Where has the beef been?

Spring is a wondrous, exciting time in the country. Walking my dog on the dirt roads that surround my house I can't help but stand (or jog) in awe of this outstanding gift we've been given in creation. Living in a 35 acre development, the majority of our neighbors have animals of some sort. In our neighborhood alone, on a normal daily jaunt, Echo and I get the privilege of visiting sheep, alpacas, cows, horses, chickens, geese, and donkeys. On these spring days, I especially marvel at the beautiful mama cows with their calves close by underfoot. Living nearby farm animals for the better part of a decade, looking these critters in the eye on a daily basis has changed my perspective immensely. 

I spent my teen years into my early 20's as a vegetarian. It wasn't due to animal rights or treatment, but solely because I didn't care much for meat. The thought of eating flesh consistently was kind of revolting to me. 

Then, I became pregnant with Jayla in the winter of 2000 and I craved meat. Bobby almost popped a disbelieving gasket the night I asked him to pull into a Wendy's drive through late one night after we left a meeting and order a big, juicy, cheeseburger (of all things!). And that's when it began, my meat eating past time was in full throes once again. 

As our family grew, not eating meat didn't seem like a very practical option for serving a brood. It's harder to think of vegetarian alternatives. They are often costlier on the budget. My husband enjoyed it almost as much as the next guy.

Still, in my heart of hearts, I felt cutting back substantially on our meat consumption was important. So we did. Scaling down to 3 or so times/ week was what I figured our long lasting goal would remain. 

Then that enlightening, bright and nasty and exposing little documentary Food Inc. came out following the book The Omnivore's Dilemma. I was fascinated by both and felt that not only could we reduce our meat consumption, but we could grow selective in the types of meat we would intake, specifically with regard to the treatment of the animals we would consume. Not only could we cut back, finding plenty of healthy, cost effective alternatives along the way, but we could become quite choosy in where we would spend our dollars, casting a vote toward humane treatment of animals. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. God put Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden and told them to have dominion and all that jazz. But did he tell them to stick cows in a feedlot where they would stand in their own feces their entire lives eating a manufactured diet of genetically modified corn? Did he insist chickens live in dark steel cages, have their beaks cut off to prohibit, normal chicken-esque pecking and be pumped full of antibiotics because their conditions were so rancid disease was inevitable? Well, no. I think not.

Exploitation of the vulnerable is, always has been, and will probably continue to be a reality in the world in which we live. What is more vulnerable to human abuse and greed than wildlife? We fight against it when it comes to dogs and cats and whales and dolphins and tuna. We can fight against it when it comes to cows and chickens and pigs too.

Going to Garden City, Kansas and driving by, seeing (and smelling!) the feedlots reminded me of our commitment and renewed my vigor for it, prompting a nice, long lecture for my beloved babies to endure. (Sorry, kids. Mommy's got a rant to let loose from time to time.) Such a sad, sad state these poor creatures are forced to dwell in. I know, it's big money and Americans are demanding a whole lotta beef. It's what's for dinner after all. But surely, if we are so adamant about protecting our precious pets, we too could grow concerned for the lives of the precious animals who give theirs on our behalf, so that our palates may be satisfied. 

Even if their lives are short, they can be of great quality. Cows doing what cows do. Grazing on grass. Pigs allowed the same grazing freedom rather than containment in tiny pens. Chickens allowed to see daylight, to peck at the ground, to walk and roam and do a chicken dance if they please. Granting our food a natural setting in a natural environment just seems fitting to me.

For our family, it's not easy or necessarily convenient to inform ourselves about the lives of our meat before they were processed for our tables. It's certainly not cheap. Feeding a party of 9 who eats out in restaurants so rarely a new Presidential administration is ushered in between visits, I am intimately aware of the costs. We have had to make drastic cuts in the quantity we purchase as we gladly pay the higher prices. For example, the last ham I bought cost $45. But the pig was allowed to graze on actual green grass in Pueblo, and his meat was delicious, and we were grateful for his piggly wiggly life, and ultimately his death. Surely even Wilbur himself could scarcely argue with that. 

Since we've had chickens of our very own that we care for with their very own names who provide us with fresh eggs every single day of their lives, guess what? Our kids have decided we ought to declare our table A Chicken Free Zone. My heart, it was proud.

Then, they remembered they must mark an exception for hotwings, especially on our trips to Jim's Wings in  Fort Collins. Because, let's face it, enjoyment is important. Those little people, they are right. Mama can't win em' all...

For better and for worse...and all that lies between.

Talking to my friend who just got married got me thinking of our wedding.

May I just say?

It


was


lame.


No, seriously. L to the A to the M to the E. Full on lameolicious.

See, it wasn't really what either of us would have wanted. I always dreamed of running away to Vegas to elope at The Elvis Chapel or someplace thereabouts. Or heading directly to the Justice of the Peace some rainy afternoon in our jeans and t shirts and flip flops...using pipe cleaners for wedding bands. (Tell me, just how romantic am I?)

But the Christian cult of which we were devout members during that time persuaded us there was a right way and a wrong way to tie the matrimonial knot. So, they made us wait until we completed a series of classes (which strangely enough had nothing remotely to do with marriage, by the way, only Serious Spiritual Matters) then after a three year engagement they called us with a date. "Your wedding day is Feb. 20, 1999." Okey dokey artichokey. Like all good blind little cultists stripped of the right to their own opinions, we conceded. Lest we burn in incorrect wedded union conduct flames from here to eternity, we will comply. As you wish.

Then, my dad spent a couple grand on the dinnerless, danceless, cake-only plus a few pastel mints ceremony and reception and wala! I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Deutsch. (We often joke about the raw deal I got in that arrangement, going from JONES to a name that is often mispronounced along the lines of feminine hygiene ware.) *For those of you who aren't aware, it's Deutsch, as in German, in German. Kind of like DOY-ch. Nothing Massengill-y about it at all. Ahem.

In true, let's do this right by our current less cultish lifestyle fashion, I often suggest to my hunka sugar cube that we should renew our vows. For fun. So we could have a party. The way we would like it, on a day we choose, with cake and dancing, sans any and all cookey cult related standards. To which he says, "I renew my vows every day, baby." Aw, the sweetness!

