Monday, January 27, 2014

That Unforgettable Moment

We sit in the car driving east on I-94. Driving towards this little man, this child who would become a part of our family. Usually during the drive, I would read or chat with Josh or wonder if you would be awake when we arrived. Not this day. This day, I pray for you and for this woman who is on her way to court. This day, I think about the things in my life for which I am grateful, even before everything is said and done and official. This day, I hope and wait for one last phone call.

We pull up to the house at the same time as our case worker and your foster mom is at the door. She panics because she thinks the birth mom is supposed to visit before we arrive. To say goodbye to you. She doesn't want to see us, doesn't want to have to articulate how she is feeling about this day to us. I don't blame her. There had been a change of plans, though, which hasn't been communicated to your foster mom. She is sick and not coming. Part of my heart breaks for you- I so wanted to be able to tell you she saw you this once, that she came and held you and kissed you goodbye. I wanted that for your story.

We finally come inside and there you are. One hour away from knowing if this is going to happen or not.
There is an enormous pile of paperwork, our job to fill out while we waite for a call from the courthouse. We hold you for a bit but let your foster mom soak you in one last time while we sign. You did live with her for 6 weeks, after all. This is a hard day of goodbyes all around. You will miss each other.

After all is signed, our case worker leaves to go to the court house and get the news. It is just one more wait. The final one, we hope. We feed you and burp you and cuddle you. We chat with your foster mom and stare repeatedly at the phone, willing it to ring. Josh plays quietly in the corner, unsure totally on what it is we are waiting but knowing this is a huge day for our family.

And then that unforgettable moment. You ae in daddy's arms when the phone rings. I pick it up, hands shaking. Everyone in the room inhales.

The case worker on the other end. Everything went well, he is yours, congratulations. One crazy phone call. One big collective exhale.

I hang up the phone, tears streaming down my face. I turn to daddy and we hug and cry together, squishing you in between us. Your foster mom is laughing and crying and Josh keeps asking, "What? What? Why is everybody crying? Is he my brother now?"

"Yes, darling boy, he is your brother now. And always will be." We are a family.

It's safe now to exchange gifts and take pictures as we celebrate. Your foster mom gives us an amazing book, filled with pictures and milestones recorded during your time with her- we get to see our first pictures of you in the hospital. I can't wait to show it to you one day!

We change you into your clothes to bring you home and get a bottle ready for the drive. Then there is this surreal moment when we just stand around. Do we really just leave with you now? After all this?

Yes, yes we do.

We go home. Finally.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Today is the Day

I woke up this morning with a verse in my head, one that I've had memorized for as long as I can remember.

"This is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it."

Some days it is a chore to remember to rejoice. Some days it is hard to find the gratefulness and the happy. But not today. Today I am rejoicing. The heart-pounding, mind-racing, spontaneous-dancing kind of rejoicing. I am truly glad.

In just over five hours, we will visit you for the last time. And as long as everything goes well in court, we will feed you and change you and take pictures with you to remember this day and we will put you in the car.

Today you come home to your forever home.

And today I rejoice in this long-awaited fulfillment of a dream.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Final Preparations

You dream about what this will feel like. The first time around, when we had 8 months to think about it, we took our time. We registered, we attended the parties that our amazing friends threw for us, we installed the car seat. We looked forward to the day when we could pack that bag for the hospital. And we always did it with a sense of "when", never if. Possibly that was naive- there was no guarantee that Josh would be born healthy and come home with us. But this has felt different from the start. And 27 days of praying, hoping and preparing feels a lot different from 8 months.

Some would probably say, "but haven't you had five years?" The short answer? Yes. Yes, we have. But you hold yourself back a little. We had moments where we dove in, where we got a nursery ready, where I even washed clothes with the possibility of a little one coming home, only to see another dream fall, another disappointment happen. And the longer you wait, the more disappointments you feel, the more you move on. You just do life. No one in the grocery store asks when you are due. There are no parties to celebrate the impending arrival. It's just a quiet waiting. You aren't really doing any preparing because it's just too hard.

But finally. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day. The day when we bring him home. After 6 visits, countless prayers, the assembling of a nursery (including homemade artwork) in under a week, the frantic ordering of a carseat (which is actually two days late due to UPS's freakout over the polar vortex) and the bottles he is already used to, it's here.

