This is going to sound ridiculous, but there are moments that I don't feel like I have a lot of kids. Right now at our house, there are three boys on bicycles outside riding in laps where I can see them, one small girl doing a puzzle quietly, one larger girl practicing her dance routines, one almost Kindergartener playing with a neighbor, one small boy illustrating his comic, and one tiny Chinese baby peacefully asleep. In the background, you can hear a geriatric beagle snoring.
It's not loud here.
My house isn't a mess.
Overall, there isn't chaos.
It's days like these when I feel invincible, when I think I could do this for another child or two that needs us. Soon, the noise will kick up a notch, someone will step on something that belongs to someone else, trauma will rear its ugly head, and I'll feel like I can't do this for the eight I've already got.
So, for now, I'm going to soak it in and love the moment.
--FullPlateMom,
who lives for days like this.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Saturday, May 11, 2013
To The Mother That Came Before Me.
On this blog, and in public, I don't speak a whole lot about my children and their relationships with their mothers that came before me. This is mostly for their privacy. Adoption is rooted in loss. They lost something big when they made the choice they did. And, regardless of what a bang up job I do with my kids, they have lost a biological connection to the parents that created them. I respect the grief that comes with that loss enough to not discuss personal situations with most people.
Just because I don't discuss it doesn't mean I don't think of these women daily. And, before you email me, because I have received those kinds of emails before, I'm not discounting birthfathers in all this. We just don't have many that are involved or were ever involved in our kids' lives. Some of them died, some of them aren't known to us, and some aren't worth my kids' time. That's just our situation. I know there are birthfather's out there who make great sacrifices for their children as well. I am also a mom, so I tend to connect with women.
Today, which has been dubbed Birthmother's Day because it is for the women who came before the mothers, I had the pleasure of emailing two of our birthmoms and receiving a call from a third. I treasure these contacts now, while sometimes painful for me, they're wonderful for my children. They cement them to the family that created them and the one that is raising them. They will be able to walk between the two of us as healthy and happy adults. I want that connection for my children. I want them to know that I don't see the woman who created them as competition. For me, it's okay that they have two moms.
Today though, my heart is also with the mothers who came before me that we have no contact with, either because it is too painful for them or not appropriate for our children. I think of you every day when I get to watch the little people you created walk this path toward becoming amazing adults. Thank you for choosing us for them. I pray daily that somehow we'll find our way back to each other, and I know that as my children grow, we'll reconnect in someway if life choices change. I do know how to find you and my kids will always know that the door is open should they choose it.
To Dolly's birthmother, who I will likely never have the chance to meet on this earth due to circumstances neither of us can change, I often think of Mitch Albom's book and I picture you as one of my five. I can only imagine the pain you faced when you had to make the choice to either let your daughter go or to watch her die. I like to imagine that we are what you hoped for, because your daughter is everything we could have ever dreamed of. When I pray, I pray for comfort for you, that somehow, someway, you will magically hear me and know that your tiny daughter is alive and that she is so, so very loved.
To all our birthmothers out there. This is what you've created. Today is about honoring you for that sacrifice.
--FullPlateMom,
who has just put herself into the ugly cry.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Six Months.
Dolly has been in my arms for a little over six months. Can I just point out the change?
This was in China, when she could barely hold her head up and her tiny little legs just dangled. She weighed barely 15 lbs at almost 2 years old and wore a size 6-9 months.
Now I can barely get a pic of her that doesn't blur from the constant motion that is our girl. She is everywhere. She has almost 20 words/signs in her vocab. She kisses us, squeals with delight when the kids come home from school and chases the dog with reckless abandon. She weighs almost 20 lbs, has grown three inches in height and wears a size 12-18 months. And, she has cheeks! Oh, the cheeks! Last night, as she lay in bed with me, she pulled up her pajama shirt, slapped her stomach and shouted "Belly!" Yeah, she's got one of those too, the kind every toddler should have!
And, just to help us celebrate, all the sudden, just this week, she did this...
Peeps, this is what a family does for a child.
--FullPlateMom,
who wants us to get on finding this kind of joy for every family.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
An Open Letter to the Soccer Moms of the World.