And still I wonder, wouldn't vows mean so much more after nearly 15 years of marriage? When you actually know what you're in for? Because the thing is, no matter how much you love that sugar booger you're pledging your life to, you can't really tell what the future will hold. There is so much unknown, so little you can accurately anticipate. Life unfolds. For better or for worse, you go on and live it. Together. It's all pretty much a big fat surprise.

Now that we have a bit of an idea what the daily and yearly and hourly looks like together, I believe it would be a gift to each other to write our own vows. Thinking mine over, I'm guessing they might go something like this:

I Tisha, take you, Bobby, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forward, in sickness and in health, through colicky infants and rambunctious toddlers and eye rolling preteens and more children than fit within the confines of a handful.

Through eye opening intercountry adoption and vasectomies and hopeful reversals and the sad, bitter taste of impending infertility. Through fibbing approval over early years burnt dinners and the introduction to tofu and more greens than you ever imagined digesting. Through home projects galore. And then a few more home projects.

Through rising cholesterol and more greens yet, and budding crinkles surrounding the eyes and the slow, but steady departure of collagen and purpley lined road maps arranged with veins. Through disappointment and youthful tempers not yet subdued, through the senseless slamming of doors and difficult, reluctant, true and heart felt apologies. Through sleepless nights and sorrowful, happy, joyful, tender tears. Through making up, again and again, as needed, until always.

Through budgeting and bills that pile high and bank accounts that run low, through planned and unexpected abundance and ever increasing awareness that having enough is a most blessed state. Through the constant visitor, Murphy's Law and puppies and piddle and housebreaking and rabbits and guinea pigs and goldfish and kittens and chickens and possibly a goat on the horizon...

Through sleepless nights and worry and wonder and faith and doubt and political shifting. Through perspectives that spark as they collide. Through boredom and rejuvenation and irritation and overlooking. Through speeding tickets and automotive maintenance and "oops, I ran into the garage door. I though it was open."

Through the intertwined sacrificial gain and loss found in parenthood.

Through countless decisions beckoning to be made, in unison. Through relentless change and the ticking of the clock and never saying never. Through learning that some things aren't as important as they once seemed and that the greatest riches come not in the form of money, but in the form of the love of your people and that to have and to hold is not to contain, but to truly set free.

Through surgeries and births and hospitals and burials and the flu and awaiting the word benign. Through pain and heartbreak and suffering and growth and excitement uncontainable and never doing that again and wanting this moment to never end and passion that burns hot and passion that dwindles low and watching your babies sleep in their crib and bliss and joy so powerful you feel your heart might burst open into a million tiny pieces on the spot and the foreboding knowledge that it can't, just exactly as it is right now, last forever....

You are my constant, my truest friend, my lover, my companion, my builder, my encourager, my greatest support. Thank you for accommodating my unique needs in all that they entail, for putting me before yourself, for showing me what abiding love and fierce loyalty and genuine acceptance looks like. For teaching me what it is to be married.

I give to you my all. My love, my heart, my commitment, my self.

For all that it is and all that it was and all that it will be, we are in this together.

And this time, I really, really mean it baby.

Warning: Your Eyes Will Grow Weary Reading This Post

Oops, I forgot to blog last week. And for a few days before that. The last several weeks are a bit of a blur.

We've been heavy in construction mode around here with Roberto el constructor doing his largest house project to date...and the man is no stranger to big fat home projects. This puppy required an entire month of vacation from work (yipee!) exactly 2x the money we budgeted for it (ouch!) and 12 to 14 to 16 hour days, from light until dark, every.single.day.of.the.week (zzzzzzz). And, in true you-can-never-really-plan-for-these-things-with-any-real-accuracy fashion, it's still not finished. It was Mr. Weather's fault. Sending that rascally moisture to ease a drought the way he did with snow first then rain, caused some significant delays. So although he's back to work at the kind of work he actually gets paid for, The Builder will continue to plug away on nights and weekends, and I'll continue to solo parent, which will continue to blur my eyes...

Stryder's birthday was May 9th. Jayla set this table for him using left over supplies from her great grandpa's 90th birthday party in April. Yep, sweet sweet girl. (See the moulding around the windows? ↓ That's part of The Never Ending Project. One of my favorite parts!)

The Birthday King. Because you can never wear too many hats at once.

Giving a pirate ship cake my best shot. Have I mentioned I'm not crafty? And that my lack of ability includes clever, cute & crafty cakes? Only about 10,000 times? I keep attempting the whole bake then cut then frost process just to show my babies that the depth of mommy's love knows no bounds. They see my strain, the sweat brimming on my brow. They observe my single minded focus. They witness the powdered sugar splattered all over my clothes. They hear the *bleep* in my vocabulary, and they know one thing to be sure: My mom must reeeeeeaaaaaaaaly care about me to put herself though this type of wicked turmoil producing me a birthday cake she found online in the Land of Dreams otherwise known as pinterest. I must be special to her. (Jayla made the treasure map and the coins.) 

The boy was happy enough.

We shared a party with some of our favorite friends whose daughter's birthday is May 9th also, at the church with bouncy houses. Fun, fun, fun for the kids! No resulting trips to the ER meant fun, fun, fun for the moms too!

This poor girl gets told she looks like her mother EVEry place we go. I mean it. Especially in the place we spent last weekend - Garden City, KS - where people knew me at her age.

Opening his gifts from the boys at the party.

The whole group.

I wanted to hide away in my room for Mother's Day, watching one episode after another of my new found favorite show Call the Midwife on my iPad, but I mostly planted the garden instead. Did I tell you Bobby was up to his eyeballs in re-siding and painting the house at that point? He offered to take the day off, but I told him no need to waste his precious, ever tick tocking hours of daylight. I would put on my farmesty pair of flip flops and get the crops in the ground so we could feed our 7 hungry mouths come harvest time. Homesteading, it's not for the faint of heart.

I did get showered with a homemade array of colorful goodness....

 ...AND made from scratch by Jayla including the crust lemon meringue pies. She even zested the lemons. That girl. She is something ELSE.

