Dear Mom of an Adopted Child, by Kathy Lynn Harris

I did not write this, but I had to share it. It reached something deep inside me. The words are so powerful, so spot on. So much of this was and is our journey. This puts into words so many of my feelings, that I can't articulate, even though I've tried. Of the pain and joy and knowing and not knowing what's to come. This so perfectly illustrates those little feelings in the little corners of my heart that are there, but I didn't know how to reach. Other people feel these feelings I feel. Warning, you will cry.

By Kathy Lynn Harris

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,

I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son's school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.

It doesn't matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.

Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn't in God's plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin's neighbor's friend. Maybe you ignored them.

Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.

Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that's what we do, isn't it?

I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes -- but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.

I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes -- so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.

I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.

I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.

Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby's room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.

I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.

And I know about the follow-up visits, when you hadn't slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.

And I've seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what's being promised and what's not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.

I've seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that's emerging. I've seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn't have to go through with this. I've seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments -- while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.

I've seen you look down into a newborn infant's eyes, wondering if he's really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.

And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.

I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.

I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn't even know you were holding for months. Months.

I've seen you meet your child's birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I've seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile ... people who love him because he's one of them. I've seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he's shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.

I've seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things -- but you can't protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.

I've seen you at the doctor's office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little spaces don't turn into big problems later on.

I've seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?

I've seen you wonder how you'll react the first time you hear the dreaded, "You're not my real mom." And I've seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.

I've seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being that it is the other way around.

But most of all, I want you to know that I've seen you look into your child's eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that's just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter -- and whose loss would be like the loss of yourself.

By Kathy Lynn Harris

What IF vs. What IS

We'll start with the most important stuff first: Wednesday's appointment was non-eventful! Yes, it was just an exam by Dr. Kass, and everything felt/looked fine, so I go back in six months for an MRI. Because I'm in the LFS study at the NIH Dr. Kass thinks I may be able to get a breast MRI less often than once a year, because I'm getting a full body MRI - additionally - every year for the study.
So, yes, a small six-month step, but I am so relieved. Every appointment that goes well is another deep breath and another milestone. I'll take it. I'll take it all.

So, back in November for an MRI, and then full body and brain MRIs in December for LFS.

There's always so many different parts of me, tugging at me, during these appointments. First, I can't talk/think about life/plans until after the appointment. In the car on the way to Hershey Sean and I always talk about our plans for the week, month, etc. Sunday we're going to take Adele to the park. We need to buy chairs for the backyard. We'll get the kiddie pool set up. We need to go on a bike ride. I am going to Chicago next month, Sean has a softball happy hour, etc. I try and I try to imagine life beyond the appointment, and even though I am four years out with NO reason(s) to be worried/concern, I STILL have a hard time functioning until after the appointment. What if something happens/they find something/we need to follow up? Plans will be altered.

And then there's the relief part of me mixed with the panic part of me. Today, for example, Dr. Kass said the exam was fine, and that everything felt fine, looked normal, etc., and I had this HUGE feeling of relief inside. Like a big cloud just blew away out of my lungs. Like WHEW, OK, I am good. I am so good. And then: panic. What if she missed something?

(Let's keep in mind that Dr. Kass is nicknamed "Golden Fingers Kass" for her ability to feel everything and anything. She found a STITCH around my implant for goodness sake. A stitch. And I've had plenty of follow-up ultrasounds to lumps and bumps when it was deemed necessary.)

So, all that in mind, I know it is me, my brain. My brain always does this to me and I am learning how to reverse it. When there is relief I create a fear that isn't there. I have learned, through therapy and self-reflection, to pinpoint exactly what I'm doing when I'm doing it, and to tell myself it is in my mind and not a real thing. I create a scenario that isn't there. It takes a lot of practice - and I'm still learning - how to recognize and reverse these thoughts. Thoughts that have no basis. Thoughts I create out of scenarios that don't exist.

There are a million what-ifs in the world. But we don't live by what-ifs. We live by what IS.

Here's what IS: Dr. Kass said everything felt fine and to come back in six months.

I am learning to just take what IS and just go with it. It's gotten easier and I've gotten better at it, but there are still times I catch myself creating fear and fearful situations that have no basis.

So upon relaxing I am looking forward to Mother's Day weekend with Sean and Adele and Cams. We have lots of fun things planned, including trips to the winery, going out with friends, walks, playing at the park, bike rides, etc.