And today? Today I am doing what I always had trouble picturing. I am setting up the bassinet next to our bed. I am packing the diaper bag for the trip home. I am opening the box of diapers and filling up the basket on the changing table. I am peeling back the foil on the formula and pouring it into the dispenser in case he gets hungry on the drive home. I am charging the camera batteries. I am doing more than dreaming. I am preparing.

And while I rush around doing all the last-minutes, I keep pausing. Drinking in the quiet of the house. Thinking about these final hours as a family of three. Reading for pure pleasure because I have the time and the space. Asking God to fill me with patience and selflessness and energy- three things I know I will need with a newborn in the house.

A newborn in the house. After five years of hoping, dreaming and praying.

We are ready, little man. Come on home.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Deep Breaths

Part of me made myself believe the paternity test would be positive. That this whole thing would stop in its tracks. Part of me prepared for the worst.

But not all of me. God has been doing a long, good work of hope in me. Even as we waited in those final hours willing the phone to ring, my heart alternated between pounding and peace. It was not all panic, it was not all worry.

And then the phone rang. My heart leaped into my throat. Here we go. I will know by the tone of voice, before my case worker even says a word. I will know.

Me: Hello?
CW: Carolyn? (brightness and cheer in her voice, hope warms!)
Me: So? (who needs the formalities of small talk when you are waiting on a call like this)
CW: I have good news. Really good news.
Me: (Tears. Again. Seriously, who knew the fruition of this wait would involve so many?)

We spoke for a few more minutes. And these minutes had the air of the definitive. The birth mother is holding strong on her decision and this possible birth father is out of the picture now. We will see you Thursday at this time and this place. Bring your diaper bag. You'll have to sign forms. Then it's time. Time for him to go home.

I hang up the phone and take a deep breath. This blip, this complication was nothing more than that. It's over. And it's time to unpress "pause" and finish getting ready. Here we go.

Daring to hope, daring to dream that the wait is almost over.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Two Days

It's only two days, right? Two more days to finish out what we hope has been a productive waiting. Two more days until we know for sure and get to bring him home. But before the two days can really mean something, we need a test back. A life-changing, possibly adoption-interrupting test.

Last Thursday, we were at the one-week mark. The time when it's serious. When we're almost there. I hadn't even processed too much in the week before that because I was so busy with all the physicalities of the preparations after Christmas clean-up. You need the car seat, the bassinet sheets should be washed and ready. The bottles sterilized and the right formula ready to go in the cabinet. The time to think about his coming-home outfit and what we want the moment when we sign the papers to look like. The home stretch.

Instead, we got a phone call. A complication. A potential birth parent who had come out of the woodwork and wanted to petition for custody. My first reaction? Panic. My second reaction? An attempt at unselfishness. If this is really a parent who wants to parent and could give this little boy a good home, who am I to pray for a different outcome? Who am I to ask God to stop this petition in its tracks and give us this little boy when he could live with a birth parent? My third reaction? No. This man hasn't earned the right to be this boy's father and in fact, from what we know of him, he maybe has earned the right to be in jail. He has bee the opposite of "father" in this scenario and has been an agent of fear in this birth mother's life. The last thing she wants is for this man to be given this boy. Why should he get to be the dad just because he shares blood? No. This cannot happen.

So for 6 days we have been waiting. Again. Waiting on a paternity test that could make or break this adoption. Being reminded again that our connection to this little boy is legally tenuous. It doesn't matter that we've prepared, that we've spent hours visiting him and hugging him and feeding him and changing his diaper and thinking up names and falling in love. None of it matters to the courts. DNA is all that matters to them. And to me, that is beyond unbelievable in a world where blood has shown again and again not to be the determining factor in insuring a happy household. Only love can do that.

So, I wait today for the phone to ring. I long to hear the words "he is not the father" on the other end of the line. I know the case workers, birth mother and foster mother are all longing for the same results. We are not alone in this waiting, this desire to see this boy come home with us. And if it doesn't go our way, the way I personally think is best for this little boy, then I will still not be alone. That is what helps me through this kind of unknown.

When the phone rings, I will answer with hope. It's the only way I can.

Saturday, January 18, 2014

Missing the Milestones, But...