I was touched looking at all the facebook photos of mothers on that day. I thought often of what beautiful, beautiful creatures mothers are. Their hands busy with labor, their eyes lined with smiles, their arms willing to embrace, their mouths rich with wisdom, their hearts filled and overflowing with affection and adoration and care and commitment toward their children. Old or young, heavy or thin, rich or poor, they are all so very precious. No matter how big they get, to her little ones, is no one like their mommy.

Motherhood turns women into warriors. It draws out the fierce and firery and the soft and nurturing all with the very same stroke of love. It is a gift beyond measure.

When we went to the place everyone tells Jayla she looks like me to celebrate a wedding of a dear friend I met on the first day of kindergarten, Sarah, and my nephew, Ian's graduation from high school, we did a lot of this:

And this:

And when we were tired we did this:

Ian with his host of much shorter cousins:

Me in my $3 (yes! $3!) dress I wore to the wedding. Um, I am fancy.

Sorry ladies, but mine were the handsomest gentlemen in attendance...

The stunning bride, Sarah with her new husband, Randall. ♥

Me, my $3 dress and million dollar man who danced the night away with his children, winning my heart over and over again with each new song and silly move.

The kids outside the reception which was held in an old renovated barn (which probably took twice the money and time to overhaul...☺) that was cozy and full of rustic charm.

I still have Stryder's birthday letter to write and there is lots I'd like to say about the value of enduring friendship that I've learned through my time spent with the gentle and tender hearted, yet iron willed, Sarah, but alas even a long winded person like me can see this post is far too long. Perhaps,  on another day....

What It Can Not Do

Our oldest 4 kids received their Iowas State Standardized Testing results  yesterday during their last day of school-for-homeschoolers. This is Jayla and Onyx's second year participating and the first time for Meadow and Tyden. In both instances, I have excitedly (somewhat nervously) anticipated the results.

In some ways I feel the tests are a truly telling sign of where the kids perform academically in comparison to their peers, and in other ways I find them a ridiculously over processed, vastly categorized, rigidly underestimating, dull and boring having nothing whatsoever to do with real life multiple choice waste of time and valuable energy that could be spent on things like, I don't know, say worthwhile education. Be that as it may, it is a gauge nonetheless, and I see learning to perform well on tests such as this a necessary step in our culture, especially for those children who would like to pursue higher education in the form of a university, (for which their parents are not paying.) Scholarships, babies...they are the key to your academic future.

As I was giving the results a good perusal and I counted the categories on which they were tested one by one, I thought about the innumerable types of knowledge these children possess that tests like this could never quantify.

Her Iowa State Test Results do not tell you that Jayla is able to bake delicious apple pies from scratch, without using a recipe or how she makes dinner alone for her family those evenings while I am away. They won't convey how exceedingly skilled she is with little children and that she will soon be the most competent babysitter on the planet or that she is the most creative, resourceful artist I've ever known, one who is continually constructing homemade gifts for her younger siblings.

They can't tell you about Onyx's extraordinary love of nature and his appreciation of all that is outdoors and how he can swing an ax to chop wood like a boy twice his age, whittle just about anything his heart desires from a stick, and clean a chicken coop like a pro. They couldn't possibly encapsulate the contribution his bright and sunshiny disposition is to our home. They don't relate how hard Tyden has worked this year on himself and the improvements he has made in managing his emotions or his freakishly extraordinary recall for movie phrases and song lyrics and the ability he has to get the entire family roaring in laughter all at the same time. They couldn't possibly contain the blood, sweat and tears our sweet Meadow has poured into learning how to be a family girl and the way she is gaining confidence day by day and learning to use her voice and find herself valuable and worthy and wonderful and lovable. They don't speak of her servant's heart or the sweetness that resides deep within her soul. They don't tell of her patience to work with Flint in helping him along and listening to him read or what a tremendous example she is to him in her ability to overcome an unwelcome start to life that could have almost been insurmountable as it was nearly too much for either one of them to bear.

They won't tell you of our children's budding desire to care for their physical bodies by preparing and savoring healthy foods or how they have learned resourcefulness through a year of buying almost exclusively second hand. They don't talk about how they grow vegetables in the ground and dance in the rain and memorize entire chapters of the Bible at once. They won't relay the dozens of children's novels we have read as a family or their knowledge of all things Little House on the Prairie or the manners we learn over nightly dinner at the table or lessons taught in sportsmanship through football and basketball and skinned knees and sibling squabbles and resolutions that lead to true, enduring brotherly love. They don't tell of the skits they write and the plays they work together to produce for their parents' entertainment or of the myriad of chores they do and how they are developing skill at contributing to the functioning of a household. They won't describe the lessons they have learned in hospitality and investing effort in preparing a place for guests or the letters they write to their great grandparents or the impact adoption has had on their compassion or how their lives have been forever altered by becoming brothers and sisters with those whose skin color is as different from their own as night and day. They don't speak of prayer and faith and doubt and sin and forgiveness and grace and nurture and honor and deep abiding love that is faithful through thick and thin and recognizing their own need for a savior and discovering that as we are helpers we are also, all of us, in need of help.

So while I am proud of the accomplishments of my children for testing well, so very proud of their hard work and commitment to academics, even more, I am thankful for the gift of each of one them, for the young people they are and the adults they will one day become. For teaching me as I teach them. For the privilege of living and learning and falling and rising up again in their presence, day after day, all for one and one for all, my precious little Deutschlets...

One thing leads to another...

You know how you can never just do one home project? Like how when you are out and about you randomly spot a super pretty print you want to hang on your wall, so you bring it home and look it over and realize it's not going to work exactly as right as you imagined in your mind, then before you know it you've rearranged every piece of furniture in the room and painted the walls a fresh new color and slapped up a bit of bead board just like you saw on that one do-it-yourself website and bought a perfectly shabby colorful antique dresser and ordered that handmade decorative thing you noticed on Etsy and purchased a perfectly new Ikea rug to accentuate your awesome find? In other words, doing everything outside of changing zip codes just because you wanted to hang one silly picture on your one existing wall.  Yeah, like that. 

