Distance

It's 6,541 miles between where I sit tonight, on my couch with my TWO sons miraculously slumbering in their rooms upstairs and where I was a week ago.  I was sure that I'd be blournal the hell out of my trip to Korea, and while I would lay in bed at night unable to sleep, I would formulate what I wanted to say, but the words could never come out when I would sit down to write them.

The truth is, sometimes life is just too intense, and I need to process it before I can get it out of my head....I need distance.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about how instead of feeling this sense of connection between Little Bug and his birth country, the awkward subway rides where people would stare, tut, or talk to him in Korean before realizing that he had no idea what they were saying made it painfully clear to me that unless I find a way to get my sons at least semi-fluent in their first language, they will never be able to return as anything but a foreigner.  I know how badly I wanted to be able to communicate and connect with the people of Korea, and that longing must be nothing compared to what my sons could one day feel.  The distance of silence made me realize that my goal shouldn't be to just bring them back to Korea every couple of years, but rather, I need to give them the tools so they can go back on their own someday.  The connection isn't mine to foster because it's one I will never have myself...ultimately they will need to reconnect to their birth culture on their own.  But without language, they won't be able to do that.  This trip made that crystal clear.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about the way it felt to spend the evening with Little Bug's foster family.  How effortless it was, even with the language barrier.  How calling them family isn't just lip service anymore, but a real, true relationship based on love for each other, not just a common love for one little boy.  I'm not sure I will ever have the words to describe how right it felt that evening.  It wasn't even a "full circle" feeling because this is a circle that just keeps on going.  We'll have more evenings like this, I am sure.  There is so much loss in adoption, but watching my son cuddle into the first parents he ever knew made me thank God that we've been able to save such a precious relationship that my son will be able to cultivate all through his life.  To be loved is a wonderful thing.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about how I turned 30 and didn't even give it a second thought.  Instead I spent the day touring a beautiful city's historical offerings.  Clearly the cure for midlife birthday depression is to spend the day exploring Seoul.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about how natural it felt to see Little Bro in the flesh.  How after all this time waiting, there wasn't any dramatic heart palpitations, just a very calm feeling of recognition.  But after that first meeting, I noticed a twinge in my heart that had never been there before.  I missed him.  But not like I missed him for the last year.  Instead of missing the child, I missed the spunk, the chatter, the mischievous twinkle, and stubborn set of the jaw.  That was the moment I knew in my heart that he was truly my son.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about the way I would get physically sick every time I thought about Little Bro's foster family.  How worried and heartbroken I was for them. To gain joy through the pain of someone else is something I won't ever be able to reconcile.  As I sit here tonight, it keeps me up, gnawing at my heart and mind.  I pray and hope that someday we can connect in a more meaningful way that we have to date, but I realize that wish is selfish on my part, both for my son and my benefit.  But really, it's not about either of us.  It's about them. And I hope they find peace, however they choose to find it.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about watching my sons become brothers.  How hard it is to see them both suffer from what is inherently a loss of individuality and personal attention.  How hard it is to balance transitions of two children with completely different needs and temperaments who, at least for now, don't seem to mesh.  I wasn't expecting them not to mesh. In all my million of prepared scenarios, that was never one I considered. And it makes me sad.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about the way this trip changed me.  It was bound to, of course, just by the nature of it. I'm more jaded and more hopeful, all at once.

But for all this, I needed the distance of space and time.  I needed to mull it over, move away from the rawness of it all, before I could find words suitable enough to share.  Words that I didn't want to sob or scream or sing.

And now that it's out, I feel free again.  I can go on with my life, capturing the moments both my sons give me and exploring my evolving definition of motherhood.

A definition that still includes a whole subsection on bodily fluid, as Little Bro wasted no time proving to me he can roll with his big brother in that department.