Dear Little Moon,
Turns out, when your mama wants something special to happen, she needs to go on a tropical vacation with your Appa. The last time we did sun sans child we accepted Little Bro's referral. But I never imagined this morning when I woke up to Hawaiian surf that I'd be celebrating something special for you, too.
Today your Appa and I were driving along a beautiful road in Hawaii. The ocean was shocking blue on one side and the green mountains towered on the other. The road was winding a bit, which I don't do well with, so I absently grabbed my phone to check my e-mail. Since I am on vacation, my inbox has piled into the hundreds. So when I was skimming and expecting nothing important and caught out adoption agency director's name on an e-mail with the subject line "Urgent and Important Communication Regarding Your Current Adoption Process" my mind couldn't quite keep up. I went from thinking it was junk mail regarding the webinar I wasn't calling into to thinking it was something very, very bad. But it was seeing our name in the salutation that set me nerves tingling.
It was there, on the winding and beautiful road to Secret Beach that I read aloud in a stilted, shaking, and incredulous voice to a confused Appa that you were coming home so.much.sooner. than I have ever dared let myself hope.
Appa kept driving, but his eyes kept darting to me, he kept questioning me, the smile that has been on his face for the past few days just got bigger and bigger. Our wildest dream, so wild we've never even dreamed it, is coming true. You are coming home. Soon. So soon.
When we had hiked down to Secret Beach, I wrote your name in the sand, just as I did your brother's in Jamaica. I'll buy you a stupid looking shirt to commemorate the role this place "played" in our journey to you.
And for the rest of time, when I think of this spectacular vacation your Appa and I are lucky enough to be enjoying, the moment that e-mail sunk in will always be one of the first things I recall. That moment will be one of my favorite moments, ever. Better than any beach or sunset or breathtaking canyon hike, knowing you are coming home is the highlight of this trip.
Little Moon, this didn't happen by chance. There are people, LOTS of people, who care about you enough to bend the rules, see the gray, take a stand. They want you to stop waiting, and start living your life as a little brother and son. I hope I can always impress upon you how much today is a testament to the fact that you have been loved and cared for and your best interests have been looked out for all the days of your life.
You are loved. You are cared for. You are rooted for. You are wanted. You are needed. And as soon as we can, Appa, Little Bro, Little Bug, so many friends and family, and I will be there to love you every day for the rest of your life. Soon. So soon.
Ua ola loko i ke aloha.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Perspective {just mine}
This has been a hard week. I've had a pit in my stomach for days over the sheer sadness and pain and fear people are experiencing right now. I've not really known how to move on from these feelings.
Then I saw a video of the national anthem at the Boston Bruins game. The entire audience belted that tune out in a moving show of unity and strength and resilience.
And it clicked for me.
The best, the ONLY, thing we can do is chose hope and reject fear and anger. Anything less and we've let them win, let something be taken from us. Let our lives be minimized in some way.
This isn't just about the bombing, the plant explosion, the flooding and sink holes for me, because the pain in my heart for those horrors and the people who are living them is still raw. I have no real words for that. For them. Just sadness and solidarity.
But this is about my life in general, too. My outlook on adoption and the adoption communities I follow. My complacency to let others who can or will only respond with negativity drive MY adoption process, affect MY life and emotions.
I refuse to let them be my voice anymore.
No news? Long waits? No updates? Yes, all those things suck. A lot. But instead of wallowing about it, fighting about it, refusing to accept it, we should try to help where we can in a positive way, and above all else, join hands and sing. Loud. Proud. Defiant. HOPEFUL. Because at the end of the day, it's going to be okay.
Our kids will come home. Older, yes, but don't fall into the hype that the transition will be SO much harder at 3 than it will be at 2.5. They are not being harmed. Not in the sense of the word that really counts. Our kids will come home, and we will live our lives filled with joy, watching milestones and taking all the pictures we want. Many people don't have that chance anymore.
I choose hope. I choose kindness. I choose faith.