I can't believe Adele is a TODDLER. Like, a toddler. There is no greater feeling in the world than when she looks into my eyes and "pats" my hair and touches my face. Or when I'm holding her and she reaches her arms around my neck for a closer hold. There are a million little things she does, where, in those moments I am in complete awe. I am continuously surprised by this little being, who knows so much and who learns so quickly. Tiny little moments - there are too many to name them all - I try to cherish, to freeze. Her curly hair tickling my chin as she falls asleep in my arms before I put her in the crib. And I think - I will stay for two more seconds. Squeeze very tightly this exact experience. I love this moment.

There are a million what-ifs in the world.

They can float along in the world, on their lists, doing their own things.

Today, I choose what IS.

What-ifs are crowded and mind-numbing. They are overwhelming and confusing. They are overlapping and mysterious. They are contradictory and dizzying.

What IS, is clear and crisp.

Here's what we know. Let's take that, and let's run with it.

Ain't nobody got time for anything else.

Put on the backpack and wear it

UGHHHHHHH I have Dr. Kass on Wednesday in Hershey. It is just a routine six month checkup. Normally, being four years out, I would go every year (exam + breast MRI) but because of my special, attention-seeking genetic mutation called LFS, I keep going every six months. (exam alternated with MRI). During the exam, if a lump/bump/something else is felt, they will do an ultrasound that day. If the ultrasound looks suspicious, they will schedule a follow-up or do a biopsy that day. 

Sometimes there are lumps and bumps and sometimes there are ultrasounds. 

I always get anxious and nervous before these appointments. The anxiety never goes away. Sometimes it's less, but it never goes away. And sometimes it's really not less. Sometimes it just takes different forms.

These checkups will always be a part of my life, and I have no problem with that. Four years out, 44 years out, I'll probably always go every six months. Because LFS. And because many women I know were breast cancer-free for 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 years and then it came back. Because it does. And because LFS. And just because. 

With Leukemia, (the type that I had, which was childhood ALL), the longer you are in remission, and the further out you are from treatment, the less likely the relapse. Of course, you can always have a relapse. But with my case and my age and my treatment, each year out was one more year away, and it became less likely for it to come back. I am now 17 years out from ALL.

With breast cancer, there is no such thing. It can come back 20 years later in the same spot (despite surgery, chemo, radiation), or as mets. And it has been known to happen, A LOT. Women are clear for 20 years and then two seconds later they are stage 4. This crosses my mind. In the same way all cancer crosses my mind - in a battle between I am healthy now and I can't live my life in fear of cancer coming back - between - oh, it can absolutely come back anytime. To: I don't know if and when it will come back - between - oh, it can absolutely come back anytime.

All the while I move forward and I keep on keeping on. I have a daughter to care for and a job to do. I'm a mom and a wife with a full-time job and laundry and thank-you notes and playdates and bath time. I LOVE all of my jobs. I LOVE being a mom. My daughter needs me to be brave, so I'm brave.

Just as I always have, I live fully (very fully) while still being very much aware that I can get cancer again - a new cancer or the same cancer(s). I live fully in the moment (very fully) and also try to plan ahead (trips, vacations, etc.) while still being very much aware that cancer could ruin those plans, and it absolutely has in the past. But just because something has happened once before doesn't mean it will happen again.

What if it does?

But what if it doesn't?

We don't really know.

So we all know how I live - the fear doesn't control my life but it's definitely there. And when there is pain somewhere or a migraine or a bruise that doesn't heal right away it's there.

The fear doesn't stop me from anything. It doesn't keep me from anything. I still signed up for Tour de Pink this year and booked my flight to Chi to visit Sally in June. We still built a house and adopted a baby and became a family. I commit to everything I do. And then I do it. But all the while I have LFS. 

My friends, the backpack is heavy. True, this week it is heavier than other weeks because I have Dr. Kass. When I have Dr. Kass the backpack is HUGE. I hate that freakin' backpack. It comes every six months and it's a terrible backpack. 

And it also comes around when I have LFS clinic in December. And all other times the backpack is OK. It is manageable. But this week it is heavy and I hate it. 

Right now - there is also so much more than that backpack. There is this spark in my life. My beautiful family. This past weekend we took Adele to the mikveh to begin her conversion process into Judaism, and later this month we will have her baby naming. The rabbi and cantor who married us also did the mikveh ceremony, and will also conduct Adele's baby naming. In the same synagogue where we were married. Full circle. And Adele turned 1. Full circle. And it's spring. A lot of circles. 

We are truly, truly blessed. 

Yes, I hate this backpack, but I'll wear it. I have to. Stress hurts. Anxiety hurts. 

But what choice do I have? I wear the backpack. I just wear it.