It's how my bedroom wall was born. The Man of the humble abode is busily residing the entire house with board and batton (hello, old fashioned farmhouse LOVEly) and he is replacing our windows, and expanding our 1/2 bath to accommodate a shower so we can have a (much needed!) male bathroom and female bathroom (because puberty is looming and shaving and multiple PMSing women under the very same roof are right around the corner and asking 4 dirty teen aged boys and 3 moody teen aged girls to share a single toilet is just far too much to ask and thinking about it makes my sad heart all weepy....and obviously, cranky....but I digress.) 

Where was I? Oh yes. We used to have this wall of windows in our bedroom, which isn't huge to begin with. Why would one require a wall of light bearing windows in the room where one prefers to sleep for 9 solid hours in absolute darkness, I asked myself? Um...no reason at all. So, in his usual "Hey sugar, I'll fix up your house any way you like it because I'm a rough and tough handyman type of guy and my love language is sooooo acts of service," way Bobby turned our wall of windows into a single window. Leaving plenty o wall around the sides where things (like a crib for a foster peanut) could go in the future. Then, he put fence pickets up on it in lieu of texturing the whole thing. And then I painted them, shabby antique white. And then I was really happy. And then I shared it with you, because I love you. Well, some of you...others I mostly just like...☺

When they were this age...

our older kids seemed so big to me. So grown up. So mature. So capable of managing themselves wisely. So ready for what I felt sure was necessary discipline. Now, as our youngest boy and girl are six (almost seven (!) gasp) and five, they seem so young, (just teeny tiny infant children born only yesterday) so sweet, so tender. So attuned and responsive to what I now feel sure is appropriate gentleness at all times. They still ask to be held and hugged and to share my lap.

They still fall asleep at almost dinnertime in their swimsuit with wet hair because playing outside all day, then staying awake all evening, is just a touch beyond their reach. And I am grateful for the chance I've had to parent again and again, a clean beginning with each child, adapting and changing and appropriately softening. It just seems fitting.

Every day he has been here to help Bobby with our magnanimous house project that's in the works. He allows her to style his hair for him, then take a picture with his phone. It reminds me the days I used to sit in my grandpa's lap and feather his locks. (Only there were not cell phones back in those dark ages.) Such sweetness.

I used to rarely {ever} allow pictures of myself. (If you've read long, you may remember those days!) There is at least a decade that my existence on this planet is scarcely documented. I'm just not photogenic, I would say. Pictures of me always turn out terrible. Mostly, they do. But as our lives have raced by in a blur of activity and commotion and meals and clean up and tears and scraped knees and sporting events and laughter and summers and winters and springs and falls breezing past in unrelenting rapid succession, I realized I will only be here for a short while.

One day, perhaps my decedents will care enough to desire record of their heritage, of which I am a part. Because even with my crooked nose and age spots and the lines between by brows and the crows feet that surround my eyes, I was present. Living the moments and loving and and grieving and laughing and observing and reflecting and dancing and singing (terribly! and loudly!) and cooking (and cooking...and cooking...and cooking...) and giving my best some days and others barely scraping by, and falling and getting back up and carrying on, grateful for the clean opportunity of another fresh start, again and again.

Growing in age all the while, coming to understand the simple truth that the mere chance to participate in life on earth is more than beautiful enough.   

That has to count for something.

It's surely worthy of remembering.

And maybe even recording....

I am a rock star.

But strictly within the confines of my own mind, and the comforts of my own home...

Like when I slide across the floor of my living room exuding the confidence of a young Risky Business Tom Cruise belting out P!nk songs, omitting the language (not because my children haven't heard those words before, but because they seem better suited for an angry tirade than for a happy rock star serenade.) In those instances I own it. 

Which is entirely different from speaking my real, true to the very core of me adoption story at a ladies' retreat. That's why I think it took me so long to get over the experience. Quoting Brene Brown, a friend aptly described what I was experiencing as a "vulnerability hangover." I would call that exactly it. The kind where after it was over, I went into my room at the YMCA, closed the shades, turned off the lights, put on my pj's, and laid in the dark for 3 solid hours. Doing. Nothing. At. All. It took me a good week or so to feel myself again. When I finally found my bearings, I went to get a couple new tattoos to celebrate. I really love funky body art. Finally, I could rock star again. Only at home though. Just the way I like it.

I have to say, meeting Lisa Qualls was truly a highlight of the retreat. I have been reading her blog for many, many moons and she has become a bit of a cyber mentor to myself, and so many others. She is exactly as I imagined she would be. Warm and nurturing and exceedingly gracious. A lifter, an encourager, a helper to the nth degree. I was nervous about speaking and while the worship was being led before my session, she slipped me the kindest note of encouragement on a simple piece of paper found her her welcome folder. That small, thoughtful gesture touched me greatly. I thought to myself, that's the kind of person I want to be, one who holds up another. It also began the continual drip that would leak from my eyes nearly the entire time I was speaking. ☺ Such a tremendous small act of kindness that would yield big fruit in the heart of another.

Since we're talking about acts of kindness, I would like to mention how my husband transferred my talk into this neat and far too professional binder for someone like me, complete with color coded indicators marking when I should click to the next slide on the powerpoint presentation he also put together. Really, if anyone is a rock star it is that guy.

♦ I lost 6 precious avocados I bought at the grocery store last week and I am still rather traumatized from it. I can't stop searching for them in every nook and cranny. Where could they BE? Apparently, it takes me a really long time to get over things.

♣ We have been furnace free all year (can I get a whoop!?) using only our wood burning stove for heat, which is quite lovely and adds a real sense of coziness and the kind of warmth that has nothing to do with temperature to our home. But still, what I am 100% over is the terrible, awful, stinky cold weather. Why, oh why April have you sent 20 degree temps and clouds and ice our way? You are a naughty, naughty spring to go around acting like winter.

♠ Have you all seen that Dove Real Beauty Sketches video? We all watched it last night and I found it fascinating. A beautiful eye opener for women. After I saw it, I could not help but wonder what would happen if the tables were turned and it were men participating in the experiment. I think it might go something like this:

Dude sits down in chair and describes himself: "Yeah, um, I'm really attractive. My features are chiseled. I have dark hair. I'm tall and lean and work out a lot so my muscles are pretty much bulging. Overall, I would say I'm ripped."

