And Then There Were Seven

Just to Cheer Me Up (Olivia)

2012-02-01T15:53:00.000-08:00

Today, I learned that when a Silvardo hits a Dodge Caravan, it isn't just the knee that ends up injured. My spine, which use to be a nice straight line of vertebrae, is no longer nice and straight. As a matter of fact, my lower spine is shifted to the right and it seems that I may also have a compressed disc. This, of course, explains my continued and not-easing lower back pain. My physical therapist has forbidden me from sitting for longer than 20 minutes at a time. He has also forbidden me from walking on the treadmill for longer than 15 minutes.

You see where this is heading, right?

Oh, yes, friends. All that hard work at The Stupid Get Healthy Plan, all the hard work at creating and maintaining a writing career has hit a road block (shaped suspiciously like a large pickup truck). For lack of a better word, it sucks.

Well meaning friends remind me often that I am very fortunate. I do have a beautiful new van :

And, I am very much alive.

I appreciate those blessings more than you can know.

But, the fact is, I am use to a very busy and active life, and it is driving me absolutely batty to be so limited. Also, constant back pain is very annoying. VERY. So, yes, I am very fortunate, but I am also frustrated and irritated and a little blue.

So, to cheer myself up, I am thinking of this little guy who has finally been matched with his family:

And all the other little ones that I have advocated for who now have families:

There are many more than that, and that really cheers my sour mood.

She also cheers my mood:

Olivia was born in December 2008. She is an absolute doll. She's had surgery for spina bifida and correction for club foot. Her smile makes my heart sing, and I just know that her family is out there somewhere. Maybe you are that family. Seriously, wouldn't you love to see that sweet sweet smile every day?

Since my twenty minutes of sitting is up, you can learn more about Olivia here.

It Is Far Better to Give Than Receive (But It Is Still Fun to Receive)

2012-01-29T07:22:00.000-08:00

Because of continued lower back and neck pain, I'm having to limit the time I spend at my computer.

Too bad, because I have a lot to say about the thing I got in the mail yesterday.

Not a box of books (although we all know how much that cheers me).

Just an envelope with this inside:

The hand print belongs to Jimmy.

I sponsor Jimmy for less money a month than it cost to buy my family one disgusting (yet, oddly tasty) meal at McDonald's. I figure the amount I'm paying a day is the equivalent of less than what most of my friends pay for their coffee fixes (not pointing any fingers or anything).

Now, I'm not one to use guilt as a motivator, so I'm simply going to say that it is far better to give than to receive, but getting that little postcard sure did feel nice. It felt like a million bucks, and that makes my sponsorship and the good it will do this young man who will never have a mother or father's love well worth it.

If you're interested, you can help a kid like Jimmy. Just look at these precious faces and tell me that it isn't worth giving up that disgusting (yet, oddly tasty meal at McDonald's) or a few cups of coffee a week.

Stretching

2012-01-25T08:19:00.000-08:00

Sassy stretches every day. Even though she is like Gumby and apparently has no hip bones, she stretches.

She stretches, because right now, she is completely committed to dance, and she understands that she must build muscle and maintain her flexibility to be great at her chosen art form.

That commitment has forced Sassy to stretch in other ways. She is a kinesthetic learner and struggles with concepts presented verbally. When she listens, she hears only a jumble of words. She is active and impatient and often thinks she understands what is being said even when she doesn't. At ten years old, she is beginning to understand that about herself, and she has learned how to work beyond what others might perceive as limitations.

This year, her dance instructor told me that Sassy made a year's worth of progress in three months.

Looking at the horrible condition of Sassy's shoes, I can see how hard she's worked to achieve that.

She has thrown herself into dance with a passion that surprises, delights and challenges me.

This week, I have realized that there are times when I need to stretch, too. There are moments, when I sit content in my own little world doing my own thing, thinking that is enough because it feels good, and feeling good seems....right.

During the past 13 days, I have been forced to stretch in every area of my life. I've been forced to assess my heart attitude, my career and my relationships. It has been neither easy nor comfortable, but it has been good. I've realized that, like Sassy, being committed to the things I am passionate about means maintaining my strength and my flexibility. It means working within my strengths and my weaknesses. It means allowing me to be me while I challenge and push myself to be even more.

When it comes to stretching, we should all be doing a little of it every day, don't you think?

Love in a Pint-Sized Package

2012-01-21T08:25:00.000-08:00

Having a Silverado crash into the side of my mini van taught me a couple of very important things. One day, when I have more time and energy, I am going to share them.

The most important thing I learned, though, was that compassion is a verb. Sure, the dictionary calls it a noun, but, like love, it demands action and thrives off of service. True compassion stems from a deep wealth of emotion and spills out into deeds. I was on the receiving end of that several times this week and the warmth of it buoyed me up.

When it comes to compassion, the mere act of feeling it means nothing. So often, though, I have found myself feeling rather than doing. I have thought that someone else would or could or should do what must be done, and so, I have done nothing.

This week, I was also on the receiving end of that. It hurt. I'll just leave that at that.

The good thing about hurt is that we learn from it, and I have learned that waiting for others to do what I can leaves a cold dark void called apathy. To me, apathy is the opposite of compassion, and I have decided that compassion without action must be that.

This morning, I received an email about a little boy that I have advocated for several times. You may know him as Wesley or Jude or Jesse. I wasn't feeling all that great when I got the email, and I thought I would just wait until Wednesday to come up with a post about him. I spend a lot of time writing my Will You Wednesday posts, and I didn't want to take the time to do that on Saturday. Plus, Jesse is so sweet and cute and funny, I was sure that someone elses post would bring his family to him.

It occurred to me, though, that if my heart really hurts for this child, if I truly care about him not just as an orphan but as a little boy who smiles and laughs and cries and loves, than what I write about him will not matter nearly as much as the fact that I am writing it.

Jesse, you see, is a pint-sized package of love, and he is waiting for someone he can give that love to.

Maybe, he is waiting for you.

You can read all about Jesse here.

Feel free to contact me with any questions.

It Hurts to Move, But at Least I'm Moving

2012-01-13T09:50:00.000-08:00

So, yesterday was a great day because I lived through it. Sure, my van is totaled and my knee is wrecked and my neck and shoulders hurt every time I move, but I am alive.

Here is what it looks like when a Chevy Silverado runs a red light and hits a Dodge Minivan:

And, here is what a knee that gets crushed when a Silverado runs a red light and collides with a minivan looks like:

Yeah. It hurts, but it's not broken, the kids weren't in the van, and I'm alive, so yesterday was a very, very good day.

Your righteousness, God, reaches to the heavens,
   you who have done great things.
   Who is like you, God?
Though you have made me see troubles,
   many and bitter,
   you will restore my life again;
from the depths of the earth
   you will again bring me up.
You will increase my honor
   and comfort me once more.
I will praise you with the harp
   for your faithfulness, my God;
I will sing praise to you with the lyre,
   Holy One of Israel.
My lips will shout for joy
   when I sing praise to you—
   I whom you have delivered. (Pslam 71:19-22)
Gotta scoot, sitting at the computer hurts.

Count your blessings, friends!

Will You Wednesday on Thursday: William Again

2012-01-12T09:24:00.000-08:00

It is the beginning of 2012, and I am thinking about William. I've advocated for him many times, because he seems like such a sweet and sensible kid with just a hint of dreams in his eyes. This year, he turns 12. Born in June 2000, he was brought to the orphanage in August 2001. Obviously, he knew a mother and father's love during that first year of his life. I imagine his family could not afford the treatment necessary to correct his bilateral clubfoot, though I can't know for sure.

Since he entered care, William's feet have been corrected, and he can now run and jump and play like his peers. He's been in a foster home since 2005, and he attends school. His teachers report that William is a good problem solver and communicator. He is an excellent student who gets along well with his peers and with the adults in his life. There is nothing that is not wonderful about this young man.

Just imagine how far he will go, how much he will grow with a family's love and support. Wrapped in the confidence and security that having a mother and father provides, William has the potential to become anything, to be anyone. Though William is Hep B positive, his health is excellent. A contact person for the Hepatitis B foundation reviewed William's file and said, "Most children who are chronically infected with hepatitis B can expect to live a long and healthy life. Hepatitis B is a chronic condition, not a life-threatening disease."

You can read her letter in its entirety here: William

Surely there is someone somewhere who has room in her heart and home for this handsome and accomplished little boy. And, really, that is what he is. Not an almost teen or tween. He is a child who longs for the same thing that every child desires. All he needs is someone willing to accept him as he is for who he is at the age he is. All he needs is someone willing to offer home and family and love. Will you?

William is currently on the shared list. WACAP is offering a $4200 grant for an interested family that works through their agency. You can read more about William and watch a wonderful video featuring him here.

Feel free to email me with any questions.

When You're Lost in the Desert it's Okay to Eat Bugs

2012-01-07T10:11:00.000-08:00

Last night, I just happened to check my email at a time when I normally don't. When I realized that an email I'd sent to my agent had bounced back, it just so happened that I logged onto Facebook to ~~stalk~~ check her status.

It also just so happened that while I was on Facebook someone posted a question about the pros and cons of dishwashers. Now, being a woman who fills the sink with sudsy water and scrubs dishes while contemplating life, books and the view outside my kitchen window, I'm all for handwashing dishes. Of course, I had to give my (very unpopular) two cents on the subject.

It just so happened that while I did that, I noticed another friend posting about her aching back and her son and the hospital.

"Hospital?" I said to myself. "What in the world is Mom of Many doing at the hospital?"

So, of course, I checked her status and realized that her 10 month old had been admitted to the hospital.

Now, you have to understand, Mom of Many and I are kind of....on-line friends. Our girls were in a homeschool class together, but I opted out of co-op this year. Too much other stuff and the benefits did not outweigh the stress. So, MOM and I have sort of kind of kept in touch through email and blog and facebook, but we haven't actually seen or spoken to each other in over a year even though we live five miles from each other.

Sad, right?

Pitiful, right?

But, there it is. The truth of hectic life and flying time.

So, there she was at the hospital with her son, her hubby sick at home and her back aching, and I was just sort of...sitting, so I asked myself, "Shirlee, why shouldn't you go to the hospital and hold that baby for a while?"

And, it just so happened that I couldn't think of even one reason that I shouldn't.

