid unless you get him alone, at which time he talks non-stop. Tanner is the hockey goalie of the family. Tanner's main struggle in life is Seasonal Affective Disorder which he has dealt with since he was 5, and severely since he was 7. Because we live in the North and deal with long nights and short days in the winter, this is something we carefully monitor. I'll talk more about that later. Tanner is going into Grade 6 French Immersion in September, and grade 10 math. Yeah, he is a quirky kid. Tanner is our biological son and was born in British Columbia and was 22 months old when his brothers came home.

This is Caden. He loves EVERYONE and EVERYONE loves Caden. Caden is 7 and might best be described as a pepsqueek, snuggle bug, cuddle kid, or sweetie pie. And, ah, did I mention that he is my baby and maybe a tad spoiled? Caden loves life, loves his brothers fiercely, loves to learn, loves to laugh and especially loves to cuddle his mama. Caden was also born in BC 18 months after his brothers came home and enriched our lives in every way. KK (as we call him) will be entering Grade 2 at Eric's school in September.

This is my beloved husband, Shel. Shel and I have been married over 14 years now. I am blessed to be married to a gentle giant of a man who loves his family with his entire being. He is my strength on the days when mine fails me. He is calm, rational and supportive and willing to do anything for our family. I am very, very lucky that he has stuck by my side through thick and thin. Shel was born and raised in the states, and immigrated to Canada as a young man and is now a citizen of both countries.
This is me (well except now I am blond and older). Jen. 34. Mom, wife, daughter, sister, adoption forum junkie. I have been a part of the online adoption world since 1999 when the boys arrived. We lived in the middle of nowhere and were dealing with some pretty tough issues. I NEEDED the support, and you, my online friends, provided me guidance, friendship and support. I am passionate about adoption education and integrity in the adoption process. I love my kids with all my heart and being their mom is ALL that matters to me.

And for good measure, Annie, our Jack Russell Terrier. 5 years old. And because of her we no longer get mail delivery to our home. Can't you tell how fearsome she is? Stupid Canada Post.