Then I saw a video of the national anthem at the Boston Bruins game. The entire audience belted that tune out in a moving show of unity and strength and resilience.
The best, the ONLY, thing we can do is chose hope and reject fear and anger. Anything less and we've let them win, let something be taken from us. Let our lives be minimized in some way.
This isn't just about the bombing, the plant explosion, the flooding and sink holes for me, because the pain in my heart for those horrors and the people who are living them is still raw. I have no real words for that. For them. Just sadness and solidarity.
But this is about my life in general, too. My outlook on adoption and the adoption communities I follow. My complacency to let others who can or will only respond with negativity drive MY adoption process, affect MY life and emotions.
I refuse to let them be my voice anymore.
No news? Long waits? No updates? Yes, all those things suck. A lot. But instead of wallowing about it, fighting about it, refusing to accept it, we should try to help where we can in a positive way, and above all else, join hands and sing. Loud. Proud. Defiant. HOPEFUL. Because at the end of the day, it's going to be okay.
Our kids will come home. Older, yes, but don't fall into the hype that the transition will be SO much harder at 3 than it will be at 2.5. They are not being harmed. Not in the sense of the word that really counts. Our kids will come home, and we will live our lives filled with joy, watching milestones and taking all the pictures we want. Many people don't have that chance anymore.
I choose hope. I choose kindness. I choose faith.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Safe
Tonight Little Bug and Little Bro had to share Little Bro's bed, although bed sharing has never been a strong point for either of our sons. Little Bug's anxiety has been at a high level all week after some lightning storms shook his nighttime confidence. So throwing in a different bed, in combination with the fact that his bed wasn't even in his room as a fall back, was causing him some apparent angst.
After getting out of bed a couple times, Little Big finally expressed what he was feeling.
Little Bug: "I'm nervous."
Little Bro: "I'll keep you safe, Little Bug."
And with that promise, our notoriously anxious and often inconsolable Little Bug crawled back in bed, spooned his little brother, and together, heads touching, they both fell into a deeper sleep than we have seen all week.
Brotherhood, man. It blows my mind sometimes.
Two Years Ago
Big Star,
Right about now, 2 years ago, you were chasing your foster mother around the lobby of the Korean adoption agency. People were milling about and there was a somber, tense feeling in the air, but you were oblivious to it. You laughed and grinned and teased and chased.
And then, as if the gravity of the moment needed to somehow be pressed upon you, your foster mother, the only mother you had known for the last 2 years of your life, took you over to a large fish tank, bent down, and started whispering into your ear as the two of you watched the fish swim.
I don't know what she said to you, and it wasn't for my ears anyway. I imagine it was something along the lines of love and sadness and hope.
Then she let you go, to a new life she didn't know if she would ever get to be a part of.
She sent your to the arms of another mother, one who also started whispering words of love, sadness, and hope in broken Korean and hesitant English. A mother who had the honor of building a new life with you, and the pressure to make it worthy of the sacrifices so many had made for you already.
Today is your Family Day, my sweet Big Star. Two years ago you became our family and we became yours. It's a day of joy and sadness, a day to remember both the gift we have been given and the sacrifices others have made. It is the day that you became not just Korean, but Korean American. We could call it "Life Altering in Every Way Day," but Family Day rolls off the tongue so much better.
We celebrate with cupcakes and bulgogi and a big family adventure because we want to celebrate what a special part of our family you are, but as many a Family Day for you and your brother pass, I recognize that just as that day 2 years ago way, this anniversary will always be a bittersweet celebration. I'm grateful to be able to send your sweet foster mother pictures today that will let her know that she is still definitely a part of your life.
And most of all, I am grateful for the last 2 years where I have been your mom. I love you.
Right about now, 2 years ago, you were chasing your foster mother around the lobby of the Korean adoption agency. People were milling about and there was a somber, tense feeling in the air, but you were oblivious to it. You laughed and grinned and teased and chased.