It's Christmas Day. We woke up here, read the Christmas story, put our final ornament on the Jesse Tree. We went downstairs and exclaimed over presents and tried things on and and played and laughed. We ate our traditional monkey bread and put together legos and spent an hour sledding in the snow. It was a good Christmas.

But.

You weren't here yet. You are at your foster parents home. You were a part of their traditions. You won't remember today, of course. It won't matter in the long run to you that your big brother dressed up like Darth Vader and stomped around the house while Dad played his theme song on the piano. Or the fact that the guinea girls got a new fun cage to play in with all sorts of toys and have been hopping around happily for hours. You probably couldn't have smiled about it yet.

The thing is, though, it's your first Christmas and you aren't home. You learned to smile this week and we haven't seen it yet. You are in someone else's arms on this most important of days.

But you know what? It's ok.

Yes, I am missing some milestones. I am. But, I can be thankful that your foster mom sends me updates and is good at keeping a camera on hand. I can take comfort in the fact that she loves Jesus, too, and that your Christmas felt like the right kind of Christmas. I can keep counting down the days (15!) until this uncertainty is over and you will be home with us and I won't miss the big moments like rolling over and sitting up and first steps and teeth. (Actually, I wouldn't mind missing the whole teething thing, to be honest. If you want to go ahead and get that over with now, feel free.)

The grand scheme of it is this. The wait is really almost over. These final weeks are nothing compared to the long road we've already traveled. If I miss a smile or two, I know there are thousands in my future. If I miss a feeding or a pediatrician's appointment, I can rest assured that this side of home you will experience so many more than you have up until now. If I am not the one to comfort you now or the one with whom you've bonded, some day I will be that person to you. I WILL be mama. And so, I can do this. I can wait two more weeks. I can look at your pictures as often as I like. I can pray for you and for your birth parents and for me and Dad and Josh as we ready ourselves for this new stage of family.

And next year, on this day, I can celebrate your second Christmas with you, my son. What a good and beautiful day that will be.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

Praying for Her

I woke up early this morning with a feeling of urgency. A need to pray for her, for the woman who is giving us this most precious of gifts, who is grieving and sad and hurting. And like the letter I wrote her a few short days ago, the words are hard because the ones I want to say are also wrapped up in fear. Fear that she will change her mind or decide, after all, that she'd rather a different family do this. Fear that this whole thing will come crashing down, even after we've spent two amazing afternoons with a precious little boy. Fear that 17 more days will be too long to wait.

But this morning, I choose obedience over fear. I'm not big on getting up before the sunrise, but here I am. It was physically impossible to continue to sleep or even just to lay in the warm, dark bedroom. Here I am. A prayer for her.

Father of lights, Giver of good gifts, Lover of humanity, Comforter of the suffering, be with this woman. Envelope her in the lonely places. Touch the places of heartbreak and begin to work your healing. Work trust and hope into her soul even as she processes this loss, this hardest of decisions she has made. Put people in her life who support and love her, who don't pressure her to move on too quickly, but wait with her through the phases of grief.

Help her to understand that you understand the loss of a child. Help her to dive into that reality, to gain comfort from your empathy, to be filled with your love for her. Help her to continue to heal from surgery and strengthen her body.

On those mornings when it's too hard, give her peace. Enter into that struggle and help her know she is not forsaken. Honor the brave choice she has made and remind her of your presence in it.

Give us love and care for her. Help us to understand how to best share with her this son. Let us not be selfish in our prayers or overcome by fear or anxiety. Help us know you are in this and bigger than all the legal stuff.

You are our Heavenly Father, you do want good. Help us to live into that, to know that you love that little boy more than any of the rest of us possibly can. And help us to trust that you are even in the legal details and uncertainties. Most of all, be a deep and powerful presence in her life today, every minute and second as we inch closer to Christmas, a time of year that focuses on the gift of a baby.  

As each day passes may she know you more and more. Amen.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

On the Day We Met

It started out like any ordinary day. It was a Saturday, so we all got to sleep a little later. Josh was up before anyone. I could hear him singing to himself in his room and wondered what he was thinking. He would get to meet you, his baby brother today.

I padded out of the bedroom and grabbed a cup of coffee. Headed downstairs to do my advent reading and just soak in the quiet. As I read and thought and prayed, I watched the snow falling for the fourth time this week. It's been a cold December. Refreshing, though. Full of sunshine and hope. Which is different from a lot of previous Decembers.

