Saying Yes Is Hard

Sometimes I know what God wants me to do but I am not ready to do it. Like when he wanted me to get baptized and I pretended not to listen for about a year and a half.

It has been a while now that I have known that it grieves God’s heart to see the fatherless left to suffer and die. No doubt I first heard about that in Sunday school many years ago, and certainly there have been refreshers along the way.

Then Kimani was born and a new world opened up to me, a world where children like my little beauty are left in orphanages, without necessary medical care and therapy, without affection and comfort. A world where four year olds are shipped off to mental institutions where the lifespan inside those walls is less than two years.

I don’t exactly remember how I found Reece’s Rainbow but I do remember how I felt when I looked at those little faces, those eyes, eyes like Kimani’s, eyes asking to be saved. I felt the squeeze in my heart. I knew the day would come that I would travel halfway across the world to take one of those babies home to safety.

We were not in a position to adopt a child. Our house is full. We do not have an extra 30 thousand dollars sitting around. I already cook a lot and do a ton of laundry and change many beds. As parents we are already stretched. But one day in February as I was perusing Reece’s Rainbow, God whispered in my ear, “It’s time.”

And though saying yes to adopting was a hard thing for us to do right now, we did not bother to waste time protesting. With that said, let me introduce our daughters-in-waiting...

Mallory
Mallory is three years old and currently living in an orphanage in Eastern Europe.


Peach
Peach is seven months old and lives in the same orphanage as Mallory though it is likely they have never met. Peach has a very serious heart defect and needs to get home soon so that she can have life-saving surgery.


There is a lot of story between February and now, and I will share it when I get a chance on our adoption blog. There you can read more about our girls, and our adoption adventures.

The Man Bag

I bought my six year old son a pocketbook. It wasn’t easy.

Tuesday night after dinner, I announced I was going over to the mall to find a nice organizer bag to go inside my new big black pocketbook. My husband gave me that look, the “You’re going to leave me home with all these kids during the bewitching bedtime hours?” So I took the Gecko with me to lighten the load for him.

We headed straight to the Macy’s purse displays. Mmm...delightful... Guess, Nine West, Fossil... We snapped, zipped, flapped, stroked and sniffed. We admired, explored, examined, and counted pockets. I favored a Giani Bernini black, shiny, soft nylon bag with a gorgeous royal purple interior. Gecko wanted its red twin, but not before he pleaded for a black flower-embossed Fossil wallet, a leopard print triple zipper bag, a bright blue leather sac, and a screamingly shiny black Guess satchel with a couple pounds of silver bling on it.

How could I say no? No, Gecko, you can’t have one of these fancy bags with cool hidden pockets because you are a boy. I couldn’t bring myself to say that, so I told him what a man bag is and said we would hunt around the mall until we found the perfect one for him. We hit up several stores and all the while I hoped he would become distracted by something else that I could use as a diversion. Maybe he would then choose on his own not to get a pocketbook.

But he was determined. I guided him away from the sequined evening bags, pointing out how they don’t have enough pockets. I reminded him that pink, silver, and yellow will not match most of his wardrobe so we should stick with black or brown. He finally settled on a black and gold mid-sized bag with front pockets, a back zipper, top zipper, and an inside zip pocket. He carried it up to the counter and proudly gave it to the cashier. She made some comment about how she thought he was carrying his mom’s pocketbook, and I thought, “So it begins.”

We asked her to cut the tags off because he wanted to use it right away. On the way out of the store he swung the bag high over his head and said, “Mom, when I become a soldier I am bringing this bag with me. I am going to fill it with rocks and BAM somebody with it.” Lol, that’s my boy.

Don't Try This At Home

Seriously, this trick is being performed by a professional. You will hurt yourself if you try to sleep like this.

The Worst Kind of Mistake

“A Florida OB-GYN who was supposed to abort a fetus with Down syndrome in a twin pregnancy but leave the normal one alone made the worst kind of mistake.”

I’ll bet you can guess what the oopsie was.

I must be really jaded about this issue because I snorted a half laugh and half humph after reading the article in the Miami Herald. I couldn’t help it. The sick irony of the whole situation sent me over the edge.

This couple wanted a child bad enough to hop through the in-vitro hoop, and they got twins out of it, a boy and a girl... two for the price of one. But, oh no, one was “not normal.” One had Down syndrome and was therefore scheduled to die.

But then uh oh, Mr. OB-GYN accidentally injected the wrong baby... and when you kill the wrong baby there is hell to pay. You can lose your license to practice medicine over such a mishap. The doctor felt really bad about it (not sure if “it” was losing his license or killing the wrong baby.) He said he was going to kill himself over it and ended up involuntarily hospitalized. (You can kill babies but not yourself, I guess.)

And what did the mom and dad learn from this mistake? If at first you don’t succeed, try try again. A week later they had the little guy with Ds injected and ended the whole nasty affair.

I feel sad that when it is all said and done, the worst kind of mistake means something entirely different to me than how it was written in the article. And I feel sorry for that couple, sorry for them in ways I can’t even explain.

What She Saw There

"We showed up unannounced one day at the orphanage. All the children were in the big wooden playpen. They were all tied to the slots of the playpen so they couldn't move. No wonder they didn't want us to come in the room." - Jodi

They spend the first four years of their lives in these orphanages, then the rest of their lives in mental institutions.

It does not have to be that way.

Say It

I remember when I couldn’t say it without choking up. I couldn’t get it out without the heat rising inside of me... I couldn’t say it without feeling like I might crack wide open and my guts would fall out on the floor.

Maybe if she had been born with no heart complications, maybe if she had nursed from the start like a champ, maybe if I had been able to take her straight home to her beautiful nursery.

Maybe if someone had captured gorgeous pictures of her in fancy baby girl lace, instead of decked out in wounds, wires, and tubes...

Maybe if I could have convinced myself that she was a Rockstar, that she would be the One to break the mold, that she was going to be different... that she was more special than special. Maybe if all my friends and family had played along...

Maybe then I could have said it without shaking,

"My baby has Down syndrome."

But none of that matters anymore, because I can say it now. I can say it with ferocity. I can say it with dignity. I can say it with love.

But most importantly, I can say it with indifference.

In Today's Mail

Dear Mrs. Easter Bunny,

You’re so beautiful and sweet and smart. Your tail is the fluffiest tail I’ve ever seen, and I can tell looking at you that you really do love me, even when we fight. Your hair looks fantastic, even when you’ve just gotten out of bed. You don’t need makeup, you’re covering the most beautiful face under it.

And of course, your amazing cooking. You’re so creative with your food, your scrapbooking, it’s great. And I really do appreciate all the time you spend with and for me. Thank you, Easter bunny. You have given me more than candy could ever give me (but candy would still be nice).

Easter wish list
Gift card to the artist store, mp3 player, JellyBelly Jelly Beans, fancy leggings, Bic mechanical pencil, G2 07 pen, rubber bands, orange Cadbury eggs, and paper.

Love, TK.

(Lol, I love my teenager.)