Why I Can't Be "Real" With You

I was told today "you should write on your blog like you are in real life!"

Interesting.

I thought I WAS writing on my blog like I am in real life...
but the more I thought about it, maybe she's right.

I can't tell you the gory details about my life.
I can't tell you how frustrating it is to try to decipher a child's barely-knows-enough-English-to-be-frustrating rant while another child is crying and feeling wronged and you have no idea what is the matter. I can't tell you because you'd think "well... you asked for this!"

I can't tell you how SICKANDFRICKAFRACKINGTIRED I am of my half-bath looking/smelling/feeling like one of those gas stations where you have to get the key that's attached by chain to a big block of wood because, Lord help us, someone wants to get into that bathroom without permission! CHAIN UP THE KEY, Floyd! Someone might get in our bathroom without our knowledge! I don't know why it is... but the floor is gross, the toilet is gross, the light switch is nasty and I don't even want to go in there. I'm considering having a port-a-potty delivered for the under-10 crowd to use exclusively. Maybe the port-a-potty people have a gift registry online! Dear Santa...

Here in Whopperville

My daughter had a huge in-ground pool at her old house.
And three wind turbines, the kind like they have in Nebraska.
She's seen HOP hundreds of times. As well as all the other movies he hasn't been allowed to see.
She had 12 cats.
And three dogs.
Three goats.
Three cows.
And chickens.
Twelve pair of shoes.
A big bed. Bigger than mine.
Oh, and she had 12 shots, too. Which I sure wish they'd recorded so we could have skipped this shots every week nonsense to get her into school.
She likes the number 12. And 3.
She loves to brag to her brother about all the spectacular stuff she used to have and he totally buys into it.
One of her friends had a TV as big as his wall.
Another had several cars. Nice ones. Like my neighbors'.

All things in Ethiopia were awesome. America is a downgrade. She's now living in the depths of poverty.

How Things Go

".. And how are Things going...?"

The all famous question, newly adoptive parents hear all too often.


We then feel the slight urge (which we control), to blast: "Don't you see the circles under my eyes, I haven't slept in weeks", and things like, "I'm at my wits end in all this!", but we gracefully announce "Things are well here, how are you?"

As newly adoptive parents we feel obligated to inform you that things are ‘going great’. After all, we are humbled that our Lord had allowed us to adopt, children are a blessing from Him, and yet, we feel overwhelmed, discouraged, drained, frustrated....you name it, we are it.

If we do inform you (which barely happens, remember, we're grateful), about our real state of condition,  we could easily live without those  comments like, "Yeah, they come with a lot of baggage", "You wanted it that way", "Oh, you'll be able to manage", to well meant practical advice as " Well, just force her to wear that jacket, shoes, eat that food, etc", and "Be understanding and give it time". HAH!

Who We Are

We all have them. Moments of regret. Moments of overwhelmed. Moments of, well, wanting to claw someone's eyes out for something stupid they've just said. We have moments when we are overcome with love for our little non-biological and we have moments when we....aren't.

We have secret thoughts, us adoptive mothers.

The first one I remember during the wait was, I hope we don't get a dud.

Oh yes I did.

The first one I remember within a few hours after we got a keeper? What have we DONE?

For the LOVE he wouldn't sleep. Did he not know I'd been up for three weeks praying his mother wouldn't change her mind? I needed to freaking sleep! GO TO SLEEP! IT'S 2 AM!

Now we are in the throes of adjusting to a seven year old daughter who has seen more first hand tragedy in her short life than most of us have seen on Netflicks.

Do I have secret thoughts? You betcha. But I also have a safe place where I can say, "Do you ever mourn the nice quiet life that felt so empty last year?" Or, "Do you sometimes want to go back and shake your impatient self and tell her to sit down and eat some ice cream in peace?" And, "Good gravy, she's pulling her permanent teeth for money! Help!"

Sometimes you might find you are asking questions you never thought you'd ask yourself.
Upon seeing that your daughter is missing her uvula (that dangly thing in the back of her throat): what else has been mutilated?
Upon seeing that your 11 month old baby has a five inch scar across his chest: have his organs been harvested?
When your four year old spazzes out about nothing: was this the drugs?

We intend for this to be a community, a safe place of encouragement, where we can share our stories and help one another through.

We like to laugh, too.

Email us your stories. We'd love to post them up. Maybe someone needs to hear what you have to say. If you want to stay anonymous, let us know, and we'll leave you anonymous. If you'd like to link up to your blog, we can do that, too. Be forewarned: don't tell us you want to kill your kids. Anonymous or not, I'll send a psyche counselor and the popo after you. Nothing of that sort will be posted.

Encourage. Laugh. Share.

What are your secret thoughts?