So, off I went.

I'm not sure if MOM was surprised to see me, but I was surprised to walk into her son's hospital room and find that she and little JJ were alone. She and her husband are in ministry, and I had just assumed that people would be ministering to them.

So, it was just me and MOM and JJ who was fussy and very discontent. I suggested that we take him for a walk, and I held him while MOM rolled his IV. I kept kicking the base of the IV with my foot as we walked, but eventually MOM and I got into the swing (or roll) of things.

I stayed at the hospital for a couple of hours, and I got to watch as JJ became a little more content and started to smile and play. I also got to listen to MOM talk about her year and the challenges she has faced as a mother. JJ has had issues. Some diagnosed and some not. Between that and caring for the needs of her other children, she has been worn down and wrung out. I often think of that place in my life, that point where I am beyond what I think I can handle, where every little trial becomes another pebble on the pile of rocks pressing me down, as a deep and empty well. When I am there, it is only me and the darkness and a desperate need to find a way up to that tiny little pinprick of light at the top.

MOM describes it as a desert, and I think that description is spot-on. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I have walked through the dry and barren land a time or two.

Sometimes, I watch those survival shows on t.v. You know the ones, right? And, I think, "No way would I EVER eat THAT."

But, out in the desert and all alone, I think that my idea of edible might change. Out there, I think that an ant or a centipede or a tarantula would look mighty appealing. Lost in the desert, with nothing but me and the stark beauty of the landscape, I'd be keen to eat bugs or squeeze out camel dung to get a drink of water.

And, having eaten those bugs and sipped from that dung, I think I would never again turn up my nose at a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a cup of tap water.

I guess that is the blessing of the desert sojourn. It allows us to appreciate the mundane and find joy in the everyday. Having survived the sun's scorching heat and night's life-sapping chill, we walk back into our lives and wrap ourselves in the simple pleasure of just being alive with the people we love.

And, Still it Hurts

2012-01-05T13:08:00.000-08:00

Funny how life is. One minute, you're cruising along thinking about nothing more than the pain in your popped knee and the proposal due in two weeks, and the next, wham! You're reminded that life wasn't always the way it is. That back then, before her things, were different.

At least, that's the way it happened for me.

In my effort to move beyond being an adoptive family and into being just a family, I spent the majority of last year focusing on what is rather than what was.

It seemed that was what Cheeky needed.

To just be. With me and my husbands and her siblings.

To just, for a while, be that kid from that family rather than that adopted kid from that family who adopted her.

She is not a pity case, after all, Not a case study or a statistics. She is my much loved daughter, my treasure, my heart, and I was tired of hearing the endless comments about how lucky she was or how lucky we were or how wonderful it was that she finally had a home.

I just wanted her to be for a while.

And, so I told her story in the privacy of our home, and I continue to do so, because birth Mom and Dad and China mom and Dad and family will always be a big part of who my daughter is. In public, though, I do not offer much information. I answer questions if they're asked, but I don't offer, because Cheeky is my daughter first, last and only. The fact that we adopted her does not matter in my everyday conversations. There is no her and them. No adopted or bio. There are just my kids.

So, I cruised along, letting Cheeky take the lead on when to share and when to not, and time passed and maybe I forgot how much was lost for my gain.

Today, I received an email from a representative at an adoption agency who wanted to repost this.

I had to click on the post to remember what it was about, and when I read it, I felt this moment of understanding, this minute of knowing that all the going on and cruising along, all the growing up that Cheeky has done and that my other kids have done and that I have done, none of that has touched birth mom or dad or China family.

While we grow closer, they grow more distant.

As my arms and my love wrap Cheeky ever more firmly in this family, her other family's grip becomes weaker. She is losing that part of who she is. She is becoming mine, and in being that, she must cease to be theirs.

And, man, it hurts to know that.

Tell me all you want that she is better off in our home, say that her opportunities are limitless now that she has a legal family to call her own.

But, I am not just her legal family, I am her mom.

Her mom.

My gain has been their loss.

And no matter how much it hurts to remember that, I don't ever ever want to forget it.

I Know What You're Thinking (or:Yes, I'm Crazy)

2011-12-29T09:05:00.000-08:00

Okay.

So, I had this thought right before Christmas break.

I was thinking how sad it was that one of the ten-year-olds from ballet would be spending her break at home alone with her older brother while her mom worked, and I was thinking that it would be nice if I could have her over to our house at least once. Just to....you know....give her a change of environment.

Generally, speaking, I think about doing a lot of things, and then, I don't do them. I am the queen of good intentions, often getting caught up in stuff and forgetting that I want to have a friend over, host a paint ball party for the boys, make some banana bread for the neighbor, or (pick one of a million things that run through my mind on any given day).

So, I thought about having this little girl over, because I really like her mom and I really like the little girl. They moved here from China about six months before Cheeky arrived, and Hong/Mom has always been so sweet and loving to my daughter, always so helpful and kind.

Plus, Hong makes really, really, REALLY yummy spicy noodles.

I have good reason to know this, because Hong is a single parent. Both her kids are involved in activities and it is sometimes difficult for her to coordinate pickups and drop offs. Once in a great while she has honored me by allowing me to drive her daughter home from ballet while she picked her son up from swim team. This was after much begging on my part, Please, let me help you if you need it. You live five minutes from my house and I pass your place on my way home.

She didn't want to put me out, you see. She is that kind of person. But, a couple of times, she's really needed a ride for her daughter, so I drove her sweet girl home. The second time, I did this, I was rewarded with noodles.

Noodles.

Sigh.

Cheeky loves them. She would eat them morning, noon and night. The entire family loves them. Michelle's entire family loves them.

So, anyway, there I was at ballet, my belly rumbling for noodles that were out in my car, and I had this thought that I should invite Hong's daughter over during the break, and instead of doing my typical think and dismiss, I thought and did.

And, then my mouth...it just kept opening and I just kept doing.

Next thing I knew, I'd invited eight girls over to my house to make flowers to wear with their ballet buns. Invited them for the Wednesday after Christmas no less, AND invited several of their brothers to come hang out with my sons.

At this point, you're probably thinking, "Shirlee, you are nuts. No woman in her right mind would EVER have a bunch of kids over to her house to make complicated hair pieces right after Christmas."

Obviously, you are right.

Obviously, I am nuts.

And that is exactly what I was thinking right around Monday of this week.

I mean, my house was in a state of chaos what with Christmas and deadlines and just pure laziness on my part. I was exhausted, too (probably for the same exact reasons).

Plus, I had thought a lot about trying to make one of the hair pieces that I found online instructions for, but I hadn't even bought the supplies.

Tuesday, I spent quite a few hours buying materials and creating prototypes. I printed out patterns for the petals and cleaned my house. I thanked God for the fact that my dear friends Leticia and Susie (who is also going to be my jazz instructor come Tuesday of next week. Oh, yes, people, I'm taking jazz classes) had offered to come and help.

I woke yesterday morning absolutely certain that I had been an idiot for planning this thing. This get together. This meeting of the ballet girls and hanging out of the brothers.

Absolutely certain.

Then, the girls and brothers and moms began to arrive. My friend Michelle showed up with her ballet daughter Natalie...such a wonderful and happy surprise.

And, we all just went to work, tracing and cutting and enjoying these moments of friendship and laughter.

It's true, flowers were made.

And a few adult fingers were singed.

And pizza and noodles and cookies were eaten.

But even more true, even more lasting were the memories we made together. Me and my kids and their friends and my friends, all of us just enjoying the crazy zaniness of being in one place at one time doing this thing together.

At one point, one of the ladies said, "Memories are all we really have."

I think that she is just exactly right.

What I Learned this Christmas

2011-12-27T08:50:00.000-08:00

I learned a few things this Christmas.

First, given enough motivation, teenagers can and will rise at the crack of dawn (or, even, before it).

I also learned that, given the right motivation, girls can be dressed and coiffed and ready, hair and teeth brushed and big smiles on their faces despite the darkness outside.

I learned that what they love will always be what they love.

That the young man who has always been good at and committed to physical activity will be more enamoured of his new elbow guards than his new books.

That the one who loves to learn and to study and to read and to imagine will be just as happy to read a new book as he will be to open another gift.

That the kid who must always have his hands and mind busy will carefully organize his things before deciding which item to build first.

That my lovely dancer will always be dancing. Even when she is simply sitting.

And my sweet girly girl will always love sweet girly things even when she is trying hard to emulate her older sister's more mature taste.

This Christmas I learned that it really is not the gifts that matter most to my family, but the thoughts behind them.

That what I have perceived as a thing....a doll or book or item of clothing...is proof positive to my family that I have listened and engaged and learned about them.

At church on Sunday our pastor said that it is possible to know someone but not really know him. To really know a person we must spend time learning them. We must ask and seek and strive to uncover all the deepest parts of their hearts.

So, redundant, right? Something that we have heard over and over again in our lives.

And, yet, I keep going back to that simple truth.

In this age of distraction, it is easy to touch base quickly and on the most basic of levels and to believe that that is enough. Recently, I've been intrigued and appalled by television advertisements. Most specifically the ones for the new Wii gaming system. If you watch television, you may know the ones I'm referring to. In them, family members are engaged in sports the way they are supposed to be played. By this, the advertiser must mean that all sports are meant to be played in front of the television, side by side rather than face to face, jumping on the floor rather than on the grass or field or court. I'm sure that most people watching those commercials think, "How fun!" or "How stupid!"

I think, "How lonely. How sad."

If we really want our kids to be active, should we be standing them in front of a television screen with a game remote in their hands? If we really want to spend time with them, shouldn't we spend time talking and laughing and looking in their eyes?

I have a friend who quit facebook a few months ago. She said that she wanted real relationships. Face to face, voice to voice, heart to heart relationships (my words, but her ideas). She wanted to know the people she cared about. Really know them. Not just snippets of their lives or thoughts.

I think this is why Michelle and I are friends. Aside from the fact that we share the magic bench at the ballet studio, we yearn deeply for heart connections.

I think that is a yearning that most people share. Sometimes, though, sometimes the heart gets lost in the busyness of modern life.

This Christmas I learned a few things, but mostly I was reminded of a simple Biblical truth - love begets love and what we pour out is often poured back on us. Whether it be kindness or apathy, generosity or greed, it will be returned in its own good time and when it does, we will reap what we have sown.