A quick breakfast and some chores and then Dad took Josh to a birthday party. I ran around the house, packing the camera and a few gifts for you, trying to wish away the minutes until we'd see you in person. Busyness is a gift in those moments.

Then we are picking Josh up from his party and all on our way. Driving in the snow, answering questions from the backseat. Can we feed him? Will I be able to hold him? Do you think he'll like my finger puppet? When will his birth mommy decide for sure if we can have him? One excited 7-year-old.

When we drive up, there is a woman, your foster mom, standing in the doorway. I see a bundle of something pressed into her shoulder and realize it's you greeting us at the door. You are so tiny. I knew you would be but man, you are. I want to reach out and grab you but I don't know the etiquette here. You might be ours but not yet. You are legally this foster mother's for now and we have to be cautious.

We come in, leave our snowy boots at the door. Act calm, as though this isn't the craziest thing we've ever done. Just drive up to a house, walk in and meet our child. You know, no big deal. She asks who wants to hold you first and I want to say "me", I want to shout it, but I know I should let the boys go first. Dad jumps in though and points to me with a big smile. He knows my heart. He knows I need to hold you. He knows I need to feel the life in this little child for whom we've prayed and waited and hoped and dreamed and, yes, sometimes despaired of ever coming.


I don't cry. Of course I don't, there are people in the room I don't know until today. I've cried a lot over the past few days so I don't need to anyway. I just gaze at you. I soak you in. I hope against hope that nothing will fall through, that in 30 short days you will be sitting in my arms in our home, wearing the clothes I've bought you, no foster mom in sight. I pass you to my son who has been praying for this moment from when he first learned to pray. "Oh, he's so sweet, mommy." Yes, son, he is. You are. So sweet, so small, so precious.

You go to Daddy and I remember that feeling I used to get watching him hold Josh. This overwhelming feeling a woman gets when she knows her son has the best dad in the world. And I know you will be blessed beyond measure by this wonderful man who holds you in his arms, overwhelmed, confused, unsure what the right reactions are on this day. You look so small but so safe and so, well, right there.

The hours pass quickly and we have to hand you back. You are unaware that you've just met your parents, that you've tasted your forever family. You don't really know much besides eating and sleeping right now but I know you will know us soon. Soon, we will be all you know, we will be your world. And only three days ago we didn't know you existed. Now we do.

On the day we met, dear son, I knew my life was changed.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

The Call

After awhile you stop expecting the call. An unknown phone number pops up and you assume the mundane- a telemarketer, a dental appointment or someone reminding you that your dog needs a haircut. You stop expecting the unexpected. You stop holding your breath when you pick up the phone in that moment after you say hello. You expect the ordinary.

And then one day, you pick up the phone. You might be in the middle of something else, possibly you don't even glance at the caller I.D. You're cooking dinner or talking to your child or telling the dog to stop barking. So you pick it up and forget to hold your breath.

You should've held your breath.

Because what comes next is anything but ordinary. The opposite of mundane. You have been matched with a child. Your child. This someone for whom you've prayed about, cried over, filled out mountains of paperwork, hoped, dreamed, imagined. Suddenly, he exists. Suddenly he is a person. A boy. With dark hair and eyes, 9 pounds, 6 ounces, 21 inches. And with a name that his birth mother has chosen for him. And you have been invited into the amazing journey of being his mother. It's the call. That call you stopped waiting for at some point along the way.

When you burst into tears, your social worker laughs. She's never heard you cry before but she knows the wait has been long and emotional. You can tell she loves getting to make this kind of phone call. This, this is why she does this. It's still not final, you hear her say, though it's very likely. Things could happen, be cautious, and you know she's right. You know you must guard your heart against more disappointment but you can't help it. The tears keep falling and you find yourself laughing and stumbling over words. What questions do you have, she asks? Oh, just a thousand, you know. None of which you can put into words yet.

So you take a moment. You call your husband, share the news and burst into tears all over again. You tell him about your son. You take in his dumbfounded silence. Your lives have changed in less time than it takes to shower and get ready in the morning. You got the call.

Who do we call, who do we tell? How do we break the news to our son? Do we set up the crib or do we wait until the court date is done? What risks do we take and where do we move forward with abandon? Do we leave facebook for the next 30 days while we wait so we aren't tempted to tell anyone? Or do we tell the world and risk having to tell them all over again if something happens?

