This blog is here to chronicle our kids’ lives, it’s a journal of sorts, but it’s also here for the purpose of advocating for, and celebrating older/special needs adoption. I want my posts to be honest. I would never want anyone to read what I’ve written and think that everything is always sunshine and roses. We’re a family like any other. We have our ups and downs.
Honestly, right now is hard.
It always is when we first come home. I’m tired. Dolly is living on China time. My seven kids that were here before are adjusting to having a new sister. They are doing beautifully, but it’s still an adjustment. Adoption is rooted in loss. They see all that Dolly has lost. They watch her grieve. They don’t understand why she is totally freaked out. They know it will take time, but it still hurts their hearts to see her so sad.
There are moments of pure joy though. Like when there were 9 people (FPD was at work) in our average sized bathroom, playing with and entertaining Dolly as she took a bath. The kids love and celebrate her every smile. I hear choruses of “she stuck her tongue out at me!” and “look at her little feet!” and “she’s clapping again!” Sometimes, I think that there is no baby that has been more loved.
Then there are the questions, the questions that burn me. “Mom, when they have to fix her heart will she have a scar?” Yes, a huge one. One that will be with her forever. “Mom, will she be in the hospital for maybe, um, like four days?” No darling, we’re planning for four weeks, just in case something doesn’t go as planned. “Mom, do you know FOR SURE that our baby will be okay?”
No sweets, I don’t.
I don’t know that she’ll be okay. As medical technology stands right now, we’ll lose her in early adulthood. We’re praying for a miracle for her. Today, I had to be honest with Middle-Middle about that. I had to tell him that when we adopted her, we did it hoping for the best, that so far, God has given us the very best case scenario.
She made it to us. Alive.
Now we fight the bigger battle, keeping her that way. I had to tell him that we don’t know what her outcome will be and that I look at every single day with her as a gift, that we can’t worry about what will come tomorrow. We’re going to put one foot in front of the other. Together.
I’m such a liar. I’m so sorry, Middle-Middle. You’re 9 years old, and so much wiser then your years. You know what the score is for “your baby” and you worry. I was a worrier too. I want to lighten that load for him. Each one of my kids has been through so much already, I want this to be one less thing they worry about.
So, at 4am, when the house is totally silent and they’re dreaming, hopefully, peaceful dreams that every child should dream, I lie here and I worry for them.
We see our pediatrician tomorrow.
We see the heart team on Wednesday.
And so it begins.
who is so tired already, and we’ve only just started.