May your new year be filled with opportunities to sow the seeds of joy and love!

The Thing My Mother Taught Me

2011-12-22T08:48:00.000-08:00

My mom, being an exceptional mother, taught me many, many things that have helped me parent my children(Thanks, Mom!). There is, however, one lesson that I doubt she realizes she taught.

I remember tons of things about growing up. Being the kind of kid who never did my homework and skated by in school, I remember LOTS of things that remind me that kids are kids and that even kids who aren't straight A students and those who are maybe even straight C (or C/D...or...yeah, okay, I got a couple of Es. Shhhhh!) and those who are quirky and maybe even a little strange can actually turn into successful, well adjusted and happy adults (yes, I am, Michelle. So, you hush!).

But, that is not what my mother taught me.

Nope.

Most often, she would be sitting with friends watching us play tag or hide and seek when the lesson was taught. I always hated those games, so I'd find a place to sit and daydream, and I'd hear the mothers complaining about this kid or that one. School troubles, attitude troubles, troubles and more troubles. The way those moms told it, being a mother was the most horrible, exasperating job that they'd ever done.

Of course, if they weren't complaining, they were bragging. About straight As or honor roll or a special part in a school play.

My mom was often quiet during the complaint fest or the brag fest. Once in a while, though, she would say this thing that would stick in my heart. Just stick there. It is still there today. She would say, "I'm really fortunate. I have great kids."

Now, perhaps you see that and think, that's not bragging?

But, as the kid who'd just brought home a horrible report card or who'd gotten sent to my room for giving my mother an attitude or who'd forgotten to do her homework and had the teacher call home....well, to me, what that sounded like was love.

Unconditional without exception love.

Because, I heard the truth in my mother's voice. I heard that she truly, truly meant what she was saying. That despite the little annoying habits and attitudes and the troubles her kids caused, she actually thought we were great. Not just when we were clean and neat and tidy or pulling straight As on our report cards, but always.

And, that is the lesson I most value.

It is what I strive to teach my children. Not in sit down meetings or words, but in the things that I do and the way I act. No matter our struggles, I want my kids to know that I think they're great and that being their mother is the greatest and most wonderful job I will ever have.

It is our culture that says that being a mother is not enough aspiration. It is our society that tells us that we should apologize for being at home.

Me?

I rejoice in it.

It is only a season, after all. Though, I will always be their mother, I will only mother them for this time. What I show them and give them and impart to them, that shapes their futures and, thus, shapes our society's future. We are not, after all, autonomous. We are part of this greater whole. The cultural revolution had its purpose and did some wonderful things, but I see its one great failure in this, that it made motherhood a burden and a shackle. That, in turn, made children burdens and shackles. It is the lie of our modern era that women should be doing it all and doing it all well- working full time, raising perfect children, keeping a perfect house. Is it any wonder so many of us are stressed and unhappy?

But, perhaps that is a much larger topic than what I meant it to be!

BTW, we finished our cookie baking.

So much fun and mess!

Last batch of cookies? Cut outs, of course!

At first, they were clean and neat and precise:

And, then the sugar high kicked in:

And, creativity kicked in:

And the mess happened:

And the angst of broken cut outs:

But the smiles made it all worthwhile!

And, the kids made it all worthwhile:

Of course, The Professor remained my neat and tidy kid:

And, The Musician tried to lead him to the dark side:

And, Cheeky just beamed with joy because we were doing this together, and that is the best thing of all!

Mission accomplished! Cookies packed and ready to be delivered to the neighbors.

The Musician carries the kazoo. Sassy and The Architect are entrusted with the cookies. And The Professor is the one I entrust Cheeky to. I know I can count on him to hold her hand the entire trip to the next door neighbors and back.

Please notice the pink near The Professor's coat. Yep. He's already clutching her hand.

If only I could trust him to remember to close the door!

May you all enjoy the richness of family this Christmas!

This is What I'm Thinking (or, Where Did Thanksgiving Go?)

2011-12-20T06:14:00.000-08:00

It's 4 (a.m, in case you're wondering) and pitch black outside. My kids and hubby are tucked in their beds, and I am thinking that Christmas is only a few days away. We've had a busy few weeks with many activities and appointments. I think we're all tired and ready for a quiet week of Christmas prep. Today is cookie baking day, and I'm looking forward to it as much as the kids are.

I love the time I get to spend focusing completely on just being with the people I love most. At home, we celebrate as my family always has, and there is something comforting about that. I know that Cheeky feels it. She is caught up in the holiday tradition, reminding me often, perhaps even excessively, about what we did last year and the year before, counting out loud the number of Christmases we have spent as a family.

There are traditions that my other children are ready to say goodbye to, but that I continue for Cheeky's sake. The other four have become more focused on the moments of the Christmas season. For them, the gifts have become secondary. That is not to say that they don't LOVE getting presents, but over time, they have come to realize that what they love more is just being a family and together. My boys, who a few years ago were more interested in eating cookies than baking them, are gungho for the tradition now. I see in my sixteen-year-old that he senses time passing, and that he is enjoying these last few years of being part of this before he moves to what comes next.

This is as it should be.

I feel time passing, too, and I want to hold on as much as I am eager to let my kids fly. That is the paradox of being a mother, I think.That we rejoice with each stage and each milestone even as we mourn what we will not have again.

I was thinking this as Thanksgiving approached, remembering a time when no stores dared open on Thanksgiving Day. People stayed home, cooking and eating and cleaning and eating some more. There was no last minute run to get cranberry sauce, because there was nowhere to run to buy it. Then, Thanksgiving existed as a day to spend time with those we loved, giving thanks for all that we had.

Now, Thanksgiving is lost in the shuffle between Halloween and Christmas.

I was in Walmart in October and saw Christmas decorations on one aisle and costumes on another. How ironic that both celebrations seem to be centered around getting. Candy. Presents. Something for nothing.

Thanksgiving, the one day of the year devoted exclusively to being thankful has become simply the day before Black Friday. As a matter of fact, I'd venture to say that many people spend as much time plotting their black Friday spending spree as they do their Thanksgiving feast.

It has occurred to me that Thanksgiving has diminished in importance as the the word holiday has hammered its way into our collective consciousness and become our catchphrase for what should be the most holy day of the year.

We do not, as a country, celebrate Christmas the way it was once celebrated. Now, we celebrate the holiday. So fearful are we of offending one group or another, that we have taken something magnificent and beautiful and made it into something mundane and generic. Worse, we have turned it into a commercial enterprise.

When I hear that there are mobs of people fighting for toys and electronics in the wee hours of Black Friday morning, that a man died on the floor of a store while shoppers milled around him, that a woman used pepper spray on fellow shoppers, I am not surprised. In a culture that says it is okay to use offensive language in every day conversation, but that frowns on using the word Christmas to refer to Christmas, those incidents are simply a symptom of the disease.

I'll leave it up to you to decide what that disease is.

Me? I am going to spend the day baking cookies with my kids, playing Christmas carols on the radio (yep, we still have one) and singing along loudly while my boys cover their ears and my girls giggle. After all, there is quite a bit to be said for tradition!

26

2011-12-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

That is the number of books I have sold to Harlequin.

Yep. I got a new contract. Cool, right?

Even cooler, I'm working on a continuity that is about a K-9 unit!

Even cooler than that, the dog that is going to be featured in my book is a bloodhound named Justice.

What's the hero's name, you ask?

I have no idea.

The heroine's?

Nope. Can't recall.

But, the dog?

Yeah, I've got his name down pat.

Hehehehehehe.

I have tons to say. Mostly about Cheeky and her new glasses and her pulled tooth and her excitement over Christmas. Alas, I have yet another eye doctor appointment to take a kid to. I have made twelve visits to the eye doctor or dentist in the the past 16 days. I kid you not.

No worries, though. All those visits weren't for Cheeky.

Hope you're all enjoying this wonderful Christmas season!

Home For Christmas

2011-12-09T08:17:00.001-08:00

Christmas is more than shopping and gifts. More than mistletoe and wreaths and decorated trees. Christmas is love in its purest form.

For God so loved the world that He gave His only son....

Still, it is easy to get caught up in the frivolity. To think more about what I am buying and for whom than to think about why this time is so special.

So, I'll rush around from here to there, buying and baking and preparing, completely caught up in all the excitement of the holiday rush, and then....something will happen, and I will be swept back to the very core of Christmas.

Love.

It happened to me this morning as I checked my emails.

Months and months ago, a woman contacted me about her son's foster brother. She asked if I could find him. I was able to locate him on the shared list, and together we began advocating hard for him. There was never a doubt that this young man was special. My only doubt was that someone would step forward to offer him the family he deserved. I prayed and prayed for this boy. He had that strong of a hold on my heart.

Today, I am happy to say that Hudson is home for Christmas. After ten years of waiting, after seeing his friends join families, after all that time without, he has what every kid deserves. Family. Home.

Love.

Please join me in congratulating Hudson and his family.

http://lifeattaylorridge.blogspot.com/

Their blog will be going private again soon, so make sure to ask for permission to follow along if you're interested.

(Happily) Forever After

2011-12-05T13:47:00.001-08:00

I'm supposed to be writing. I am also supposed to be cleaning my kitchen and doing laundry.

Instead, I am at my computer.

The Musician is playing Christmas music on the piano, and I am getting into the spirit of the season. Meaning, I would much rather be baking cookies than working. I would also rather be eating cookies!

Last night, I went to a restore and retreat yoga class which involved such things as soft music, dim light and space heaters. While I was lying in a position called the dead frog (or maybe it was the fluffy corpse), I had an epiphany. See, yoga lady was saying that we should keep our eyes closed as we transitioned into the next position so as not to allow our thoughts to wander to all the things in life that cause us stress and distress. Hearing her say that made me do the unthinkable....open my eyes.

So, there I was, lying in the aforementioned position, getting ready to transition to some other equally unfortunate position and my mind was wandering and so was my gaze. There were eight or nine other people in the room, and they were all lying very obediently...palms up and eyes closed. They did, indeed, look rather like corpses.

And, that's when it occurred to me that I do not want to be removed from all the things that annoy, distress and stress me, because those things are the things that matter most, and the only time I would not want to have those things is if I were...well...a corpse.