The whirlwind of what's and how's will not slow down for awhile. So you go about making dinner. You play with your son and repair his broken light saber. You listen to him talk with his guinea pigs and anticipate the look on his face when you tell him that night at dinner. You think about the fun of telling all the grandparents.

And you pause. You thank God deeply. It hasn't been easy. You haven't always trusted Him on this journey. In fact, you've been downright angry sometimes. But you know He's stuck by you. You know He loves this little boy and has been waiting for him longer than you have. And you know he'll be in the next part of this wait. These 30 days of paperwork and court appearances and tracking down of a birth father. You know the reality that this could fall through, but you praise God anyway and hope for the reality that this boy, this sweet little boy, will be a part of your forever family.

You got the call. And it changed everything.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Telling the Story

It's been about 36 hours since we became a family of four. (Or a family of 7 according to Josh. You cannot leave out the guinea pigs and the dog. That's just wrong.) As you can well imagine, we are reeling, not to mention sleep-deprived. How do you go from a family of 3 for over 7 years to suddenly having this new little person in the house? A new little person who had adjusted to a different home for his first six weeks of life? Who doesn't really know us? Who has just the clearest bit of uncertainty when he gazes at us? Who has already suffered two losses in his little life?

Of course, there's a back story here. A period of time during which we learned about him, got to visit him, spent lots of time talking about the "ifs" with this specific little boy. A period during which we stayed silent publicly but privately processed and prepared. As much as you can, anyway.

Now that there are no more "what-ifs" in this story, now that he's home, we are excited to tell the story. We won't share every detail due to privacy issues in the adoption process and out of respect to his birthparents. But we are delighted to share the important parts, the journey home of our Nathaniel Jaceyon and how we felt along the way.

And before telling the bigger story, why the name?

Nathaniel means "gift of God" and Jaceyon is the name given to him by his birth mother. Putting the names together, we knew we would always be reminded of God's goodness in this gift to us and his birth mother's brave decision and love for him. That was really important to us. No matter how much she is physically a part of our stories from this point on, she is inextricably linked in a powerful way to our family. We wanted him to know that truth when he is old enough to process his story.

So, over the next few weeks, I will post that story of this little man becoming a part of our family. It has been quite an emotional ride for all of us and the coming home is just the start of our family's next chapter. We are so grateful for the ways our friends and family have rejoiced with us so far and look forward to when they will actually meet this precious little man in person.

Friday, January 3, 2014

Going Lighter This Year

I'm not a big New Year's Resolution kinda person. I think I've recognized over the years that I'm a pretty goal-oriented person to begin with. I'm always working on something so to add a new list at the New Year creates fodder for my issues with responsibility and guilt. Let's be honest, I have plenty of fodder for those already.

The thing that does happen without fail in the new year is a renewed hatred of clutter. I don't know if it's just because the Christmas decorations have been up for just a touch too long or that the influx of new "stuff" into the home pushes me over the edge, but I always feel the need to move into spring cleaning the second the opening of presents is through. I bide my time until Epiphany, which in my husband's world is the official date at which you can begin to tear down decorations. Of course, if I begin spring cleaning on Epiphany this year, it could mean that said cleaning is taking place in -45 degree weather. Thank you, Wisconsin, for one of the most terrifying weather forecasts I have ever seen. I shall plan to stay inside forever.

Every year, though, it's that question of how far to go? What to really get rid of? We purged a lot in 2013 with our move across the country but there's plenty more "things" that are just, well, things. Not necessities, nothing that necessarily enriches our lives. Piles and boxes of stuff that we hold on to for whatever reason. I have a whole box of cd's in our storage room but I don't even own a cd player anymore. A whole box of VHS tapes and our VCR doesn't even work. I need help.

A friend posted yesterday about a challenge she was going to take to get rid of 2,014 things in 2014. On my first read through I thought, no, that's impossible. How can I possibly get rid of that much stuff? On my second read through I saw that it came with an excel spreadsheet. I was sold.

So, I'm going to dive in. And for the good of my soul, I'm going to dive in with a less legalistic attitude than I usually do with things involving lists. This is going to be a significant goal but not one that has to be perfectly reached and attained. A chance to intentionally evaluate the "why" of what we hold onto and to part with the things we sometimes let define us. Those things that have no business playing a role in who we really are.