Another man has to describe him: "Yeah, he was pretty average, normal looking. Just a regular guy. Nothing too special. I, on the other hand, am really attractive. My features are chiseled...."

That was all kinds of wrong, I know....☺

A shift in perspective that might resemble redemption.

Before we adopted our Ethiopian children, we made a long list of why we chose the international route as opposed to domestic through foster adopt. At the time it certainly felt safer, that no one would be able to take our kids away from us.

From our vantage point now, after what we have been through with the knowledge of our children's families and the pain that separation from them has caused Meadow and Flint, I kind of shutter as I recall our reasons. Yet at the time, it was where we were. We truly carried our best intentions intentions in our hands, bringing them to the table that we might make an offering of what we had to share.

Last weekend there was no shortage of orphan care and adoption talk. It was the common ground on which all of the women at the retreat stood. There was laughter and tears and commiserating and comforting and stories shared that reminded us all we are by no means alone as we navigate the often turbulent waters of caring for the fatherless. A few of the conversations that took place have continued to stir in my mind and heart, causing me to think long and hard about what the future entails for our family in this realm. 

A fellow attendee asked me if I were a glutton for punishment as I told her we are interested in providing foster care in the future. After hearing my talk, I guess she found it odd. I had to laugh. I don't know. Maybe I am. I'm not sure I want to classify my desire to once again step into a scenario in which we will be giving parental care for someone else's children quite that way though.

Another friend recently said to me, "You just can't get past the parents, can you?" This was regarding the tremendous, overwhelming grief I have experienced at the awareness of Meadow and Flint's fathers and families continuing their lives in Ethiopia while their babies forge one on a continent across the world.

The answer is, no I can't get past the parents. I am a parent. I love to parent. Parenting is my vocation, my passion, my ambition, my drive, my focus, my highest desire. I hold the perspective of a parent. I will always think about the parents. I can not forget the parents. For whatever reason, I can not just get past the parents. 

Our adoption opened my eyes to the indescribable beauty of the sacred bonds of families, to the deep ties between moms and dads and their children and the wounds that result when those ties are irrevocably severed, to the importance of maintaining the natural, God given order of life when possible, as long as parents are capable of providing a safe environment and reasonable care for their babes.

That's exactly why foster care speaks so loudly to me now. 

I would like to be part of that process. Whether it be to reunify a child with his or her parents, or simply supplying the space and time necessary for mom and/or dad to either decide or prove it would be best for their child to be placed permanently with another family - to support parents. To stand in favor of biological families. To do everything in my power to prevent what happened to Meadow and Flint from happening to another child unnecessarily. To know I was playing a part so families would feel that they have a real, true choice in whether or not to raise their little ones, that there were people willing to hold them up and be on their side. 

I am usually quick to say the redemptive factor is difficult to find in our particular adoption story. As far as the Ethiopian relatives of my children who may not ever get the chance to really know their babies, I believe that is the case. As far as my M&F are concerned, I am intimately acquainted with the awareness that any gain they have won has cost them a high premium. I find the great loss both sides have suffered truly heartbreaking. 

But I do have to admit the experience has changed me in easily marked, undeniable ways.

If there is redemption, maybe it is in this. That due to our experience the cause of family preservation has hit my radar in a very real, very tangible, extremely sensitive way. That because of how everything shook out, my perspective has shifted such that I am willing to once again bring an offering of my time and talent to the table. Although this time around it will take an entirely different form. Even someone like me can admit, there may be the tiniest bit redemption in that...

Yes, the furry black one is a boy. ☺

In which I overcame my fear...

Sort of.

So, have I ever mentioned that standing up and uttering actual words in front of people is second only to being forced to cut my own arm off because it is wedged between rocks like that guy in 127 Hours on my list of least pleasurable activities? It is. By a narrow, narrow margin at that. After all, there are lots of things I could still do with just one upper limb! But, if I had a harrowing event like that occur in my life, people would probably ask me to speak about it, in front of others. And well, that would surely add insult to injury...

When my friend Lisa initially asked me to come to the Embracing Orphans Retreat and share my story, I answered "Sure!" Then after taking a beat to think about it, I called her and said, "No! You really don't want me to do that!" I knew it wouldn't be pretty. I knew I couldn't get up and champion the cause of adoption without mentioning the deeply heart wrenching ethical questions it has left me struggling to answer, and expressing the reality that bonding with my adopted children has been a terrifically slow and truthfully rather painful process for me, and for them. She said that's what she wanted. My story. Including the challenging and the ugly and the burdensome and the difficult. The one that shares our actual, honest to goodness reality.

Friends, that is hard to tell. It is one thing to write it down, in the privacy of my own home, where my keyboard is my trusted confidant that allows my mind as much space as it requires to freely process as my tears tap the keys alongside my fingers. It's another whole bag o slimy worms to get out of your chair, show your face, and speak your truth when you know it won't be flattering.

I had to summon every bit of bravery I hold to not make light of it, to not try to enhance and angle and spin the way I really felt so that I would appear more acceptable, a better mother.

No one wants to be judged. I've laid everything I've got to give, every gift I can claim, on the alter of motherhood. And adoption has shook and rattled the very foundation I rested upon. It opened up the terrible in me like nothing else has.

It also has grown my compassion and heart for others and forgiveness and respect for the relentless nature of sinfulness by leaps and bounds because I've come to truly understand, I am no one to judge anyone.

That's the immense beauty in my less than beautiful story. It's what I tried to share. It's the truth that made me feel more raw and open and exposed than I ever have. It's what I felt the women there would really want to know and benefit most from hearing.

So, through no shortage of trembling and tears, I looked into their faces and owned what I would rather hide, standing up and speaking when I would rather sit quietly. Gratefully, I received lots of affirming, encouraging feedback. Women are wonderful that way.

I hope it was a blessing to some. I hope And I hope to never, ever be asked to do that again....☺

Here are a couple shots my (amazing!) friend Lindy, who so graciously offered to go with me and be the best, most supportive roommate I could ever ask for, captured. (Thank you, Lindy!)

Attention! Time

Back from the retreat and feeling sort of shell shocked. Not really ready to talk about it yet. Would like to hide away, anonymously for a while. The comforts of home and my babies are good medicine.