Which, thankfully, I am not.

Why was I thinking this, you might ask?

Well, aside from the fact that I opened my eyes and ruined my momentary separation from this realm, I heard some wonderful news at church, yesterday, and I'd been thinking about it all day.

See, about six months after Cheeky joined our family, our church friends Janet and Steve took in two foster kids. C and S had been through a lot. Way more than any kid should. C, a girl and closing in on 13, had the most to deal with, but S, a boy of 9, also had struggles. They needed people like Janet and Steve in their lives. Two people who'd already raised four kids to adulthood, who knew about teenage angst and moodiness and all the things that come with growing up.

From the very beginning, Janet and Steve planned to make these kids theirs. Both children were already legally free to be adopted, and Janet and Steve had the love and commitment to give them the family they needed. I've watched as C and S have transitioned into a real family. A family that cared more about them than the money the foster system paid. A family that wanted school work done and healthy food eaten and emotions discussed.

Transitions like this, they don't happen easily. They don't happen over night. They don't happen just because they should. They happen because a commitment is made to make them happen.

On Thursday of last week, C and S spent their last morning as foster kids. They ate their last breakfast as foster kids. Then, they went to court and stood in front of a judge and became the thing that they hadn't been for a very long time - children with parents. Not foster or transitional or for-today-parents, either. Legal...you are mine forever parents.

There are wonderful foster parents out there. I know several, and I admire them deeply, but there is something about that legal connection that comes when a child is adopted that matters to these kids. Maybe you don't believe it. Maybe you think kids don't understand the difference between fostered and adopted, but I have seen that knowledge in the eyes of C and S, and I have seen it in Cheeky's eyes.

For many years, she was a foster child. Now she is my child. My husband's child. Ours completely and without reservation. She feels that deeply. To her, this family has become different than the family she had before. She feels the bond that grows every day with every word and deed and smile. She knows that we pledged our hearts to her on June 22, 2009, and so, she has pledged her heart to us. It has been an easy road so far. Very easy, because Cheeky is an easy girl, but we are not living a fairytale. There will be no perfect happily-ever-after. There will be moments when we will struggle. Cheeky or me or The Man or any one of the other kids. There are bound to be disappointments and heartaches in the future.

But, man, I'd rather live a thousand trials with my kids and husband than one moment without them.

That, then, is the epiphany I had while lying in dead fluffy frog position with my eyes open and my mind full. Happily-ever-afters are great in books, but forever after is what matters most. Committment and love and joy in the trials. That is the heart of every family.

Congratulations, Janet and Steve and kids. I am so very very happy for you!

My Rather Cruddy Morning

2011-11-21T08:29:00.001-08:00

I was going to say 'sucky', but I wouldn't want to offend.

My morning started out with a MIGRAINE. I love getting up at 2 with a splitting headache that makes me want to vomit.

Do I sound bitter?

Anyway, I took some meds and felt slightly better, so I turned on my computer and checked my email. A reader had sent me a note about my January book. She was not happy that I didn't address certain subplots. I'm not sure if she didn't understand that the book was part of a continuity or if she simply felt that I should have expanded my book's plots. Whatever the case, she was not happy. Which made me quite unhappy. I really hate disappointing people.

I sent a reply and then realized that my agent had gotten back to me on a women's fiction project I'm working on. Oh my. My, my, my.

Her email went something like this - This is incredibly poignant and moves at a great pace BUT you're doing a few things that make it read category. We need to address those things.

She, then, proceeded to address them. Just three little things, but.....

Ouch!

Because, I really hate to disappoint people.

Thick skin, people. Thick skin. That's what I've always said about being in this business. An author has to have it.

Only this morning?

My skin feels rather thin.

What with the reader and the agent and my habit of writing category even when I'm not.

Who cares about poignant and beauty and great conflict? I can write as beautifully and well crafted a book as I want, but if it reads category it's not going to sell in the women's fiction market.

So, I have to go back in and rework. Which is all part of the process. But, when you still have a migraine and have to head of to bodypump and drive in the snow and have bruises on your knees from bootcamp class and have a reader who has told you she 'resented' every moment that she spent not experiencing certain things in your book....

Well, then, you are having a sucky morning.

As am I.

So, just to cheer myself up:

And, just as a reminder:

Not that I'm discouraged or anything.

Ha!

Holes (or: What They Missed)

2011-11-18T07:43:00.001-08:00

A few days ago, I received a Facebook comment from a friend of mine. She and her husband were in our travel group. They adopted a sibling group. Two beautiful kids. A boy and a girl. The girl was 9 when they met. Nancy's Facebook comment was public, so I don't think she'll mind if I share a little here. She said her daughter is struggling with math. Specifically, she seems very able to spout memorized facts, but has difficulty understanding math concepts. As a matter of fact, Nancy is worried that her daughter will not ever go beyond math facts. There are a few other issues which I will not mention here. If you're interested, you can read the entire comment on my Facebook page.

I responded privately. Mostly because I had a lot to say on the issue. When do I not?

See, I've noticed a very similar issue with Cheeky. She has holes. Big holes. Gaping holes. She is smart as a whip. No doubt about that. Quick. Bright. Funny. Fun. she picks up social concepts, English concepts, language, reading, writing...ALL of it easily.

But with math.

Math....

Sigh.

Yeah. She has the facts and has had them since before she met me.

What she did not have and is slowly getting is number sense.

It was a strange thing to realize that the little girl who, at seven, could easily recite all her addition and subtraction number families could not as easily tell me that 7 + 2 and 2+7 were the same thing. She had no clue. None at all. I'd ask her, show her, tell her and she'd stare and me blankly. She was so scared to be wrong and so sure she would be that she would guess (and still does), giving me random answers that made absolutely no sense at all.

I was stumped.

Here I had this bright and vivacious kid who simply had no commonsense when it came to numbers.

I spent a couple of months thinking on this. I'm sure there is tons of research on the subject, but I was six months home from China, and I was drowning in work and homeschool and just trying to keep my head above water. I didn't have time to think about research. I only had time for my kid.

One day, I sat at the table with Cheeky. We were discussing how many apples were left in the bag of apples we'd bought. I said something along the lines of...."We bought six apples. You ate 2 of them. How many are left?" She very quickly responded with something along the lines of 'ten'.

See?

So, I wrote the problem for her. 6-2. She immediately gave me the correct answer.

I thought. "Wow. This kid has some major holes in her math knowledge. She doesn't even understand that math is for real life."

I started thinking back over my other kids' baby and toddler years. I thought of all the trips to the grocery store, the careful counting of produce, the making of cookies and the counting that went with that. The touching and manipulating of things rather than numbers. Then, I thought about Cheeky at three, sitting in that corner of the orphanage, alone and neglected. I thought about her misshapen head and the way I could never get her pigtails straight because one side of her head is flat from all those hours and hours she spent in a crib. Alone.

No trips to the grocery store.

No mommy saying, "Two more bites. One more bite. All done!"

Of course there were holes.

Since then, I have been working to fill them. I'm not sure I can ever shovel in enough to make up for what she didn't have, but I slowly see that the holes are shallowing out, her understanding of numbers beginning to fill in those blank and empty spots. How far she will go, I can not say, but I do know that I'm not worrying like I used to. Now, her wrong answers make sense. I can see where her mistakes came from. She seems to be able to reason out things that she could not reason before.

Progress.

Slow, but steady.

Over days and weeks and months of just being her mom.

It's amazing how something as simple as going back to the beginning, accepting that I was starting from scratch, that she was a literal infant in this one area changed me.

Yes.

Me.

A few post back, I said that Cheeky has made me softer and more patient.

It is true.

Last weekend, the men were away for Friday and Saturday.

We had a girl's day, making pies and doing nails.

Sassy, of course, was an old hand at all of it. So confident and helpful.

At ten, she is able to double recipes without help. She understands how to add fractions of cups or teaspoons. She can measure easily and accurately. That is what ten years of having a mom will do.

Cheeky, on the other hand, is still at the beginning stages of kitchen work. At nine years old, she doesn't quite get what doubling a recipe means, has no clue what 2/3 cup plus 2/3 cups will be. She is messy and clumsy as she works with me. Just like Sassy was five or six years ago.

That is what two years of having a mommy will do for you.

And, I am content with that.

Content to just let my cheeky girl be Cheeky. Let her grow in her time and in her way. If I must remind myself a million times that she has not had what my other kids had, then so be it. She deserves nothing less than all I can give...time to grow and develop and become whoever it is she will be.

I grow, too.

Knowing that this girl will one day look back on the time we spent building math sense and family sense and love. I can only hope she will remember it fondly and know how deeply I tried to give her all those things she missed.

Getting the Pointe (Or: the Thing I Will Not Say)

2011-11-12T04:08:00.001-08:00

As we all know, Sassy fell in love with dance a the ripe old age of 7. She walked into Ms. Kristen's dance studio, took her first ballet class and, right there and then, decided to give up gymnastics for her new passion. I thought it was quite cute and very appropriate (not to mention a lot less dangerous than gymnastics) for my very dramatic daughter. Over the past three years, my daughter has progressed from this:

To this:

Now, before this whole dance thing began, I had no idea there was such a thing as 'facility' for dance. Nor did I know that there were such things as 'good' feet and 'bad' feet. Ms. Kristen, however, knew. She was happy to impart this knowledge on me. The first year of Sassy illustrious dance career, I was in Ms. Kristen's office quite a few times. I heard words like...."great facility", "that special spark", "lots of talent"..... paired with words like..."lack of focus", "needs to stop running to the barre", "if she'll just let me teach her to dance in the box", "needs to stretch her feet every day for the next three or four years."

Who knew, right?

I certainly didn't. I seriously had no idea that ballet would become so well...serious....so quickly.

But, it did.

And, Ms. Sassy had to make a choice. She was either going to be serious about ballet or she was not. After all, we can't make such choices for our kids. So, me and Sassy, we had a come to Jesus meeting wherein I told my then 8-year-old that she either wanted to dance or she wanted to play. If she wanted to play, I would happily take her to the playground, but I was not going to take her to dance.

Sassy decided to dance.

That meant focus and it also meant feet stretching which Ms. Kristen showed both Sassy and me how to do. Yes, people, I actually took lessons on how to appropriately stretch my daughter's feet. Sigh.