A light and fluffy survey

A wine can never be too dry, and you can never have too many napkins. 
Adele's poop doesn't gross me out, but crumbs do. Again, you can never have too many napkins. 

And now, here's a fun survey! 

I know I’m getting old when: wearing flip-flops makes my toes spasm. And I look forward to Lifetime movies I DVR in advance.

If I were stranded on a deserted island with only one food, what would it be: fresh Medjool dates. (if a person were asking me this question instead of a computer, I would have interrupted him or her mid-sentence with my answer).

Since becoming a mom, this has surprised me: how much I talk about poop. And how much our schedules revolve around the poops of Adele and Campbell. And how many words I use to describe poop. (Mainly, “poops” even if just referring to one singular poop). And how much I ask Adele about her “poops” even if I already know the answer. (“Did you make poops in your diaper?” Yes. The answer is always yes.)

My favorite part of the day: bedtime. For one and all.

I can’t recall the last time I: wore matching socks, washed my hair. Unpacked from a trip. Wore high heels. 

The worst thing I ate for dinner this week: pie. (If “worst” means unhealthy.)

The thing that’s surprised me most about my baby this week: how insanely fast she scarfs down food. I can actually HEAR her gulping down banana. It’s ridiculously cute.

My perfect morning: guilty as I write this, but before the baby wakes, and I get to watch Real Housewives on DVR with a humungous cup of coffee while Campbell lays on the couch next to me.

My perfect evening: in bed before 9 p.m., showered.

I hate being: itchy, tired, hungry, full, cold.

I love being: relaxed, hot.

Favorite office supplies: highlighters, dry erase markers and paperclips.

Least favorite office supplies: keyboards because they have crumbs and dust. 

Things that gross me out: crumbs and wearing my glasses in places I can see crumbs when I wouldn’t otherwise see them. And dust.

Things I do that my significant other/partner doesn't understand: my overuse of napkins during mealtime, and saving semi-dirty napkins after mealtime. How I don't unpack my suitcases, and instead use another, different suitcase when packing for an upcoming trip. My lack of matching socks and lack of desire to put away clean laundry in an effort to be able to identify matching socks. My "panic attacks" over listening to NPR; anticipating long car rides with dogs and babies; unpacking the car after a trip; procrastinating over simple household chores/tasks, yet planning birthdays and anniversaries months in advance; not eating dinner by 6 p.m. or not being finished with dinner by 7 p.m. 

The struggle is real when: I want to get a coffee but I'm too tired to move. I can fit into and buy children's shoes from Target and I'm all excited but then they give me blisters. 

I can't believe I (blank) in high school: ate Cheetos and Ramen noodles every day.

I won't knowingly eat: mayonnaise.

I won't knowingly drink: whole milk, soda, sweet wine. (blech)

Favorite drink: water, black coffee, red wine, green juice, coconut water, cherry chia Kombucha. 

Least favorite drink: anything carbonated. unless it's champagne. and milk. 

The struggle with being tall/short: short. People back up into me.

The benefit of being tall/short: short, again. I can buy junior girls' clothing. But then again, most of the time I don't know it's junior's until after I've already bought it.

People claim this about me: they can never hear me coming and are always surprised when I'm behind them. I don't know why I'm so sneaky.

I hate when people: open doors quickly. you never know who's behind it! and they could be carrying hot coffee! (I always open doors very carefully and slowly.)

You can never have too many: bracelets, shoes, fresh Medjool dates, bottles of wine, napkins.

You CAN have too many: un-filed papers, pens that don't work, receipts in your purse. 

Adele's 1st birthday party!

Just a glimpse of the amazing time we had on Sunday, celebrating with about 50 of our friends and family! 

Happy 30th, Karishma!

Happy 30th birthday to my best friend, Karishma! She has been right by my side through my breast cancer (diagnosis and surgeries, worries and fears), my wedding planning and my wedding, and stood next to me while I recited my vows. She was there through the adoption process, and the day we brought Adele home from the hospital. And today she is the most amazing "Auntie Karishma" to Adele. She loved her fully and unconditionally, even before she met her. I am so grateful and blessed to have Karishma in my life. 

And? She shares a birthday with Adele! So on this beautiful, amazing day of April 26, 2015, Karishma turns 30 and Adele turns 1. 

I love you so much, Karishma! 

