Dear Donut Store Lady,
I love your donuts. They are as close to perfect as can be. Your fast service, crushed ice, and vintage video game machines are the reason we come back week after week. It's because of you that we have deemed Friday, "Friday Funday" in our house. We drive to your store, get our donuts, spend three quarters on games and head off to school. You even know our order! We don't have to even tell you anymore! You just start naming off our donuts! You were the first to notice when I had quit Diet Coke. Although I miss your crunched ice in my extra large Diet Coke, your Iced Tea has suited me just fine.
I'm almost hesitant to share with you about our experience. I'm hoping it was innocent and you never meant to make any of us uncomfortable. I'm hoping that you just had curious questions about our family and never meant to bring up any pain.
When you asked me which of my children were real, I wasn't caught off guard. In fact, I get it quite often. People frequently have questions about the makeup of our family but aren't sure how to phrase it. When I clarified to you that you might be asking which one of children are biological, you didn't hesitate to reiterate that you wanted to know which of my children were MINE. After I explained to you that all of my children are mine, but some of them are biological and some of them are adopted, you began to point at each of my children and tried to guess on your own which were which. This is when I shut down.
You see, adoption is beautiful. In fact we celebrate it in our family. It is no secret to my children that some of them are adopted. We even have the most amazing relationship with our son's biological family. However, with adoption comes pain. Especially how the adoption of my children came about. It was through heartache, abuse and neglect, that I met some of my children. And while innocent questions that have no underlying meaning can seem harmless, they can actually be quite painful for my children. It is their story. They can choose when they want to share it and how much they want to share. They might be smiling on the outside as you pry and prod, but inside it might be a trigger to something painful for them. Especially for my son. He is at the age where he just wants to belong and fit in. He's not as quick to shout, "I grew in my mommy's heart, not her tummy!" like he would when we was four.
While I appreciate that you had the courage to ask about our family dynamic instead of making assumptions, I only ask that you would consider the little ones that stand before you as you ask your questions.
For the record, we still love your donut store. We will continue to frequent it every Friday (and sometimes more). We just hope that your curiosity would be shared in a way that was a little more sensitive to my five little donut lovers (and their mom).
Sincerely,
Michelle
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Thursday, August 6, 2015
A Devastating Diagnosis
We've had our foster daughter for a year. From the first day we met her, we've been in love. She is the sweetest baby with the most easy going personality. At her first doctor's appointment, something was noticed. A very scary diagnosis was mentioned. Other appointments were made. Specialists were contacted. We held our breath.
As she grew older, and we fell deeper in love with her (if that was even possible), we started to notice the diagnosis everyone had been talking about. Therapy was ordered. Time passed. Our fears for her development and her future started to weigh heavy on our hearts.
After 7 months of waiting to see a specialist, the day finally came. We were told we were seeing the best of the best. This doctor is well known in the field. An expert. We knew that she would have answers for us as well as a clear gauge on how the future would look for our little one. They were right. She is an expert. Compassionate and understanding. Knowledgeable and kind.
Her words shattered us. Severe Brain Damage. The diagnosis was the same it had always been, but those three little words made her future seem so much darker. We absorbed everything she was saying, committing it to memory. The following morning, the doctor called my cell phone to connect. She explained that she was writing her report for the baby's court hearing and was including in the report that the best interest of the baby would be to stay in our home where she was loved and is thriving. She went on further to say that after hearing the news the day prior, she wanted to make sure that we hadn't "changed our minds about her permanency based on the prognosis given". I explained that we still desired to keep her and hopefully adopt her, but we were devastated over the news. I thanked the doctor for her time, hung up the phone and wept. I wept for her future, I wept for the challenges that she will have to overcome and the struggles she will have to face. I know that the Lord has mighty plans for her and will use her sweet little life to do incredible things for Him, but I still worry. My flesh takes over, and I am filled with anxiety, anger and sadness for her. My flesh wants to curl up in a ball and live in my very own pity party.
As tempting as that is, it's not an option. I have 5 little ones that need my attention and presence. I need to practice what I am always saying to my children, "we can't chose our circumstances, but we can chose how we react". I can't do anything about her brain damage. I can't change her past. I can't undo the hurt done to her. But I CAN do lots of things. I can rejoice at the milestones she is hitting. I can enjoy her sweet little personality. I can research my heart out to try to learn more about her syndrome. I can set an example to my children that even though life is unfair, we make the best of it. I am determined to turn this devastating diagnosis into a story of hope.
As she grew older, and we fell deeper in love with her (if that was even possible), we started to notice the diagnosis everyone had been talking about. Therapy was ordered. Time passed. Our fears for her development and her future started to weigh heavy on our hearts.
After 7 months of waiting to see a specialist, the day finally came. We were told we were seeing the best of the best. This doctor is well known in the field. An expert. We knew that she would have answers for us as well as a clear gauge on how the future would look for our little one. They were right. She is an expert. Compassionate and understanding. Knowledgeable and kind.
Her words shattered us. Severe Brain Damage. The diagnosis was the same it had always been, but those three little words made her future seem so much darker. We absorbed everything she was saying, committing it to memory. The following morning, the doctor called my cell phone to connect. She explained that she was writing her report for the baby's court hearing and was including in the report that the best interest of the baby would be to stay in our home where she was loved and is thriving. She went on further to say that after hearing the news the day prior, she wanted to make sure that we hadn't "changed our minds about her permanency based on the prognosis given". I explained that we still desired to keep her and hopefully adopt her, but we were devastated over the news. I thanked the doctor for her time, hung up the phone and wept. I wept for her future, I wept for the challenges that she will have to overcome and the struggles she will have to face. I know that the Lord has mighty plans for her and will use her sweet little life to do incredible things for Him, but I still worry. My flesh takes over, and I am filled with anxiety, anger and sadness for her. My flesh wants to curl up in a ball and live in my very own pity party.
As tempting as that is, it's not an option. I have 5 little ones that need my attention and presence. I need to practice what I am always saying to my children, "we can't chose our circumstances, but we can chose how we react". I can't do anything about her brain damage. I can't change her past. I can't undo the hurt done to her. But I CAN do lots of things. I can rejoice at the milestones she is hitting. I can enjoy her sweet little personality. I can research my heart out to try to learn more about her syndrome. I can set an example to my children that even though life is unfair, we make the best of it. I am determined to turn this devastating diagnosis into a story of hope.
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