Last year, Sassy and I had another meeting. Sassy, I said, you are old enough to stretch your own feet without being reminded. If you're really as passionate about dance as you say, then you will take on that responsibility.

To my great surprise and unbelievable pride (that's okay, right, to take pride in our kids?), Sassy spent the entire year stretching her feet every single day without fail. By the end of the year, Ms. Kristen was using her as an example of how the correct stretching of feet could bring bad feet to pointe-ready feet.

And, so....as you all also know....a month ago, Sassy was fitted with her first pair of pointe shoes. Seeing her in them took my breath away. She looked so beautiful, but it wasn't that that left me breathless. It was knowing that my goofy, silly, do-it-my-own-way, drama queen had become this graceful, controlled young lady:

At least....most of the time:

So, over the past month, Sassy and her ballet buddies have had pointe shoe workshops as Ms. Kristen readied them for their very first pointe class. They had one class that was simply for making sure the shoes were properly fitted. Then....

They learned to sew elastics and ribbons (which they are required to do on their own):

They learned to tie ribbons:

Finally, they were ready for their first pointe class.

Remember what I said about Sassy being full of drama?

She was past ready for pointe class #1 and so excited that she dusted herself with glitter and then brought the glitter to the studio and bedazzled all the girls in pointe class and all the girls in prepointe class.

My dear friend Michelle wanted to get in on the pointe class, but, alas, Ms, Kristen has yet to acknowledge her gorgeous ballet feet and inate ballet abilities.

Finally, the girls put on their pointe shoes and walked into the studio. I could feel the excitement in the air. Actually....I was pretty excited, too! I was also relieved to see that Sassy had no trouble getting up on pointe or getting over her box. As a matter of fact, you'd never know the kid has troubled feet. I guess all those years of proper stretching paid off.

At the end of the class, the girls were given certificates and introduced as the pointe class of 2011.

They were then made to solemnly promise to not ever wear their pointe shoes at home.....not even for 5 seconds.

Great times, people. Great times! Sigh.

The thing is, as this whole process was playing out, another little girl was watching. A little girl who also fell in love with ballet at the ripe old age of seven.

This child took her first ballet class two months after joining our family. I was very sure that she would not be successful, because the child could not balance, she could not skip, she could not stand on one foot. She had depth perception issues. She couldn't even speak English.

I said none of this to darling Cheeky, because she had seen a photo of Sassy with her hair in a bun and had decided that her big American sister was a dancer and that she would be a dancer, too. That was before we met. When we met, she told an interpreter that her sister in America was a dancer and that she wanted to take dance lessons.

Kristen was gracious enough to allow Cheeky to enter the studio in a pre-ballet level. The girls in the class were two years younger than Cheeky, and they all seemed so much more physically able than she was. I was afraid Cheeky would never catch up, but I kept my thoughts to myself, because I did not want to put what I perceived as her limits onto Cheeky.

For two years and three months, I have watched my girls grow as dancers. Where Sassy has always had grace and often lacked focus, Cheeky is the opposite. They are like different sides of the same coin, my girls. One passionate and fiery and dramatic. The other driven and determined and focused. Both completely, completely in love with dance.

Sometimes, I worry about that.

Because, Cheeky may have limits when it comes to ballet. She is learning grace and is so much stronger than she used to be. As a matter of fact, she has progressed more than any girl in her group. Still, I've spent the past month watching her watch Sassy.

I know that she is dreaming about the day she will go on pointe, and I don't know if that will ever happen for her. Because of her depth perception problems, it may be too dangerous.

But, maybe not.

Only time will tell, so I will never say, "No, you can't. No, you won't. No, it will not happen."

Because, maybe she can. Maybe, she will. Maybe, it might.

After all, I never told Sassy that her feet weren't good enough for pointe. I told her she had to work hard on them. I never told her that she wasn't focused enough for ballet. I told her that she had to learn to be focused. I didn't tell her what she couldn't do, I told her what she must.

Can I do anything less for Cheeky?

So, when the question comes, as I know it will - Mom, when will I go on pointe?

I will not say - Probably never.

I will tell the truth - I don't know, but just keep focusing, keep being determined, keep dancing and eventually maybe you will.

After all, part of being a mother is teaching our children that it is not the final destination that counts. It is the the knowledge they gain, the joy they experience, the fun they have on the journey that matters most.

Christmas Traditions

2011-11-04T18:11:00.000-07:00

It's a little early, but my editor asked me to share my favorite Christmas tradition here. Writing the blog post reminded me of how much more special every tradition is with Cheeky in it. She has brought a sense of awe back into the holidays, and I love that.

I can't imagine what life would be like without her. I can barely remember a time when she wasn't mine. There is something wonderful about that and something even more wonderful about feeling my heart go soft when I see her dancing an awkward jig to some tune in her head. It reminds me of the softness I felt when my other children were babies. First crawling, then walking, then running.

My daughter.

What did I ever do without her?

I had no idea that adopting an older child could fill me with the same wonder I experienced when my other children were little, but every day, I watch Cheeky grow, and I realize that it can. It does. She has known another life, and this one is wonderful and exotic and new to her. She is like a caterpillar, fighting her way from her chrysalis. Transformed, but the same.

And, I am transformed, too.

I am softer and kinder and more patient.

Perhaps, I had my own chrysalis before I met Cheeky.

Together, we unfurl our wings, tip touching tip as we bask in the warm glow of family.

Will You Wednesday on Thursday: Just One Life (or William again)

2011-10-27T18:55:00.000-07:00

Currently, I am in a hotel in Seattle. The Emerald City Writer's Conference begins tomorrow. Since my agent is going to be attending, I thought I'd fly in and meet with her. On the plane ride here, I was thinking deep thoughts. Like....

Why did the guy next to me have to wear cologne?

Will I die from asthma first? Or blow my head of sneezing?

If I die from an allergic reaction to cologne, will the company ban passengers from wearing cologne or perfume?

Mostly, though, I was thinking about my book which is due Monday and wondering if it was any good.

Sometimes, I think that this writing thing is too hard. Then, I get a letter or email from someone who really needed to read something that I wrote, and I think that we only have one life, and we need to fight hard to live it well. No matter how frustrated, tired or defeated we may feel.

Not that I am feeling any of those things, but I have my days.

The thing is, as I write this, I am thinking about a boy who also has one life. His name is William, and I have been advocating for him for a while. He is a sweet boy, but he is eleven, and it seems that not many people are willing to add an eleven-year-old boy to their families.

I understand the reasons and the fears. We had our reasons when we chose to adopt a child between 3 and 5. God had His reasons when He changed our mind.

At some point, for some family, for his family, William will be that reason.

I know it.

So, I will keep advocating for this sweet, sweet boy, and I will pray that soon, he will find his way home.

Because, William? He deserves to live this one life with people who love him unconditionally. He deserves to live it with a mother and a father in a place called family.

He deserves to be more than an orphan.

He deserves to be called son.

The video depicts snippets of William's life. Perhaps someday soon, his life will include you.

To learn more about William, please visit An Orphan's Wish. WACAP is offering a $4200 grant for qualified families who adopt William through them. Let's spread the word about this special boy.

I Went. Happy? (or, Take that, stupid computer)

2011-10-20T08:34:00.000-07:00

Of course, I went to spin class. I'm a bubba, but I'm not a quitter.

And, the fact is, while I was bemoaning my bubba status, I looked at my heart rate monitor. I thought about taking it off and tossing it out the window. Because, like I said, I was ready to quit. Then, I noticed that my heart rate was 49 beats per minute. At first, I thought I must be dead.

But, no. I wasn't.

My pulse really was that low.

Which, at my ripe old age, is pretty incredible, right? When I began my stupid get healthy plan, my resting pulse was up in the high 80s, low 90s. Yep. Really high. Now, it isn't.

So, maybe, I'm a bubba, but I'm a fit bubba. Therefore, I will not allow myself to be pulled into self pity, self doubt or self defeatism.

Take that, stupid computer fat monitoring system!

My kids were quite unhappy with that computer, by the way. The boys...or should I say 'young men'.....offered to attend the next weight management meeting and destroy said fat monitoring device. Yesterday, I thought that might be a good plan. Today, clearer thinking prevails. The thing probably cost a fortune.

Besides, if anyone is going to jail for destroying a computer, it has to be me. Good for book research and all that.

Anyway, I decided I needed to revisit the past to motivate myself to work toward the future.

This is me in China 2 years ago. By the time I started my stupid get healthy plan, I was 12 or 13 pounds heavier.

This is me a few months ago and now:

I think Cheeky and I both look a lot healthier and a lot happier.

And, that's all that really matters.

So, like I said, "Take that, stupid computer!"

So, I'm STILL Fat

2011-10-19T13:58:00.000-07:00

My mirror is saying that I am no longer the rather rotund woman that I was, and I was feeling quite happy with my progress until I went to the weight management class that The Diet Guru is offering. According to the doggone machine by which Diet Guru Guy measured my body composition, I am still a bubba.

Now, I feel like crap, because it's a computer that is telling me I am still fat, so it must be true.

Right?

I have to lose about 4% body fat to be at a healthy level. Or, so the machine tells me.

How can this be?

I work out 8 or 9 hours a weeks.

I eat healthily.

Well, sort of healthily.

Okay. I admit that I may overdo it on occasion....but lets go back to the thing that makes me feel good, shall we?

I work out 8 or 9 hours a week.

How can I possibly still have too much bodyfat??!!??

Sigh.

Sadness.

So, I came home and stuffed myself with something really fattening and gross (read that....ice cream), and talked myself out of going to spin class tonight. After all, I'm obviously a bubba, and bubbas can not fit on spin bikes. I figured that Super Fit Lady would be disappointed, but she's not a bubba, and she does fit on the bike, so I thought I'd just let her spin and sweat without me.

Meanwhile, I would just sit in the van while my gorgeously fit girls danced and my super fit sons sparred at jui jitsu. Just sit and do....nothing, because doing nothing has worked well for me in the past.

Yes, I had absolutely decided to throw in the towel and go back to my couch-potato ways, because...

I am a BUBBA.

And, I have worked so hard, and I feel so discouraged.

I sat down at my computer, feeling sorry for myself and rather sick (thank you, Ice Cream). I logged onto Facebook, and this is what I saw:

This, of course, made me think that maybe I should go to spin class tonight.