To all the 'Soccer Moms' of the world,
That's kind of a misnomer. You see, you may not only be found on the soccer field. Some of you are found in dance studios, or on baseball fields or in the waiting room at music lessons. You're not every mom, but lately, it feels like it. You're the mom whose sure that your child is smarter, more creative and more special than any other child out there. You're the mom who thinks their daughter is perfect, could never be mean and is always so polite to adults. You won't actually say it, because you're much to smart for that, you'll just nod your head politely when you see other children who struggle and you'll think 'thank God that's not MY child.'
I've spent the last week dealing with you, and I'm pretty much over it now. You see, I probably would have been one of you had fate, or God, or whatever you might believe in, not brought me the children I am blessed enough to call mine. I probably would have had the child you have, the one that has been loved since the day he was conceived. The one who received the best prenatal care, went to the best preschool and started Kindergarten with a mommy and daddy who kissed them goodbye and sent them on their way knowing in their heart that they were truly safe.
Well, you see, none of my children had that. Their beginnings were all rooted in loss. While they were my first choice, I was their second after they weren't able to be with their biological family anymore. I'm the mom of the child who didn't go to the best preschool. In fact, I'm the mom of the child who spent her entire preschool years wandering alone and hungry. I'm the mom of the little boy who didn't go to Kindergarten because his school was so awful that he couldn't stand it. He snuck out the window nearly every day and went and played in the field to avoid the beatings. I'm the mom of the girl who was ripped away from everything she knew at the age of 8 and sent to live with a new family in a country where nothing was familiar or even seemed real at first.
I am the mom who will email you fifteen times to make sure she has the exact details for the art project you've planned to honor the teacher she loves. I am the mom of the little girl who couldn't handle attending the group session you planned to complete this project. I also couldn't handle attending it because, well, you see, I am the mother who has seven other children. And, to be honest, I didn't really want to go. I'll email you over and over for details because my daughter can't stand not knowing exactly what is expected of her or what is happening next. She can't take being left out. She was left out from the day she was born until she came to live with me at nearly three years old. This has left lasting scars. This is what you see when you're thinking 'thank God SHE'S not mine.'
I'm sorry if all of this bothers you. I'm so sorry if it's inconvenient for you. I have to work so much harder than you do just to make it through the day. I know I do. And, I'm okay with that. Because someday, if it takes until the day I die, my kids are going to feel what your kid did from the second she was born. Someday, my kid is going to know in their heart that they're loved. They're going to know they're safe. They're going to know they're special. The difference is, I'm going to teach my child that while they're so very special to me, in the eyes of the rest of the world, they're not any MORE special than your child. I'm going to teach them that they matter, but only just as much as the next person on this earth. And, when they know that, everything they've lived through in the past, everything they've struggled to overcome, everything they've seen and experienced will all combine together to make them an absolutely amazing person.
On that day, I'm going to smile, and maybe, just maybe you'll hear me shouting...
BOO-YAH!
--FullPlateMom,
who wouldn't mind having the soccer moms leave her be until then.
That's kind of a misnomer. You see, you may not only be found on the soccer field. Some of you are found in dance studios, or on baseball fields or in the waiting room at music lessons. You're not every mom, but lately, it feels like it. You're the mom whose sure that your child is smarter, more creative and more special than any other child out there. You're the mom who thinks their daughter is perfect, could never be mean and is always so polite to adults. You won't actually say it, because you're much to smart for that, you'll just nod your head politely when you see other children who struggle and you'll think 'thank God that's not MY child.'
I've spent the last week dealing with you, and I'm pretty much over it now. You see, I probably would have been one of you had fate, or God, or whatever you might believe in, not brought me the children I am blessed enough to call mine. I probably would have had the child you have, the one that has been loved since the day he was conceived. The one who received the best prenatal care, went to the best preschool and started Kindergarten with a mommy and daddy who kissed them goodbye and sent them on their way knowing in their heart that they were truly safe.