If you want to take the challenge alongside me, let me know in the comments section. We can check in with each other and encourage each other along the way!

Now, I'm going to grab a box and get started!

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Steps in Optimism

As far as I know there is no 12 step program for leaning into hope. There are just the simple things. You pray. You wait. You talk to those who understand and listen. You laugh with your family and play games. You walk the dog and soak in the beauty of a cold, snowy day. You just live. And occasionally, you take little, intentional steps in optimism.

When we moved here, we were leaving behind a house that had been big enough for more children. A room that had been set aside, decorated and readied for a little one and, thankfully, used more times than we could count for dear friends' little ones even while our own never got to call it home. Leaving behind a room like that and what it meant led us to hold off on a nursery here. Heal a little. Live with a room filled with a futon and original nintendo with a closet stuffed to the gills with infant accessories, but mercifully shut most of the time.

We did change a few things right off the bat.

For instance, this was the room when we moved in:

  Pink Ribbon wallpaper with cream and pink walls. A few people asked me if I might just keep it that way until we found out if we were having a girl but pink ribbons just aren't my thing.



I lasted about three months with the pink before deciding that, no matter how long the final transformation of the room would take, it had to go now. I wanted it replaced by something that could eventually be a nursery color but that would work in the meantime for a place for us to sit, read, play nintendo and host the occasional overnight guest.

So,  I stripped the wallpaper and tried out various colors.

I finally decided to paint one wall with stripes in a medium gray and the other walls in the same gray. That was quite the production but after a lot of help from a laser level and my husband, we had stripes to fill in!





And we lived with the room in its lovely grayness wondering when it might be transformed into its ultimate purpose, knowing we didn't want to rush into an act of optimism that might only cause us pain if it remained empty.

Wisconsin, though, has provided lots of fodder for hope. Lots of possible babies, birth parents looking at our book and even strong possibilities of a match. And with the healing that time, God and the gray nintendo room have brought, we decided it was time to get ready.

So, I dusted off my creative art skills, we cleaned off the changing table, dragged the crib upstairs, unpacked the boxes and washed the clothes. We even ordered a car seat. Talk about optimism. I will confess, however, that I'm leaving it in the box for a little while. Sometimes a step is just a little too big.

After about a week of fun activity and inspiration from Dr. Seuss himself, here is what we have.





Ready for a little one. One blank wall left for a name over the crib. But essentially, our current pillar of optimism that in the near future, we deeply hope, will be filled with laughter and cries.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

You Might Be Adopting If...


1. You find yourself using the phrase "No, we can't put that name on our baby name list, it's too white!" or "Do you think Jamal Ogrosky sounds wrong somehow?"

2. Registering for gifts is a pain in the booty because you don't have a due date. Really, people? It's 2014. Can we please have an adoption category? It is not helping us to have to redo our registries every nine months when we still don't have a kid. Kinda like salt in a wound.

3. Your kid asks you if it's time to go get a baby yet, as if you are heading to a store somewhere to do it.

4. You accidentally call yourself a birth parent in regards to your biological child in a conversation.

5. You meet anyone else who has gone or is going through this and you just know. And you bond instantly.

6. The word "homecoming" no longer means a ritualistic football and dance celebration at your alma mater.

7. More people than should know are privy to the intimate details of your marriage, including your sex life.         Thank you, agencies, for ensuring maximum discomfort in home study interviews.

8. You have a fire escape plan on your fridge and a smoke detector for every 2 square feet of ceiling in your      home.

9. People ask you the question "So have you heard anything?" every day of your life. I might start replying         with random facts I learn in my biology class.

10. You have actually experienced nausea, fatigue, memory lapses and hormone swings in direct relation to        the amount of paperwork you have had to fill out.

11. The term "waiting" has become a four letter word in your house.

12. You hear the phrase "it will all be worth it" all the time and cling to the hope that that is indeed true.

13. There is at least one entire shelf in your office devoted to adoption-related literature.

14. Your heart flies into your throat anytime your agency phone number pops up on your caller id.

You might be adopting if you are scared and clueless sometimes about what this whole experience might actually be like, but you are holding steady anyway and knowing that God has been and will be there every step of the way.