And, thinking about that made me think about sweating (and, we all know how much I love to do that!), but it also made me think about Super Fit Lady's favorite motivational phrase.

See, there I'll be, sweat dripping down my face and onto the floor, feeling like I am about to die, and Super Fit Woman will shout.....Don't leave here feeling like you could have worked harder.

And, I will immediately feel like I can work harder (even if I die in the process), and I will push myself just a little more, because I do not want to leave feeling like I didn't pour every bit of myself into that stupid spin class.

Funny, I think about that phrase often. Not just how it applies to exercising but how it applies to every aspect of my life.

I do not want to leave this world wondering how things might have been if only I had given more of myself, poured out more of my heart, loved with more passion, worked with more commitment.

We are only here once, after all. We have one shot at making a difference. Even if that difference only impacts one heart, only touches one soul, only makes the world better for one person....if we have worked our hardest, done our best, given everything, then we will have no regrets.

Even if we are still Bubbas.

Sigh.

Mine. Mine, mine, mine, mine. MINE.

2011-10-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Please excuse me while I rant.

There is a little boy in the States who needs a new family. He is very young. Just four years old. He'll be 5 in February. I believe this was a domestic adoption as he was placed with his current family at three weeks. He is listed with Wasatch Adoption, and I am hoping we can get the word out and find this little guy a new home very quickly. He deserves better than what he has.

I know, I know, my ugly is showing, but I can't help it. Here is the description of the little guy's situation:

X is a 4 yr. old boy who was adopted in the U.S. at age 3 weeks. His adoption is disrupting and a new home must be found. X was born drug and alcohol exposed and currently has some delays especially in expressive language.

A home is being sought for him where he is the youngest child. X's adoptive parents gave birth to a son after they adopted him, and he is too controlling and tends to bully his brother. He is good with animals, likes water sports and picture books. Maybe you can be that family who can give him the home he needs. A short trip of several days to his state of residence will be required when the adoption placement is made.

That is what the description says, and I am sure I'm going to get into trouble when I tell you how I read it.

See, in my brain, this equates to favoritism. Blood relationship over legal one.

Don't shoot me for saying it. It's what I feel, and maybe I'm reading too much into it, but, my goodness, he's been with them since he was an infant. They are all he has ever known. He is their son. They committed to him, nurtured him, and now they are giving him away. Like a disobedient puppy, a dog that causes too much trouble and is too much work, they are re-homing him, and I can't help but wonder what they'd be doing if the bully was their bio child.

See? My ugly is most definitely showing.

Trust me when I say that I know there is heartache. I am SURE there is heartache, but in our desire to be compassionate and extend grace to the parents, lets not forget that X is a child with a soul and a heart that is about to be broken into a million pieces.

But, maybe not.

Maybe, he is as anxious to be done with his current situation as his parents are.

I know that I have never stood in their shoes, but Cheeky is mine, and she has no less importance or value in this family than the kids I birthed

We are tied together. The chord that binds me to my other children, stretching to include her.

Mine.

That is the claim I made the day we met, and I will continue to make it, because I do not believe that the promises I made can be broken without breaking Cheeky and myself in the process.

Please feel free to spread the word about this little guy. If you're interest in learning more, contact Wasatch Adoption.

Sometimes, Size Does Matter

2011-10-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

Especially when it comes to print font and visual impairment.

See, Cheeky has been wanting to read one of my books. I'm not sure she's old enough to really understand the story line, but I have noticed that the print font in our books are a little small for her. She can read the font, but her eyes get fatigued after a few pages. I did give her the 'larger print' versions of the books that have been published since the Love Inspired Suspense line began issuing them, but even in those, the font is quite small for someone with a visual impairment.

I've taken a picture of the normal font and larger print font. As you can see, there isn't much of a difference. The larger font is on the top, the regular font on the bottom. :

A couple of weeks ago, a friend told me that Harlequin was releasing some Love Inspired books in true large print version. When I saw that someone was selling a copy of one of my books in true large print, I had to buy it.

Take a look at the difference:

Now, if you don't have a kid who is visually impaired, this might not be a big deal. To me, it's huge. I was so excited to see one of my books in a print size that wouldn't strain Cheeky's eyes. It's true that she is too young to really 'get' what my books are about, but she wants to be like Sassy and carry the books around and read them at her leisure. Now, she can actually read the words easily, and that makes her very happy!

Which, of course, makes this mama very happy!

Good on you, Harlequin, for producing books that meet the needs of the visually impaired!

Love is Thicker than Water

2011-10-13T05:11:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, we got home from evening church and the phone rang. Being that it was late (just past 9:30), I hurried to answer it.

"Hello?" I said, thinking there must be an emergency.

"Shirlee?" A voice replied. "This is X (not really, but let's protect the identity of the perpetrator). Is Rodney home?"

"Yes," I responded, curious as to why X was calling my husband. They are not friends. Really, they are barely acquaintances. X attends our church sporadically because of his job. His wife, however, attends regularly as does their daughter J. I handed my husband the phone. A few minutes later, the conversations was over, and I discovered that X had called to apologize.

Apologize for what? You may be asking.

Read on, friends.

After church Sunday night, Cheeky and Sassy were hanging around with their friends. J is friends to both, but she has a particular fondness for Cheeky. She is thirteen, quite mature and already knows she wants to be a special ed teacher when she grows up. She also wants to adopt a child with albinism. She loves Cheeky and has always been very caring and sweet with her. So, the three girls were hanging out, and (according to Sassy who was the reason for the apology), X started playing with Cheeky's hair. Now, had someones father been playing with Sassy's hair, she would have immediately moved away. Cheeky, on the other hand, is very used to having people touch her hair. She is also used to a communal environment wherein there is no personal space. It is what she spent seven years with, and two years is not enough time to undo that.

So, there they were, three girls and X who was playing with Cheeky's hair, kind of running his fingers through it and, then, studying it intently. At this point, Sassy is beginning to notice that X is paying undue attention to her sister's hair. She gets a little tense and begins to think it is weird (her words). Next things she knows, X is saying, "You know, her hair would be perfect for fly fishing."

FLY FISHING!!!???

Now, Sassy has no idea what fly fishing is, but she knows that fishing isn't something a person's hair would normally be used for. She becomes upset.

Meanwhile, J is also upset. She swats her father's hand away from Cheeky's hair. "Stop it, Dad," she demands.

At which point, Sassy realizes that she is right and that X said something he shouldn't have said. "

That was really rude," she says, and she takes Cheeky's hand and walks away.

She does not mention the incident to me or The Man, because she has called an adult rude, and that is an infraction of our "Be respectful to your elders," rule.

She is not expecting that X will call, and when he does, she hightails it to bed and pretends to be asleep, because she thinks she is in trouble.

Being me and wanting to get the story from her perspective, I go into her room and ask her to come with me. I am angry, but not with her. I'm angry with X's foolish comment, and the words fly fishing are rolling around in my head, and I am picturing this guy taking scissors and borrowing some of Cheeky's hair the next time he goes fishing.

It takes a bit of time for Sassy to believe that she is not in trouble for calling an adult rude. I explain that respect is paramount, but that when an adult is blatantly ignoring another person's humanity, there is nothing wrong with calling him on it. After we got that out of the way, we talked about X's comment and about the fact that he had spoken without thinking. Sassy was incensed, but we agreed that it took a lot of guts to call and apologize.

I was quite proud of Sassy for protecting her sister.

Sister love, I thought, is such a powerful thing.

I have worked hard to cultivate it in my girls. It isn't easy, after all, to get used to someone who is stealing some of your spotlight, moving in on your territory, demanding some of the attention that was always yours.

Where it was always just Sassy and me having girl time together, there are now three of us.

I can't say that has been easy on Sassy, but I can say that she has matured in the past two years. She's learned empathy, compassion and, of course, sister love.

Though there is just over a years age difference between them, Sassy sees herself as Cheeky's mentor, protector and second mother. I'm sure she feels she is much more competent than Cheeky, much more capable and mature.

In many ways, she is right.

Cheeky is quite young socially. Daily family activities like helping in the kitchen are new to her, and she is still learning the fine art of forever family life. Sassy senses this, and she is always quick to step in and lend a hand. Sometimes, I have to remind her that Cheeky is perfectly capable and that she simply needs a little more time to complete a task.

Today, though, Cheeky proved that she can care for her sister just as much as her sister can care for her. It was interesting to watch the incident play out. Cheeky can be clueless on occasion. Most especially when the television is on. Need I mention the chicken in the pool incident?You remember. I shouted for help as the chicken floated in the pool, and four of my kids came running to help. The other one took the opportunity to turn on the t.v. I will refrain from mentioning any names.

Today, I shouted for help again. This time, it was Cheeky who came running. And, quite quickly I might add.

See, Sassy's finger had a run-in with the pull-up top of soup can. It was lunchtime, and I'd asked The Musician to start some soup. Sassy had insisted she could make her own soup. Knowing she was perfectly capable, I told her to go ahead. Then, I retreated to the laundry room to put clothes in the dryer.

A minute or so later, Sassy comes down the stairs.

"Mom," she says. "I cut my finger on the soup can."

"It's just a---" little cut. You'll be fine. Is what I'm going to say, but then I see the look on her face, and I stop myself. "Let me see." I peel back the paper towel she's wrapped around her finger, and blood spurts out of a small deep gash. If you're squeamish, please skip the next part of this blog post. If you're not, read on.

At this point, I realize that Sassy has nicked a capillary or vein or some such thing.
"Come on," I say. "I think we may need to go to the doctor." I rewrap the finger and apply pressure, and the blood is seeping through the paper towel so quickly, it's dripping onto the floor.

Sassy begins to get upset. "Will I need stitches?" she asks.

"I don't think so, but I'm not sure," I respond as I hurry her into the kitchen and grab paper towel and press really hard on the spurting wound.

Now, Sassy has fainted on occasion. She does not like needles. She's not terribly pain sensitive, but she comes from a long line of fainters (me being one of them), and apparently the thought of stitches and the pain of me putting pressure on the cut and the shock of all the blood is a little much. She goes about five shades of white. So, I'm holding her finger and thinking she's going to go down, and I'm not sure I can keep her upright and keep pressure on the finger all at the same time (Sassy is 5' and 86 lbs, so she is not a dainty little thing).