Well, you see, none of my children had that. Their beginnings were all rooted in loss. While they were my first choice, I was their second after they weren't able to be with their biological family anymore. I'm the mom of the child who didn't go to the best preschool. In fact, I'm the mom of the child who spent her entire preschool years wandering alone and hungry. I'm the mom of the little boy who didn't go to Kindergarten because his school was so awful that he couldn't stand it. He snuck out the window nearly every day and went and played in the field to avoid the beatings. I'm the mom of the girl who was ripped away from everything she knew at the age of 8 and sent to live with a new family in a country where nothing was familiar or even seemed real at first.
I am the mom who will email you fifteen times to make sure she has the exact details for the art project you've planned to honor the teacher she loves. I am the mom of the little girl who couldn't handle attending the group session you planned to complete this project. I also couldn't handle attending it because, well, you see, I am the mother who has seven other children. And, to be honest, I didn't really want to go. I'll email you over and over for details because my daughter can't stand not knowing exactly what is expected of her or what is happening next. She can't take being left out. She was left out from the day she was born until she came to live with me at nearly three years old. This has left lasting scars. This is what you see when you're thinking 'thank God SHE'S not mine.'
I'm sorry if all of this bothers you. I'm so sorry if it's inconvenient for you. I have to work so much harder than you do just to make it through the day. I know I do. And, I'm okay with that. Because someday, if it takes until the day I die, my kids are going to feel what your kid did from the second she was born. Someday, my kid is going to know in their heart that they're loved. They're going to know they're safe. They're going to know they're special. The difference is, I'm going to teach my child that while they're so very special to me, in the eyes of the rest of the world, they're not any MORE special than your child. I'm going to teach them that they matter, but only just as much as the next person on this earth. And, when they know that, everything they've lived through in the past, everything they've struggled to overcome, everything they've seen and experienced will all combine together to make them an absolutely amazing person.
On that day, I'm going to smile, and maybe, just maybe you'll hear me shouting...
BOO-YAH!
--FullPlateMom,
who wouldn't mind having the soccer moms leave her be until then.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Do You Honestly Believe that God Healed your Daughter? Faith in Medicine and a Dolly Update.
Dolly went for an Echo yesterday. We've had Echos (an ultrasound of her heart) before, but this was the Echo to beat all Echos. This Echo would tell us whether or not her lungs have normal blood pressure flowing to them. If they don't, then we aren't a candidate for any further surgery, or for transplant, because not only would she need a new heart but she would need new lungs. No one wanted to discuss that with us, the outcomes were so poor for kids like Dolly. So, we didn't talk about it.
We just prayed.
Table paper is perfect for coloring. See how she holds her crayon? Thank you OT!!!
Dolly's lung pressures are NORMAL. Did you hear that?!? I said NORMAL. We will NOT need new lungs.
She's very happy about that. Or, she's happy because the entire room was so happy. We all whooped, hollered and cheered. This was everything we had hoped and prayed for since that fateful day at the beginning of December when we were told that Dolly's lung pressures were so high that our best choice was to make a "humane decision for her" (in case you didn't catch the implication there, it was that we should let her die).
We prayed HARD that this was what would happen, that we would find someone willing to take a chance on Dolly and that chance would pay off.
It did.
Do I believe that God healed our daughter? Well...not exactly. I know, I'm a terrible Christian. I guess I don't believe that God hears our prayers, there's a clap of thunder and BOOM! my baby is healed. If I did believe that, it somehow implies that all the mothers out there whose children don't have the same outcome as Dolly were somehow worth less than I am, or that they didn't pray enough, or that God favors me over them.
He doesn't. He loves me just the same as he loves everyone else.
Those moms and dads loved their babies just as much as I love mine. Some of them fought just as hard. I know that. Here is where I believe faith and medicine compliment one another though. When things were at their very worst, when that doctor left our small recovery room on that December day and left the idea of losing Dolly just hanging there in the air, I crumpled. It took awhile, but both FPD and I found our faith and moved forward. We prayed for strength. We weren't looking for God to fix it for us. We were looking to Him for the strength to keep going, to fight, to move on and find someone to help our daughter when we were told it was a lost cause. This is where I think the rubber meets the road when it comes to faith and medicine.
I think God gives you the strength to overcome the obstacles life/fate puts in your path.