That's why I decided I would get right to trying out a technique I learned about at the retreat. (I know I read about it years before in The Connected Child, but never thought it feasible or practical.) Now that my kids are bigger and the relentless tick tock of a finite lot of time together under one roof is always in my ears, I'm diving full force into it.

Attention Time. 

Setting the timer for 10 minutes of undivided attention for each child doing whatever they choose to do and the others can not interrupt. Sounds easy enough. But, with my brood, it is a pretty significant chunk of the day. Adding in transitioning between kids it took us 80 minutes in total. I waste that many minutes on most given days, easy. I can totally do this.

Playing together as a family is something I do. Slotting time to play with each of them individually is something I do not. I was in need of some incentive.

I love the purposefulness of it. I love looking into their eyes and talking without 6 other people trying to talk over us. I love that it forced me to prioritize my day well. I loved spending time with Flint that was purely rooted in fun rather than conflict resolution. I loved having conversation with Meadow, the girl who is usually drowned out by the crowd. I love how much they reveled in my undivided attention. Jayla must have said five times, "This is SO fun! Can we do it EVERYday?" Um...no sweetie. We can not. But I am committing to 3x/week. Believe you me, they will hold me to it. I'm ecstatically counting on it.

Seriously people, this is the kind of memory making the good life is made of. I am so thankful.

Jayla chose to link up two DS games and play darts and bowling. It was my first time EVER playing a DS.

Onyx wanted to use the iPad to look on E Bay for something to spend his allowance on. He chose a stuffed fox (!) My heart! There is still some little boy in there.

Meadow and I played checkers. (We had to use coins because this house and pieces residing with the games they belong to are an impossible combination.)

Stryder also chose to look online for a DS game to spend his allowance on.

Flint and I played Chutes and Ladders.

Clover and iPadded also. She bought Mario Party for her DS. (Yes she's wearing a swimsuit. It's her current thing. CUTEness personified!)

Tyden had me read to him. Then, he wanted to play with Photo Booth.

This is new to them, so they are thrilled to think of other things to do for their next turns.

Which will be essential for the ones who spent all their allowance....☺

Thanks to Amanda Purvis for the inspiration!

Grateful.

Counting down...

Just under 48 hours and I will be (((OFF))) heading to the Embracing Orphans Retreat. (If you care to join me, you still can! Sometimes, late birds catch a few worms too...☺)

Brene Brown says that the original definition of courage is to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart. That's my aim for my talk at the retreat. I know it won't resonate with every woman there, but it is my story of our adoption, and I intend to tell it with all the authenticity I have to offer, with my whole heart. I pray it is used for good.

Then, I plan to take a big long break from the All Adoption All the Time channel I've had this blog set to for the past several weeks. Should be nice to talk about a few other things, right? Yes, it should be nice.

Speaking of other things, there is a LOT to do before I depart. Our oldest kids are participating in Iowa State Standardized Testing on Friday. Plaaaaeeeeeeeze Lord let them score well. May they prove me a competent home educator. In the name of Jesus, amen. It's required in the state of Colorado in the odd grades from 3rd up, but is available for the even grades to take for practice as well. As conventional  nonconventional homeshooler, I don't place too terribly much emphasis on performance in these types of tests, yet by the same token I feel like they offer a reliable gauge for how well we are doing as a whole. And I want these crumb snatchers to make me look good. I mean, come on. Let's be real.

I have to drive to town to drop them off at school Fri morning, then come home with the younger 3 and join Bob's dad who will meet us here so I can take off with my girlfriend (hi Lindy!) at 10:00 who is driving us to the retreat. Then, Bob's dad will drive to town to pick them up at school at noon and bring all 7 back here. Then, Bob will come home when he gets off work. Then, the 2 little ones we babysit are coming over to spend Fri. night here. Then, Saturday afternoon Bob will take the 9 kids to Golden Corral for Big Grandpa's 90th birthday (Which I'm going to miss! Boo!) Then, we will all reunite on Sunday. Why I mentioned anything that's occurring after my departure is beyond me. I will be gone! Not my problem! Except that it is....as I am the coordinator who must ensure everyone has all they need....even in my absence. It's a bit of pressure. This may be why I don't take off much. ☺

These are the snacks I'm sending with the kids for their testing. Protein and nutrient rich, and also super delicious. They will help those big brains wave! Would you like the recipe? Well, I aim to please. (Thank you, Sandy!)

1 c oats
1/2 c honey
1/2 c peanut butter
1 c powdered milk
1/4 c ground flax
2T cocoa powder
1 t vanilla

Mix all and roll into balls
(They will get all ooey gooey melty if not refrigerated or frozen.)

I was the kind of kid who always missed lots of days of school. Let's just say a stellar immune system was NOT one of my gifts. This has followed me into adulthood and I have fallen prone to many a nasty germ bug in my day. That's why health inducing concoctions and natural remedies always get me all kinds of giddy excited. When my friend offered this one up, it was no exception. Except that the thought of it nearly made me gag all over my excitement. But never fear, it's not nearly so bad as you might assume. In fact, I've got my kids doing it too! If they don't mind it, ANYone won't mind it. I promise. I think...

It's chopped up garlic. Not to be eaten, but just swallowed with water. Kind of like a pill. EVERYone knows the wondrous health effects of garlic, yes? Well, add to that the extremely economical nature of this little bulb and you've got yourself a serious ((((winner)))) in the wellness department.

Here I am with my spoonful. Yum, yum! Bottoms up. Washing it down with a little raw and unpasteurized apple cider vinegar (with the mother) has made me one healthy mother. Even when I've eaten far too much Easter candy for my own good, or that of my dress pants I must squeeze myself into on Saturday as I talk about orphans...but whatever...being able to breathe while wearing your trousers is ridiculously overrated....

To Speak in Terms of Redemption

It wasn't our Christian agency that told us there were child harvesting allegations associated with the orphanage in which our children were living. It was the US Embassy staff member who initially denied Flint's visa due to to suspicion his relinquishment may have coerced. That woman (who happened to be a US citizen) told us more in a few minutes than we learned during the entire year we were smack dab in the adoption process. Coincidence? I don't know. But without question it begs a pause - some serious consideration about what exactly it was we purchased with our benevolence.