"Someone bring me a chair," I call to anyone who might be listening. The boys, at this point, are one room away, playing a game while they wait for lunch.

Apparently, they don't hear me or they don't hear the frantic edge to my voice. In their defense, I am not a screamer, and when I'm panicking, I tend to sound and act very calm.

So, my boys do not bring me a chair, and Sassy leans against me, and blood is dripping down both of our hands.

"Someone bring me a chair!" I repeat a little more loudly, and little feet race across the kitchen floor. Cheeky has no idea what's going on, because she's too far away to see the blood, but she must have heard my tone. While the boys remain oblivious, she begins dragging the chair from the table. This is no small feat for Cheeky. She is too little to actually pick the chair up.

But, she is sure giving it a valiant effort.

"What's wrong, Mommy? Is Sassy okay?" She cries as she struggles with the chair.

Sassy is looking ever whiter, the blood is still spurting, and I am worrying that she is going to collapse and hit her head on the counter on her way down.

"Boys! Get off your butts and bring me a chair NOW!" I yell at the top of my lungs, and suddenly the kitchen is filled with people. I've got a chair. My sons are all looking confused (and a little disgusted at the amount of blood splattered on the counter and walls).

And, Cheeky?

She is standing beside Sassy who is seated in the chair, her hand on Sassy's shoulder.

"It's okay, Sassy. You're going to be just fine," she says, and then she grabs a cup from the counter and fills it with water. She hands it to Cheeky and watches as her sister takes a sip, caring for her in the one way she can, patting her back as I wrap more paper towel around the finger and get Sassy back on her feet so we can head to urgent care.

Two hours later, we return. Sassy's finger has been cleaned (ouch), and we have opted out of the stitches the doctor offered. The wound is small enough that the doctor feels it will heal well (if more slowly) without. Sassy is quite pleased with her compression wrap, and now that it is all over, she is smiling. As she walks in the door, the first person she shows the bandage to is Cheeky. The two girls sit, Cheeky's head bent close to the bright yellow bandage as she listens to Sassy tell her story of trauma and terror (Sassy does know how to weave a tale).

I watch as Cheeky puts an arm around Sassy's waist. "Are you hungry? Do you want me to get you something to eat?"

And, I catch a glimpse of the future....my two girls grown into women, sitting next to each other during good times and bad times, supporting each other, caring for each other. I know this bond, because I have it with my sisters, and it touches me deeply to see it in my daughters.

They say that blood is thicker than water. Perhaps that is true, but love is thicker than both. Blood may tie us genetically, but it is love that gives us the desire to care for and to serve, to seek out and to comfort. It is love, not blood, that makes a family.

Sassy's Big Day

2011-10-07T20:57:00.000-07:00

She started here, my little girl, seven years old and ready for her first ballet class:

She took to jazz like a fish to water, but ballet?

Yeah. Not so much.

I was called into the studio owner's office more times than I care to remember. My little gymnast turned ballerina was more like a bull in a China shop than a dancer. Energetic and silly, she didn't quite fit with the other girls in her ballet group.

Still, there was something about Sassy that made her teacher (who also happens to own the studio) not kick us to the curb.

Despite Sassy's energy and verve, or maybe because of it, Kristen loved her and was determined to teach her.

It took a year for Sassy to understand what working hard at ballet meant. It took her another year to get rid of old gymnastic habits. Last year, finally, she had consistently good posture and held her core when she danced. She'd stretched her feet into submission and attained what was needed to rise onto demi.

And this year, three years after beginning, Sassy was ready for her big day.

Her rite of passage, so to speak.

The moment when she would be fitted for her first pair of pointe shoes.

I have been hearing about this moment non-stop for two weeks.

The outfit was planned and put on in the wee hours of the morning, and Sassy waited with dreams in her eyes as her brothers finished their piano lessons.

We planned to meet Sassy's ballet buddy and her mother Michelle (who happens to be an awesome photographer) at the dance store at 2, and by 1:15, Sassy was heading out the front door.

Cheeky was nearly as excited as her sister, and she came along for the ride.

Off into the van to head to the store to buy the first ever pointe shoes.

We arrived early, of course, and Sassy watched for her friend's car, nearly bouncing with excitement and anticipation.

Until, finally, they arrived, and it was time and the girls made their way into the store.

They were escorted to chairs

and out came the shoes.....the glorious, shiny pink shoes!

Sassy stood, and I held by breath wondering if she would struggle or rise effortlessly.

Suddenly, she was up on her toes.

And, my breath caught. My sturdy little girl of three years ago had transformed into a graceful gazelle. I looked at her, and I saw what her teacher has been seeing all along. A breathtakingly beautiful dancer.

Three years, and it is Sassy's big day, and I am so proud of how hard she has worked.

She has striven to be her best rather than the best. She has made great friends

She has learned valuable lessons about hard work and persistence and patience.

And she has enjoyed every single moment of her very special big day.

Congratulations, my sassy dancing girl!

Wherein, My Body Says, "Enough!"

2011-10-06T10:07:00.000-07:00

Because I am absolutely convinced that I am (mostly) invincible and also absolutely an idiot, I have been pushing myself to finally achieve the illusive dream. The one wherein I slip into those jeans that are hanging in my closest. You know. The ones that are a size that is much smaller than what I am currently wearing. I am tired of working toward my goal. I want to be there already. So, I've set my sights on the beginning of February because that is the two year mark for my Stupid Get Healthy Plan, and I am bound and determined to reach my goal by then.

Even if it kills me.

Which it might.

I have also been pushing myself to achieve certain writing goals which I won't post here, but which stretch beyond my current work load.

Of course, as we all know, The Man was in Kenya on a missions trip from the beginning of September until the end of it. Three long weeks of teaching computer skills at the seminary and building houses for widows and working with the youth at local churches.

While he worked there, I worked here.

So, yesterday, I started feeling sorry for myself. Doing that whiny thing that I despise where I start looking at my life and thinking....gee, why doesn't anyone ever do anything for me? Why am I always working so hard for everyone else? Why is it that no matter how hard I work I never quite reach my goals.

Oh, yes, friends. I was having a major pity party. Which I really do HATE.

To top things off, I went to my body pump class (Which, I also hate) and my legs felt like rubber. I wanted to put in a hundred percent, but my body just wasn't cooperating.

I came home and checked homeschool papers and made sure my kids ate lunch, and my legs still felt wobbly, so I sent a Facebook message to Super Fit Woman (Oh, yeah, she's a facebook friend. Not sure what I was thinking when I did that) and told her that I thought I'd burned myself out what with doing pump and spin and zumba and toning and Pilate's and bike riding and pump again. She responded by telling me that if my body was saying to take a break, I should listen or I might get sick or hurt.

I am VERY sorry to say I did not take her advice.

While I did skip her spin class last night, I felt just guilty enough about doing it to walk across the parking lot and attend Zumba.

Obviously, I am stupid sometimes.

Today, I woke up and felt like a big pile of dog......stuff.

My throat hurts, my ankles hurt so badly I can barely walk. My head is pounding. I am pretty sure I am sick. Something to do with the numbers on the thermometer being in the three digit range.

So, I'm sitting here wrapped up in a blanket, the gloomy day matching my rather gloomy mood. Behind me, a load of laundry is lying on the couch waiting to be folded. Upstairs, five kids are bent over school books.

And, here I sit, thinking that it is smart to listen to our bodies. They know things we don't. Like, maybe, that we're sick even when we've yet to show a symptom.

Kind of like when Cheeky leans all over me at the dance studio. There is nothing wrong with our relationship now, but if I push her away or tell her to get off or ignore her instead of stroking her hair.....maybe there will be.

Because, Cheeky's body knows what she needs. Just like mine knows what it needs.

Right now, she needs me, and so she seeks me out, always touching and trying and striving for what must feel like illusive goals: to feel accepted, to be part of, to belong.

I am too tired to say much more about it. I just know what I know. This thing called bonding doesn't ever end. Not with our bio kids. Not with the ones we've adopted. It is a constant work in progress that spans days and weeks and months and years. We can set no limits to when we will finally reach our destination, because the place where we are going is called family.

And family?

That is forever stretching out before us like a beautiful sunrise on a cool autumn morning. Before us, but in us, too, filling hearts and souls and minds even as it beckons us onward.

I, for one, wouldn't have it any other way.

Pretty

2011-10-02T08:14:00.000-07:00

I know, you probably thought this had something to do with Cheeky, but no....

We all know she is stunning.

This is what I was thinking was pretty:

Pretty colors and pretty scenery.

Those clouds foreshadow the trouble that's on its way.

And, even better, the hero and heroine have hair color that matches the descriptions in the book.

Yay, them!

Yay, art department!

Yay, editorial team!

Yay, me!

Next Time, I'll Bring A Towel (or, The Two Things I Learned This Week)

2011-09-30T19:53:00.000-07:00

There is this lady that I will call Super Fit Woman. She teaches my toning class. AKA step class. AKA the class that has nearly killed me more than once.

Sadly, she also teaches a spin class.

I say sadly, because Super Fit Woman said to me, "Shirlee, you're probably plateauing with your cardiovascular workout. You do a lot of Zumba. It might be good to switch things up at least once a week. Like....maybe in my spin class which is designed to kill people who haven't already died in my step class."

She didn't actually say the last part, but...that's what I'm thinking she should have said.

Because, being dumb and still completely committed to my stupid get healthy plan, I decided she was right.

Off I went to spin class.

Now, in case you are not in the know, spin class is a bike riding class. Imagine if you will, an exercise bike with a reclining seat and a nice wide place to park your derriere. That is NOT what you're going to find in spin class.

No. These bikes are for hardcore training.

And, we all know how well me and hardcore training get along.

But, I digress.

Back to me walking jauntily into class.

I picked a bike in the back row and Super Fit Woman helped me adjust the ~~not designed for a behind the size of mine~~ seat. I climbed on and starting warming up....which basically involved me pedaling as if I had ten days to travel one mile.

I noticed as I was ~~meandering~~ speeding through my warm-up that Super Fit Woman had a towel draped across her handle bars. The woman next to me had a towel. The woman in front of me had one. Everyone had a towel. Except for me.