Finding your strength, whether it's to fight for your child, or to find comfort when they can't fight anymore, is something God absolutely can help with. Everyone needs hope. I find that in God. I've spent half my life in academia, I know other people chuckle at the idea of God in combination with science. I firmly believe there is a place for both in this world. That said, if you find comfort in Buddha, Allah or in running a marathon, I'm okay with that too. I also believe in a God that doesn't want me to judge.
I pray for everyone to find strength to look for the best answer. Not the first answer, the best answer. Sometimes, that means hours of research, talking to other parents and consulting other professionals besides your local ones. We had our bad days (a lot of them), but ultimately, we're where we need to be.
Totally in love with a little girl who has a VERY long life in front of her.
--FullPlateMom,
who is praying hard for strength for all the babies out there who are fighting so hard to overcome.
An afterward: We know we won't need new lungs, but we don't know if we will be able to ever completely "fix" Dolly's heart. One of the major heart valves is positioned in the exact spot that the patch that would fix her heart would be placed. A patch may prove impossible. If that's the case, we will medically manage Dolly until the heart that she was born with finally wears out. When that day comes, we'll pray for the strength to wait for a new one. This fall, FPM and Dolly will be making a trip to Boston to discuss what can be done, if anything, and when we should do it. One of her valves has also begun to leak. That may pose a problem later too. For now, we will just continue to monitor her heart and pray for her to continue to fight with the amazing strength that God gave her.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
What I Wore Wednesday--Giggles Edition 3
This is Giggles' 'What I Wore Wednesday' post from about two weeks ago. She wrote it up so nicely, and then life took hold. Orders for Fine 9 Designs have been pouring in, there are end of the school year field trips to attend, teachers to appreciate all next week and a tiny little Chinese girl needed her heart checked out (post about that will be coming tomorrow). We also have some big new brewing up in here at FullPlate Manor. I can't wait to share it! In the interim, here is Giggles' post.
Hey, Hey, Hey Everybody! A note from FPM: I told her to write a catchy opener and I laughed a little when that was what she wrote. She apparently has a future opening as a mediocre comedian at happy hour somewhere. I'm only kidding, she's very cute!
What I wore today was: a pink, black and white dress. I like the ruffles on the bottom. I think they are chic. I got the dress at Goodwill with my mom.
Cost to FPM: $5.00
Black legins (she means leggings, this was her only misspelling in this entire post, and she proofread it herself. WOOHOO!!!). My skirt is too short to wear no pants. I would look silly. And, ahem, a little immodest (says her very conservative dad).
Cost to FPM: $7 from Old Navy with a 40% off coupon. $4.20
Flower earrings with pink flowers. These were a birthday present from my mom. They came with many other earrings. I like them with my outfit. I can wear them with many things. They are versatile. We added that word together.
Cost to FPM: Yes, they were a birthday present, but I used a Claire's Gift Card that I got as a present for Bubbly. Bubbly's sensory issues prevent her from wearing earrings, so the card was re-gifted to Giggles. $0.00
Black ankle booties: These have high heels! I felt very grown up. I had to learn to walk in them.
Cost to FPM: $10 from Forever 21.
A denim jacket. I wrote about this in my last post. It is versatile too! Apparently, that's our word o' the day.
My 'A' necklace. My mom bought this before I came home. It was my gift when I change my name.
Very true. When she had for sure decided to change her name, we gave her the necklace to make sure she knew I wasn't disappointed in her (although I loved her given name too). This sealed the deal.
Cost to FPM: $25. It was a gift and it's sterling silver.
I asked Giggles to write a little about what the occasion was that caused her to wear such a fancy outfit. Here's her answer.
Why did I chose this outfit?
I chose this outfit because at my school we had a spring concert. In the spring concert, I played the violin with the 5th graders only. Next, we sing songs and then the 5th and 4th graders concert is over. Then the 3rd graders concert starts.
See you next time!
Giggles
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Sadly, She's Not 'All Better.'
Here is my nearly 27 month old daughter looking pretty typical 'toddler'.
