Our Impossible Adoption Story
If you're looking for the unbelievable account of how "impossible" became "done" in 5 business days, start here.
How to Make Ice-Cold, Sanitary Lasagna
“… and when you need to use the restroom, call the nurses’ station and let us know. Someone will come to help you.”
Not a sentence I expected to hear for at least 60 more years.
I couldn’t imagine why I would need help using the restroom. I was in a private suite, so it wasn’t like I needed help finding it … or getting to it. And I’d just spent the past hour and a half practicing my bowel movements, so I was confident that if ever that technique were going to be perfected, it was right then.
But I was still pretty out of it. I laid back on the bed in my new, post-partum room at the hospital, and looked around.
“You’ve got an hour. Try to get some rest.”
Someone in the delivery room thought the baby’s heart skipped a beat when he burst onto the scene. They – the omnipotent “they” – also thought he looked a little pale, so they wanted to send him to the nursery for an hour to be monitored. (First of all, who can blame the guy for missing one heartbeat in the midst of what I imagine is a pretty traumatic experience? Secondly, he comes by the pale skin honestly, poor kid, have you seen his mother?)
We insisted that if he ever left my side, Husband would go with him, and so they both went to the nursery, unnecessarily, for an hour.
I didn’t think sleep was possible, but I was so exhausted I dozed off. When I woke up, I had to pee, so I fumbled with the little bed-remote and hit the red button.
“This is [insert nurse’s name here]. Can I help you?”
“Um … I have to pee? I think I’m okay, but the nurse that brought me in here said to call you so …” Read more…
Christmas Hat
Our last Christmas is this weekend, and it reminded me that you have to see Niah’s Christmas hat – if you haven’t already.
Nana started this for him two weeks ago, the Sunday morning we stayed home to labor through contractions, and finished it during her stay in the Birthing Center waiting area at Sherman Hospital. Too stinking cute. There are some pictures of Niah modeling it after the break. Read more…
On Love and Surrender
It took four days for me to let go. Or start letting go, at least.
“Samuel” means “asked of the Lord.”
We asked of the Lord for three and a half years, which is why “Samuel” remained one of two options for our little guy’s name the day we met him.
The verse everyone in our situation likes to quote and cross-stitch and photograph and hang on nursery walls is 1 Samuel 1:27,
“For this child I prayed, and the LORD has given me my petition which I asked of Him.”
It’s a feel-good Bible verse. The next verse, though, less so,
“So I have also dedicated him to the LORD; as long as he lives he is dedicated to the LORD.”
Some translations say, “lent him.” Some say, “given him.” And the story goes that Hannah left Samuel in the temple that day to be raised by the priest in the service of God.
I have a really hard time with that. Hannah was a better woman than I am.
We prayed those verses in the hours and days following Niah’s birth. Husband did. And I agreed and “Amen”-ed.
Half-heartedly
Because, honestly, I didn’t want to give him, or even lend him, to anyone. I waited a long time for this boy. I endured the worst pain I will probably ever experience for this boy, and I am fiercely in love with this boy. He’s mine. Ours, even – I could allow him to be ours, but still mostly mine.
And I knew no one was asking me to leave him in a monastery somewhere. I knew he would still be my son, my charge, my boy (mine and Husband’s, of course) – but Hannah presented a challenge I was not willing to meet. Could I, in my heart, give him back to God?
I knew I should. I knew the right thing to say was, “Yes” and “Amen,” but I couldn’t really let go. How could I? He’s a piece of me. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done, and just looking at him I know he’s the best of me. How do you part with that? Just the thought of it conjured up a heartache I didn’t know existed.
Day four we were home. He was napping. I was watching. And suddenly, I was so aware of how incapable I am of protecting him like I want to, of providing for him like I want to, of loving him like I want to. I was suddenly so aware that I don’t have what it takes to teach him what he really needs to know, or to help him become the man he was designed to become.
And I took a deep breath to stifle the sob that was welling up in my eyes, and I whispered verse 28 for the first time – not in relent or defeat, but in desperation.
Please take him. Please keep him. Please love him and guide him and protect him and be with him like only You can.
I am such a screw-up. I have failed and quit so many times. My faith is weak. My pride is disgusting. My goodness is filthy, but I know that You won’t take it out on him. I know that in You, he won’t answer for my offenses and if that were all You did for him it would be more than enough but if it’s true that You will take all of him, please take all of him.
Guard him. Teach him. Be near to him.
I love him with everything that I am, and I will do my absolute best for him with every breath. But my love is insufficient and my best is not enough, so please – and I can’t even say it isn’t a selfish request, but please – take all of him.
Labor Fail, Part 2
aka: Labor Win
(Part 1 is here.)
Our nurse (our third one, by this time, I think), Agnes, had left Husband with instruction (I think) to get her when I felt like pushing. I told Husband my water broke, he asked if I felt like pushing, I pushed, he jumped up out of his chair.
(Timeout to say I love Agnes. All of the nurses and doctors we had at Sherman were so great, and Agnes was no exception. She’s a very sweet, Filipino woman who was, at the same time, prepared to drag me through the process if necessary.)
Somehow, I ended up sitting forward on the bed, legs up, trying to get the bed sitting up while the nurses tried to lay it down. Agnes showed me the little pull-up bars near my hips and explained how to pull and push, “like you have to take a number two” during contractions.
For an hour and a half Agnes would preface every contraction by yelling, “Like you have to take a number two! Ready! Breathe! Push!” And for an hour and a half, Husband would translate into his own vernacular, “Like you’re poopin’, babe, come on!” “Big poo!” “… turd … !” I’m not sure if he thought I didn’t understand Agnes’ direction, or if he was bored. Read more…
Labor Fail, Part 1
Saturday night the contractions were pretty urgent, but they had been for the past few evenings. They usually tapered off with the sunrise, but Sunday morning … they tapered not.
20 minutes. 15 minutes. 10. 5. Five minutes apart for an hour means it’s time to go.
I’m told this was about 6 PM, but I hardly remember. It’s been two weeks (already), and I’ve just nearly recreated the sequence of events for myself from Husband’s testimony and text message records.
Third floor. Hospital gown. Three and a half centimeters. It’s up to us if we want to stay or go, but before we go she needs me on the monitors for 20 consecutive minutes. I couldn’t do that. Those contractions were racking me, and I couldn’t lay in that bed on my back for 20 minutes. She offered us an hour to labor and think about what we wanted to do. We gratefully accepted.
Contractions got closer and we decided to stay. I was worried that if we stuck around someone would get impatient and want to intervene to speed up the process, but I also didn’t want to go home and come right back. We got our little plastic wristbands and settled in.
Everything after that pretty much felt like me completely failing at childbearing. Read more…
Spits and Wiggles 