And then, as if the gravity of the moment needed to somehow be pressed upon you, your foster mother, the only mother you had known for the last 2 years of your life, took you over to a large fish tank, bent down, and started whispering into your ear as the two of you watched the fish swim.
I don't know what she said to you, and it wasn't for my ears anyway. I imagine it was something along the lines of love and sadness and hope.
Then she let you go, to a new life she didn't know if she would ever get to be a part of.
She sent your to the arms of another mother, one who also started whispering words of love, sadness, and hope in broken Korean and hesitant English. A mother who had the honor of building a new life with you, and the pressure to make it worthy of the sacrifices so many had made for you already.
Today is your Family Day, my sweet Big Star. Two years ago you became our family and we became yours. It's a day of joy and sadness, a day to remember both the gift we have been given and the sacrifices others have made. It is the day that you became not just Korean, but Korean American. We could call it "Life Altering in Every Way Day," but Family Day rolls off the tongue so much better.
We celebrate with cupcakes and bulgogi and a big family adventure because we want to celebrate what a special part of our family you are, but as many a Family Day for you and your brother pass, I recognize that just as that day 2 years ago way, this anniversary will always be a bittersweet celebration. I'm grateful to be able to send your sweet foster mother pictures today that will let her know that she is still definitely a part of your life.
And most of all, I am grateful for the last 2 years where I have been your mom. I love you.
Monday, April 1, 2013
I Know You
To the mom at story time today:
I know you. I recognized you right away. I watched you direct your "calmer" child to the circle of children and then situate yourself and your more "active" daughter just outside the circle, allowing for a little room while still being part of the group.
I know your kids. I know your daughter who was rolling on the ground and making strange noises after a couple minutes. I know she couldn't help it and she wasn't just being a brat or intentionally disruptive. I know your other daughter, too. I immediately recognized the acceptance in her manner when you separated from her and the group to sit with her sister.
I know the library worker. The one who sheepishly but assertively whispered to you about 10 minutes into the story time that your daughter was being disruptive and needed to removed. I saw the set of her jaw, the black or white in her eyes.
I know your story. I didn't need to clearly hear your plea to let your daughter try to be apart of story time because I already knew what you were saying. I know your desperation to give your daughter the normal experiences her sister and peers get to have every day. I know your hope for sympathetic staff and accepting friends and parents.
I know that look. The one of resignation and disappointment you wore as you and your daughter quietly exited the room. The passing glance your other daughter threw back as you left, unsurprised and unfazed. The uncomfortable look on the staffer's face. The embarrassed or judgmental looks the other mothers leveled as you dragged your quietly moaning daughter out of that room.
I have no idea who you are, but I know you. And it broke my heart today to see you.
I know you. I recognized you right away. I watched you direct your "calmer" child to the circle of children and then situate yourself and your more "active" daughter just outside the circle, allowing for a little room while still being part of the group.
I know your kids. I know your daughter who was rolling on the ground and making strange noises after a couple minutes. I know she couldn't help it and she wasn't just being a brat or intentionally disruptive. I know your other daughter, too. I immediately recognized the acceptance in her manner when you separated from her and the group to sit with her sister.
I know the library worker. The one who sheepishly but assertively whispered to you about 10 minutes into the story time that your daughter was being disruptive and needed to removed. I saw the set of her jaw, the black or white in her eyes.
I know your story. I didn't need to clearly hear your plea to let your daughter try to be apart of story time because I already knew what you were saying. I know your desperation to give your daughter the normal experiences her sister and peers get to have every day. I know your hope for sympathetic staff and accepting friends and parents.
I know that look. The one of resignation and disappointment you wore as you and your daughter quietly exited the room. The passing glance your other daughter threw back as you left, unsurprised and unfazed. The uncomfortable look on the staffer's face. The embarrassed or judgmental looks the other mothers leveled as you dragged your quietly moaning daughter out of that room.
I have no idea who you are, but I know you. And it broke my heart today to see you.
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