She's working on eating with a fork. She says about 12 words and is learning more every single day. She likes cheese and bacon and she shouts "MINE!" a lot.
It's probably natural to look at how well she's doing and think 'Well, she looks sensational. Thank God that little heart thing is behind her.' I don't fault people who say that. Heck, occasionally, I catch myself thinking it. Then, I pump another dose of meds into her and have to check her oxygen saturations because she looks a smidge more blue to me and all the sudden I remember.
Yeah, this ain't over.
We are in the process of having Dolly declared disabled so that she can receive Medical Assistance as a secondary form of health insurance. When our pediatrician first suggested this to us, honestly, I bristled. I didn't like labeling her 'disabled' and I sure as heck didn't want a hand out. I pay my medical bills. I have good insurance. Why would we need this? Well, turns out insurance for a kid like Dolly isn't always as good as it looks. We have now accrued nearly $10K in medical expenses.
Turns out, applying for secondary coverage isn't as easy as it looks either. Finally, we had our home visit yesterday from a Case Manager who seems to understand where we're coming from. While we can pay the medical bills, I worry a lot about Dolly's future. When she isn't allowed to be on our insurance anymore, will she be able to pay her medical bills? What if I lose my job? We need a backup plan. To get this backup plan, there is a whole lot of paperwork. I don't mind. They should make sure that Dolly's condition is what I say it is and that she really needs this type of program.
The hard part wasn't gathering that paperwork, although I won't lie, it was a little ridulous, the hardest part was reading it and reviewing it. Our pediatrician wrote a very nice letter about Dolly's heart condition, all the secondary problems it has caused for her little body and what her likely prognosis is.
It is highly likely that, unless major medical advances occur, this patient will require a heart and/or lung transplant in the future.
And there's my reminder, yet again, that this isn't better. And, beyond the nearly physical pain that it causes me to have to read those words, we do fall through the cracks a little. Dolly looks GREAT. She looks like your average 12 month old. Unless you know she is 27 months old and can see the huge zipper-like scar she has running down her chest, you would think she is a pudgy-ish, happy baby. So, when you try to explain to someone why she's 'disabled', why she isn't just 'better', it's hard for them to understand.
She's on this Earth at all because she has this stubborn will to survive. It's because she fought so darn hard to make it to her family. She's an ornery little thing who wants to get better. So consequently, FPD and I have taken on the philosophy that she did her part by just staying alive until we could find her. Now, it's our turn to bear the burden. She fought enough all by herself, now it's our turn to fight FOR her. We spend over three hours each day coaxing her to eat, trying to avoid having to tube feed her, so that she gets in the calories she needs to grow enough to be able to have her next surgery. Some days, she eats cheese and bacon. Well, you go girl. Right now, we let her. We spend over an hour each day doing various PT exercises with her to strengthen her legs so that, hopefully, by the time she's three-years-old, she might walk. We spend about another hour each day pumping her full of medications that keep her heart going steadily, take the fluid off her lungs, and maybe, just maybe, heal them. That's five hours, sometimes, more per day spent solely on caring for her. That doesn't factor in all the time spent sitting in specialists offices waiting for our next set of instructions.
Yeah, I have to own it, she's disabled.
Getting someone else to see that is a different story. I'm in this tough spot of feeling very defensive about what we do for her and wanting others to view it as normal. We do a lot. Not anymore than I hope any other parent would do, but it's a lot. I want someone to acknowledge that, yes, without us doing all this, she would need to be hospitalized, therefore, she is disabled, but at the same time, I don't want anyone to actually call her that because otherwise it brings out the mama bear in me.
I think I'm where every mama is of a kid who has a chronic illness. The difference is, I was dropped into it overnight. There was no 9 months of pregnancy to understand what it would mean to have a 'heart baby'. There wasn't top notch medical care for her when she first entered this world. I think while physically she is doing great, emotionally speaking, we're all still catching up. I need to give myself time and cut myself some slack. I hate crying, and I don't usually do it, but I think I might need to. But, most of all, I need to remember how very worth it all this truly is.
--FullPlateMom,
who is lucky enough to be mom of one very amazing little girl, disabled or not.