In hindsight, I can see that like sheep following a shepherd they trust, we allowed our agency to guide us through each step of the procedure required to acquire these kids. I know now, I should have done more of my own research, I should have been better informed. It's just that once we committed to the process, once the faces of those Ethiopian children became etched in my mind's eye, once so much of our money was invested, we were desperately eager to push on through. We longed for the results of our labor, adopted children to call our own.

Any adoptive parenting can tell you the waiting game is one of the hardest parts. We want "our" kids and we want them "home" now!

Looking back, it reminds me much of building our house on the bare plot of acreage we had purchased. We entrusted the details to a company who knew about these sorts of things. We facilitated the construction loan and divvied up the finances to this man as he informed us they were due. He oversaw the digging of the well and the pulling of permits and the contractors and the myriad of tasks that were necessary each day in order to make this a home in which we could live. It wasn't until the very end, after months of daily interaction, when it was becoming clear that things weren't adding up as they should, that we threatened legal action and  insisted on seeing his private paperwork. Then we knew what we had suspected. He was pocketing more than his share, using his own personal contracting company. It was unjust. (He did repay all that he owed. We moved on and have love, love, LOved living on the prairie for many years. All negative juju has long since washed away. Although, it took some time....)

The point is, we entrusted him because we were ignorant of the process and we need the assistance of someone who was not. It is very, very reminiscent of the confidence we bestowed upon our agency - the guides throughout our adoption steps.

Words can hardly express how grievous the knowledge that our son's father may have been persuaded by someone in the adoption community, someone who had a profit to gain in the business of international adoption, to place his boy for adoption.

**Please allow me to be clear, I am not saying I believe our agency participated in child harvesting. Only that they were working with an orphanage who perhaps had. We were the last to pick up children from there as they terminated ties with that orphanage. But they did not divulge the reason they were no longer working with them to us.**

Watching his Lifebook video and seeing his brothers in their home, I can imagine Tamene fitting right in - running on the southern rural Ethiopian countryside with them, feeding the cows and gathering firewood. I'm not sure that would be an entirely bad thing. Meadow was from the same region. Was her father coerced? Did he surrender her entirely of his own volition? I hope so. I pray so. Please, let it be so.

Our kids both supposedly had HIV and were placed in an orphanage for + kids, yet they do not. Were their parents told they have HIV and are in need of medical attention? We'll never know for sure. No one was able to come up with an explanation regarding what happened. It was simply labeled, "miraculous!" For a + to become a - in both Meadow and Flint individually, would indeed be miraculous!

Both our kids' fathers remarried their deceased wive's sisters. So, there is a mother and a father living together in their homes, along with Meadow and Flint's siblings. The knowledge of this - that her father and brothers and sisters are there, living their lives as they always did - is really, really hard for our kids, most of all Meadow.

As I tell our story, I feel there is a certain pressure to say, "adoption is redemption! Amen!" I have absolutely no doubt that in many, many cases (hopefully most!) it's true. That adoption can be a wonderful, beautiful, ashes into beauty redemptive plan for children who need families.

But for those that already have families, I also have no doubt that adoption can be unjust. It can be corrupt. It can be filling the demands of waiting, western or European parents who want to adopt kids. It is undeniably business. It is not always in the best interest of existing families and children. There is a great deal of money changing hands. Any lack of ethical purity that presents itself is not entirely a surprise.

Is it uncomfortable to bring this type of thing up? Yes. Because we can tend to hold such generous images of adoption in our minds. I want people to think I did a kind deed and I am a good person as much as anyone! But, if I'm not sure it was optimal for my kids, and if I have a strong feeling it would not be touted as God's will if the situation were reversed and it was Ethiopian families raising American children, is it easy to call it redemption? Not so easy. So, I believe it needs to be said. It must be said. There is nothing wrong with saying it.

I would have wanted someone to say it to me. 

Because I want my actions to be not only as pure as possible in motivation and intention, but also in result.

Believe it or not, I hope to one day again adopt. But I will gather my research first, and do everything in my power to ensure that the parent(s) of any kids welcomed into our home have a fully fair shot at raising their own children.

It's the only way my torn conscience that can never forget Meadow and Flint's fathers and siblings will allow me to participate in such an affair. That it may, indeed, prove a true measure of redemption.

About yesterday...

Dear Meadow and Flint,

Someday you'll probably see the post written yesterday in our blog book. I just want to make sure there are a few things you understand as we talk about the impact adoption has had on our lives. Mom's stress was a prevalent theme and I suppose we should discuss that a bit.

You, my dears, can not, by any means, claim full credit for my stress. It's just part of the condition we face beginning the day we are born called Humanhood. It's what people do. They stress. Babies feel it when they are tired or hungry. Toddlers do when they have to share their toys...and go to stores...and at any inopportune time that they are in a public setting and embarrassing their parents is most readily available. Boys and girls experience it when they play sports and go to school and make and lose friends. Adults have it over the bills and the responsibility they hold. They stress over their jobs and marriages and raising the children and their parents and in laws and getting older and finding new wrinkles and gaining weight.  Shoot, come to think of it big people get stressed out when they're tired and hungry too. So, we're all pretty much in the same boat.

And don't get me started on how those five whippersnappers who came along before you add to my stress level. Just ask Jayla about the days when she used to bang her head against the wall until her forehead was black and blue and have long screaming spells during each and every blessed night of her life until she was six years old. Being a first time mom, I was terrified my girl was a half deck short of a full. But look at her now. You'd never know. Or ask Stryder about how he would scream bloody murder whenever I tried to seat him in a shopping cart. Ask Tyden about his passion for complaining or hypochondriac tendencies or Clover about her resistance to eat anything healthy unless it is under such deep cover she can't possibly identify it as vitamin rich. And the arguing. Oh, the blasted arguing they all do in any configuration you can imagine. If arguing were an Olympic sport, these kids could sweep the Gold.

Any and all of these things are plenty stressful to me. It's alright though, because I signed on for this parenting gig and it really, really is my pleasure to get to live with you all. Stress and all.