Raw and unedited as we near Adele's first birthday

I think of Adele’s birth mom all the time. It’s such a touchy topic to write about, and honestly I don’t even know where to begin. What prompted this post is Adele turning 1 on Sunday. I cannot believe it has already been a year! This smushy, wrinkly little burrito potato blob came into our lives with little warning, and changed absolutely everything. Like I’ve written in previous blog posts, Adele unlocks deep chambers of my heart I never new existed. Her happiness and love is contagious. My heart melts and screams at the same time. It thumps and it slows. It swells and it bursts, again and again and again. I have never experienced a love like this, and that love continues to grow and change.

That little burrito who used to sleep all day now is a curly bubbly firecracker with her own plans and opinions. She smiles at, hugs and kisses her lovies and teddies. She blows kisses and gives high-fives and squeals with joy when she sees Mom or Dad or Campbell. She is great at peek-a-boo and also at pouting. She knows what she wants to eat and when she wants to eat it. She likes to feed herself. She can polish off an entire avocado and entire banana in less than 30 (or 15?) minutes. She holds her sippy cup by herself. Although she loves to be held she also loves to “walk” and cruise and crawl and climb on her own; there is never a dull moment when Adele is on the ground. She plays with the neighbors in the grass, climbs on the playground at school and plays in the sandbox. She pats other children’s backs, makes pretty artwork and laughs hysterically on the baby swing at the playground. She likes to try new foods, including black bean hummus.

Just like there is no way to describe my love for Adele and what she has brought into our lives, and the way she has changed our lives, there is no way to describe what I feel for her birth mom, whom I will call B. Because there really ARE NO words, I haven’t written about it. It is too broad of a topic to even begin – to talk about what an adoptive mom feels for a birth mom. As you all know we have an open adoption, meaning an open relationship with B, however and whatever and in whichever way(s) all parties decide on. Because I am not a birth mom and have not gone through the [what I think is heart-wrenching] process of placing a child for adoption, I won’t even attempt to write about it. But what I CAN write about is the feelings I have for B and for Adele, every day, and especially now as her birthday approaches.

The feeling is a pain deep in my heart and my stomach. I felt it last night as I thought of B. My heart aches because while what B did for us and for Adele is a beautiful blessing, [I imagine it is heart-wrenching for her every day, and now especially near Adele’s birthday]. And I say that in parenthesis BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW B FEELS. In the simplest, purest sentence: adoption is both amazing and heart-breaking at the same time. We all know this, we all get this. It’s just so hard to even begin to explain it. I’ve had these feelings for a while but didn’t know how to get to them. I feel for B. I feel for Adele. I want her to know B or at least know about B, and she will. B is a part of our lives. B will always be a part of our lives. I just want her to see a picture of B. I want her to see what I see when I look in her eyes. I see B so often. And it’s a good thing. Because B created Adele. So I love B. And I just wish/ want her to know how much we love her. I know she already knows we love Adele. But I also want her to know we love her.

And as Adele turns 1, and probably for the rest of our lives and Adele’s life, I will feel this deep ache because the [what I think is heart-wrenching] decision B made. But I don’t know how she feels or what she feels. I just know how I feel and I feel that I want her to know I love her. Maybe it’s as simple as that. It hurts because I love Adele and I love B.

I think adoption is this thing that never really forms into a single feeling or word. I think the feelings evolve. I just wish I knew exactly what this feeling was. 

I see B in Adele, and I want Adele to know that for the rest of her life. She should always know I see B in her. She should always know that.

I feel the loss for Adele, that she doesn't yet feel, and for B. I feel the gains of Adele coming into our lives every second of every day. But especially now I think about what was lost.

What is a loss can also be a gain. What is beautiful can also be painful. Adele is our beautiful story and journey, but there is also loss. And that's OK and that's real and that's normal and my feelings are my feelings.

I feel for B. Simple as that. For B and for Adele.

The loss I feel for Adele and for B is separate from the love I feel for Adele and for B. Both exist. Both are there. But one does not impact the other; one does not affect the other. They are two separate entities. Adoption is complicated. Motherhood is complicated. Feelings don't always have to make sense. And they certainly don't always have to match or sit next to each other.

Happy birthday (on April 26!) to our sweet baby girl, our sweet blessing. Every day I am so thankful and so grateful and so blessed. I am blessed to be your Mama, and you are blessed to have me and Dad and Cams and ALL of our amazing family and friends who love and love and love you to bits and pieces every second of every day.

I never imagined a love like this. I always wanted to be a Mom but could never picture it. Being your Mama is the greatest gift. You are our greatest gift. We love you, and we love B. We always will. We will always honor her. We will always teach you about her. Just like you are always a part of us, B is always a part of us. You never have to worry about that. B is our family. We honor her and we honor you, and we honor you and we honor her. Forever and always.

Here's to turning 1; the fun has just begun!