“What is it like adopting an older child? Should we break birth order? Do you have any words of wisdom for bringing an older child into our home? How will it affect our children?” These are the most asked questions that land in my inbox. And buddy, are they loaded. I...
I was seven days late.
It’s only happened twice in my life. The other time was three years ago. The week before our foster son came home.
I woke up every morning, believing the “in due time” had finally come. That after all of these years, it was our turn. I was certainly going to see my belly start swelling in the next few weeks. I had calculated the due date and thought through every way I would tell my husband, family, and dear friends. I had imagined the look on their faces, like the ones standing around Lazarus’s grave.
Even after all the hoping and all the disappointment, I knew this new season our family has stepped in, has looked so different from the old ones. He’s doing a new thing in us, something He’s never done before. And hope never puts us to shame (Romans 5:5), so I wasn’t afraid to hope. Because my hope isn’t in a miracle, it’s a person, my Jesus.
This was the third test I took that week. All the other ones said the same results. But I wasn’t going to believe it wasn’t true, until I knew. And I knew on day eight.
Right before we looked at the test, Brandon said to me, “You know this doesn’t change a word out of God’s mouth about this.” And I knew that. Still do.
I glanced in the mirror one night when I was putting by children to bed and suddenly remembered that I didn’t grow them in my belly when I saw our reflection staring back at us. It might sound weird that I forget that my children are adopted, but I do.
Because to me, they’re just my children.
Our stories, they both started with brokenness.
Mine looked like month after month, year after year of negative pregnancy tests. It’s all I ever wanted to be, a mama. So when doctors and my flat belly told me it wouldn’t happen, it was a deep pain, probably the deepest of my life. It wasn’t suppose to be this way. My body is designed to conceive and carry babies.
I don’t like to think of your story as painful. It tears my heart in half to think of you being in pain. But the truth is, in a perfect world, before the fall, God intended mommies to carry their babies. Your birth mama, she loved you so deep, she knew she couldn’t give you what you needed. So she made a brave choice, and chose life for you, a life she couldn’t give.
But often, you get the last of me.
I remember you picking me up for our first date. I spent a whole hour getting ready for you. Making sure every hair was in place and my make-up was perfect. When you see me now, at the end of the day, the make-up that is left on my face is smeared. My hair is more than likely in a pony tail or some rat’s nest on the top of my head. And my outfit, 100% has someone’s bodily fluids smeared somewhere.
But there were days when we would lay in bed and binge watch Netflix. They were my favorite. The thought of being with you for the whole weekend, got me through the week. We’d run down the street to our favorite Mexican place, eat until we were stuffed, grab some ice cream, and watch Chuck until we fell asleep. We’d laugh until we cried. And we wouldn’t wake up the next morning until we felt like it.
Remember all those Saturday’s we’d hop in the car and drive? Anywhere. Or we’d call up a few friends and ask them to meet us downtown in like thirty minutes? We didn’t have to be home at a certain time. If we stayed out late, it was fine because we could take a nap the next day. We went on lots of adventures, didn’t we?
And you got all of me. The very best parts.
You do hard things. You stand in the gap for little ones in the hardest days of their lives. You're the middle mom, filling the space between brokenness and redemption. You love them as they are your own, expecting nothing in return. You constantly have people in your...