But, let's be clear, most of all, I stress my own self out. Like all others, I am my own worst enemy, standing in full opposition to myself far too much of the time. We all - each and every one of us - has to work pretty much incessantly to push down and resist and squelch and diminish our sin and baggage and yet it just keeps rearing its ugly head, a nasty beast we wish we could finally, once and for all, tame. The truth is, we won't. Not completely. Not in this lifetime. Not until we are all ushered into the next and are made gloriously, purely, whole.

So, it's nothing to worry over. We'll just keep making our way together the best we can. Some days we'll rock it like super warrior conquerors and others we'll shrink back, weary of the battle, and just be ready for nightfall because we know that means the sun will rise again anew, giving us a fresh chance.

Don't ever blame yourselves for being a living breathing soul. Humans tend to spatter stress out all over the place. We just can't help ourselves. The closer you stand to someone, the more you get sprayed.

No matter what, I will never stop working it out with you, okay?

We are family, you and I and that's what families do.

I love you both very much,
Mommy ♥

Straight from the (little) horses mouths...

Wondering if I should add something about the kids' perspective to what I'm going to share at the retreat, I asked each of the kids, one by one, in private 2 questions: 

1) How has adoption affected you?
2) How do you think it has affected your parents?

I typed their answers, verbatim and made no adjustments whatsoever, despite my wildly compelling urge to polish their remarks, especially the ones about me...(eek!)

This is what they had to say:

Jayla ~ It's good to give kids a home and things of their own, but they should be with their own parents if their parents are still alive. 

I have a sister that is close to me in age and is my best friend. 

I think you spend a lot of time with M&F's problems. I know that they have had a hard life and it's taken a toll on them, but you spend a lot of time time trying to help them. 

Tyden ~ I think that M&F are, like I love to play with Flint, but I don't like the lying. And, I like to play with Meadow a lot, like we play outside and go to the lake and lots of things, but she lies too and I don't like how rude she is to people and really bossy, but she used to be more bossy. 

I think it stresses you (mom) out a lot because they lie so much.

For dad, I think it stresses him out a lot because they're stressing you out and that stresses him out.

Stryder ~ Flint started to get rude, so that's "infecting" (he means affecting, oh.my.heart!) me. Meadow, she doesn't do anything that bothers me.

It takes mom and dad a lot of work with Meadow and Flint.

Onyx ~ Well, it's been hard because M&F have had trouble with a lot of lying and you can't really believe them and so it's been hard for everybody because of that. It's made my life harder along with everybody else.

It has made you stressed out a lot more and it makes you be mad more, so I don't really like that part.

Clover ~ Uh, Flint likes to play with Stryder. Like when he first came here he didn't play with Stryder or me. But then he and Stryder became buddies, like they share candy and they did stuff together, but then Flint and I were buddies and Stryder gets really mad when Flint plays with me so Flint just changes and be's with him.

I think it did it to dad a little bit and to you (mom) but um, I don't think Meadow and Flint care. If Flint and Meadow want to stop lying, they can. 

Meadow ~  I think that I just don't really think about it a lot but, I'm just trying to be different than I was while I was in Ethiopia then it just ends up being kind of the same but I end up doing lots of things I shouldn't do and things that I don't want to do either. But I have liked having a bunch of siblings to play with and plenty of things to eat and drink and wear and I really have liked being here with a lot of things to do and things that can keep me healthy and stuff. 

I think that I stress you out a lot and when you get stressed out and dad hears about it he gets stressed out a lot too and you both try to help Flint and I doing all the stuff we are doing and I want to stop too. I don't want to stress you out or make you mad or sad. And I want you to be happy and not have to work with me so much. 

Flint ~ Sometimes Stryder likes to, like when I popped my ball and made it into a hat he pulled it off and I didn't really like that. Since I got adopted I have a lot more food and I don't have bugs in my hair anymore.

Bad, cuz I lie to you and I keep doing things that I know I should not do but I do them anyway. 

You grew in my heart.

*Oh my, I have been talking adoption a lot lately, yes? Not in the light and airy #adoptionrocks way either. It's just that as I've been preparing to share our story at the Embracing Orphans Retreat, I've spent many hours revisiting and pondering and considering the topic. I understand if you are weary of it. If so, please, stop reading now. Because here goes another "one of those" posts. I'm kind of on a roll....☺*

Those words are said a lot about adoption. "You grew in my heart instead of my tummy." As if it can only be one or the other. As if one mother gave birth and the other gives nurture. Period.

Our Meadow and Flint were both the youngest of 5 children when they were relinquished. (Meadow's father has since gone on to have at least one more child, who lives with him and his second wife, Meadow's aunt.) I think about my 5th baby, my sweet dolly Clover. (The one who owns my heart and blithely wraps me around her little finger then pulls me whichever way she wills, and I follow....with joy.)

How would it feel to release her for another family to raise in hopes that her provision would be ample?

Has it helped me (or simply haunted me? I can not be sure!) to turn the tables to try to understand where I would stand if the shoe were on the other foot? What if I, loving my baby girl desperately from before she was born, chose to give her up for adoption because I believed it was in her best interest? How would I feel about her adoptive mother telling her that while I gave birth to her, she was "born in her heart?"

What I always wind up coming back to, is that this sentiment fails to acknowledge the truth that while the child did in fact grow in someone's tummy, she most likely grew in her heart too.

She probably also grew in the heart belonging to her mommy that gave her birth. The mommy that tenderly stroked her expanding belly. The one who came to realize one day that she was expecting. The woman who felt the first flutter. The one who lie awake waiting for her baby to kick so she could be certain she was still alive in there. The one who prayed and worried and fretted over how she would feed and care for this little one. The one who was ultimately willing to set her own desires to witness her beloved's growth aside to give her daughter what she could not provide.

I wonder if the expression tends to minimize the heart of the woman who brought forth life, and selflessly gave it over for another to hold. Her devotion, her love, her affection, her heart for her child is not to be overlooked.

If I gave my daughter up for adoption, I would long for her to know that at the same time she was growing in my tummy, she was also growing in my heart...

And I would pray that her mother would tell her so.

Dolly with her spinach smoothie. ~