She's working on eating with a fork. She says about 12 words and is learning more every single day. She likes cheese and bacon and she shouts "MINE!" a lot.
It's probably natural to look at how well she's doing and think 'Well, she looks sensational. Thank God that little heart thing is behind her.' I don't fault people who say that. Heck, occasionally, I catch myself thinking it. Then, I pump another dose of meds into her and have to check her oxygen saturations because she looks a smidge more blue to me and all the sudden I remember.
Yeah, this ain't over.
We are in the process of having Dolly declared disabled so that she can receive Medical Assistance as a secondary form of health insurance. When our pediatrician first suggested this to us, honestly, I bristled. I didn't like labeling her 'disabled' and I sure as heck didn't want a hand out. I pay my medical bills. I have good insurance. Why would we need this? Well, turns out insurance for a kid like Dolly isn't always as good as it looks. We have now accrued nearly $10K in medical expenses.
Turns out, applying for secondary coverage isn't as easy as it looks either. Finally, we had our home visit yesterday from a Case Manager who seems to understand where we're coming from. While we can pay the medical bills, I worry a lot about Dolly's future. When she isn't allowed to be on our insurance anymore, will she be able to pay her medical bills? What if I lose my job? We need a backup plan. To get this backup plan, there is a whole lot of paperwork. I don't mind. They should make sure that Dolly's condition is what I say it is and that she really needs this type of program.
The hard part wasn't gathering that paperwork, although I won't lie, it was a little ridulous, the hardest part was reading it and reviewing it. Our pediatrician wrote a very nice letter about Dolly's heart condition, all the secondary problems it has caused for her little body and what her likely prognosis is.
It is highly likely that, unless major medical advances occur, this patient will require a heart and/or lung transplant in the future.
And there's my reminder, yet again, that this isn't better. And, beyond the nearly physical pain that it causes me to have to read those words, we do fall through the cracks a little. Dolly looks GREAT. She looks like your average 12 month old. Unless you know she is 27 months old and can see the huge zipper-like scar she has running down her chest, you would think she is a pudgy-ish, happy baby. So, when you try to explain to someone why she's 'disabled', why she isn't just 'better', it's hard for them to understand.
She's on this Earth at all because she has this stubborn will to survive. It's because she fought so darn hard to make it to her family. She's an ornery little thing who wants to get better. So consequently, FPD and I have taken on the philosophy that she did her part by just staying alive until we could find her. Now, it's our turn to bear the burden. She fought enough all by herself, now it's our turn to fight FOR her. We spend over three hours each day coaxing her to eat, trying to avoid having to tube feed her, so that she gets in the calories she needs to grow enough to be able to have her next surgery. Some days, she eats cheese and bacon. Well, you go girl. Right now, we let her. We spend over an hour each day doing various PT exercises with her to strengthen her legs so that, hopefully, by the time she's three-years-old, she might walk. We spend about another hour each day pumping her full of medications that keep her heart going steadily, take the fluid off her lungs, and maybe, just maybe, heal them. That's five hours, sometimes, more per day spent solely on caring for her. That doesn't factor in all the time spent sitting in specialists offices waiting for our next set of instructions.
Yeah, I have to own it, she's disabled.
Getting someone else to see that is a different story. I'm in this tough spot of feeling very defensive about what we do for her and wanting others to view it as normal. We do a lot. Not anymore than I hope any other parent would do, but it's a lot. I want someone to acknowledge that, yes, without us doing all this, she would need to be hospitalized, therefore, she is disabled, but at the same time, I don't want anyone to actually call her that because otherwise it brings out the mama bear in me.
I think I'm where every mama is of a kid who has a chronic illness. The difference is, I was dropped into it overnight. There was no 9 months of pregnancy to understand what it would mean to have a 'heart baby'. There wasn't top notch medical care for her when she first entered this world. I think while physically she is doing great, emotionally speaking, we're all still catching up. I need to give myself time and cut myself some slack. I hate crying, and I don't usually do it, but I think I might need to. But, most of all, I need to remember how very worth it all this truly is.
--FullPlateMom,
who is lucky enough to be mom of one very amazing little girl, disabled or not.
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