I felt a little left out.

"Hmmmmm," I thought. "I wonder why they need towels. Is it to protect their hands from the handlebars?"

I was off on a tangent, creating a heroine who couldn't quite fit her behind on a spin bike when class officially began.

Next thing I know, I'm pedaling like Jack the Ripper is after me.

Everything is a blur of cardiovascular pain after that, but I did learn one thing.

Those towels? The ones that everyone but me had? They aren't to protect delicate hands from hard handle bars.

No, people, they are to sop up sweat. Not just glistening beads of perspiration, either. SWEAT sweat. Big huge drops of it sliding down temples and cheeks and necks, dripping into eyes and onto floors. While everyone else wisked their sweat away with towels, I had to be content to let mine drip and drop and pool. Even my knuckles were sweating, beads of water reappearing as quickly I could swipe them onto my shirt.

My SHIRT.

It was soaked from neck to navel.

Truly a wonderful look.

Especially considering the fact that as soon as the class was over I had to cross the parking lot and make an appearance at the dance studio where my darlings were waiting to be picked up.

To add insult to injury another woman walked into the studio a few minutes after me.

"Excuse the way I look. I just worked out," she said, standing there in her cute white shorts and cute white top with her perfectly styled hair and perfect make-up and perfect...well...everything.

And, I felt like one of those sponges that have been sitting on the edge of the sink for too long. Grimy and stiff and stinky.

I thought, "No matter how hard I work, no matter how much I try, I will never ever walk out of an exercise class looking like I just walked out of a salon."

At this point, I will admit to a tiny little itsy bitsy pity party.

It's been a bad week, okay? I was entitled.

I went home and took a shower, washed away all that icky salty sweat and stiffness and logged onto my computer to do some work on my art fact sheet for my October 2012 book.

And, that pity party?

It just kept on keeping on.

Because, I'm in a continued battle with the idiots who seem to think that people with albinism are freaks of nature or works of art or objects to be collected. One such idiot did finally removed Cheeky's photo from her blog but only after 2900 people or so liked, reblogged it or commented on it in truly intelligent ways. You know things like....

You are so beautiful. Come live with me so I can paint you forever.

I want me one of those.

That is a beautiful creature.

Creeps.

I was mad at myself for ever posting that picture of Cheeky. It is too gorgeous for the Internet freaks to ignore, and now it is rolling like an avalanche, picking up speed as it goes, completely unstoppable.

So, I was sitting at the computer working on my art fact sheet and feeling sorry for myself (seeing as how it was 2 a.m, and I was working). I decided to check my email, because I am very good at finding ways to procrastinate.

One had the subject : LAKEVIEW PROTECTOR. This is one of my old books. It was the most difficult book I've ever written. I cried every time I read it during editing. It's been called "too sad" by some, and I understand. It is sad, and romance novels are supposed to be happy, right?

But, even the happiest lives have seasons of sadness. Even the most faith filled joyful people have hardships.

I read the email at 2:21 a.m, and I read it again at 2:22.

It was short, but heart wrenching, the story of a woman who lost too much, but who had found love again.

At the end she said, "Thank you for showing me through your writing that God is here with us, holding us, loving us and walking with us through this thing called life."

God is here with us, holding us, loving us and walking with us.

I learned two important things this week.

First, always bring a towel to spin class.

Second, what we put out into the world will be returned to us. Love or hate. Blessings or curses. Service or selfishness.

They will be returned.

Maybe not in minutes or hours or days. Maybe not even in years.

Eventually, though, we will hold them again.

I saw that in action in the wee hours of Thursday morning when what I wrote years ago was written back to me and I was blessed by it.

Boring Me (or want a guest blogger?)

2011-09-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

I'm boring.

I came to that conclusion this morning when I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Boring, boring, boring.

Today, I was supposed to be guest blogging here. Somehow, though, my blog post got lost in cyberworld. Probably, because I sent it to the wrong email address. Sad. Sniff.

Anyway, I was supposed to be there, but I am here, and I am B.O.R.I.N.G.

One of the editors at Harlequin has asked if anyone would like to have an editor come as a guest blogger. Emily has all kinds of interesting information about writing for Love Inspired Historical. Let me just say, you can't get much better work in the writing industry than writing for Harlequin series.

Emily was looking for some blogs with a lot of traffic, as LIH is hunting for new authors. Always an exciting thing for those of us who are into writing.

She emailed some of us who have high-traffic blogs. I get a lot of traffic through here, but I'm not sure if any of it is writing related.

So, seeing as how I am BORING, I am just throwing this out..

Would anyone be interested in hearing from a Harlequin editor? She'd post some information about publishing, and you could ask questions. Editor interaction is great whether you're writing specifically for the line or not.

I know I don't focus much on my career here, but it is a huge part of my life. At some point, I'd love to talk shop. After all, almost everyone I meet is writing a book, thinking of writing a book, or thinking about thinking about writing a book.

If you're interested in hearing from Emily...drop me a line at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com or simply leave a comment here.

Thanks!

Mamma Bear is Back

2011-09-27T08:54:00.000-07:00

been removed, but I can't figure out if it's possible to get it taken off this site. As you can see, people are Update: The photo has been removed from the first site. However, it is still here - http://bhavatarinilove.tumblr.com/post/10670886780 and I'm not sure how to comment to get it removed. This is, of course, the idiot post. What an ignorant person.

And I'm about to devour someone.

If only I can figure out who that someone is.

Why, you ask?

Because a very sweet blog reader let me know about this.

Yep. The picture is back, and I see that people are sharing it.

There's nothing terrible about the way it is being shared, but.....

She's my daughter not some Asian Albino as the poster so delicately put it.

Since this is the same image that has been posted before, I can only assume that the same person who took it from my blog kept it and is posting it again. OR someone grabbed it from one of the forums where it was posted before and posted it again.

Months later.

Which makes me think it is the original poster.

But, maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe it is just all the same post.

Nope. It's not.

And, forget what I said about nothing terrible.

Look to the right of the photo.

Idiot.

Maybe I Shouldn't

2011-09-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

let Sassy read my books.

We got the big Harlequin box this week, and she went nuts for the new story.

You know. The one with the cover that I made this out of:

She read it in two days and has decided it is her favorite as I named the baby in it after her.

Which is fine.

But, when I gave my kids a creative writing assignment and told them to write whatever they wanted, this is what Sassy came up with:

Chapter 1
Rain poured from the sky as police officer James Miller walked up to the abandoned cabin. His mission seemed simple. Meet Agent Parker at the old cabin in the woods, track down Mexican gang member and crazed killer Brittany Spears and bring her to the insane asylum. After that, his life would go back to normal. He opened the door of the cabin, surprised to see that it was empty.

Where was Agent Parker?

Irritated, he walked back out to his car almost running over a petite woman. "Agent Parker?"

"That's me. My boss filled me in on all the details. Let's go." She had blond hair pulled into a ponytail and big blue eyes. She didn't look like a secret agent.

Even as they walked, James couldn't take his eyes off Parker, and he knew his day was about to go from bad to worse.

The car ride was silent aside from the sound of the car's old engine. When they finally got to their destination, police officers and agents were swarming around. They jumped out of the car and ran to the building. As soon as they got there a woman ran out with a gun.

"Look out!" Parker cried, shoving James out of the way as the first shot was fired. He pulled his gun as more shots exploded around them. The woman fell to the ground, blood seeping into the pavement.

Done. Mission finished.

That's when he saw Agent Parker. She'd fallen, too.

Chapter 2

James went to the hospital the next day. As he went up to the floor where Agent Parker was recovering, a woman walked by on crutches. He knew the blond hair and petite build and the pretty blue eyes. As he walked over, Agent Parker's crutches slipped.

"Careful," he said, as he wrapped his hands around her small waist. Her cheeks heated, and he grinned. .....

.........She waved goodbye, but he wasn't ready to let her go. He wanted to pull her close, feel her lips pressed against his. But, he knew if he did, she would run, so instead, he let her walk away.....

Oh my. Oh my, my, my.

She is ten.

And, she's writing a ROMANCE novel.

Obviously, this is my fault.

Then, again, I can't claim any part in her awesome flexibility or grace. So, maybe I should be pleased as punch that she's writing a romance novel and seems to have a bit of talent for it?

But, really.....

Yikes!

OH NO!

2011-09-22T22:11:00.000-07:00

I just saw one of my all time favorite little boys on Rainbow Kids. I'd been told he had been matched, and I can't believe he's back. I'm so sad.

I've blogged about this guy before. He was Wesley, then. Now he is Jude. One of my all time favorite names. For one of my all time favorite boys.

I don't know what happened. Though the information posted on Rainbow Kids says that he has been diagnosed with Hep G. Perhaps that scared prospective parents off? Personally, I had no idea Hep G existed. From what I've read, there is little known about the disease, but it does seem to run a mild course, and Jude is listed as a healthy child with albinism and cleft lip and palate.

He is so beautiful. His birthday is on October 31. He will be two. Just a baby.

Won't someone love this little boy? All his problems, all his potential, all of him just the way he is?

Jude is currently listed with FIA. If you have any questions about albinism, feel free to ask!

Will You Wednesday: Why Not William?

2011-09-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

I have blogged about William several times. A sweet, quiet young man born with bilateral clubfoot, he turned 11 in June and is still waiting for a family to say, "You are ours."

William's feet have been corrected, and he has no mobility issues. He does test positive for hepatitis B.

An excellent student who gets along well with his peers, his teachers and his caregivers, William is full of potential and promise.

Yet, he still waits.

A post about William is here. It includes a letter from a contact person at the Hepatitis B Foundation. She reviewed William’s lab work and shared information about the reality of Hep B.

Every day that passes is another day closer to William aging out. Though he is only 11, he is 11. The clock is ticking, and he is growing up without parents to nurture his potential and to show him that he is perfect exactly the way he is.

Surely there is a family who needs William as much as he needs them.

William is currently on the shared list. WACAP is offering a 4200 grant toward his adoption for families that that work with them.

William's shy smile will bloom for the family that embraces him. Will you?

Impressive

2011-09-20T08:24:00.000-07:00

I have sneezed a whopping 57 times this morning.

I know this because Sassy is keeping track.

I'm not sure what is more impressive....my earth-shaking sneezes or her ability to keep counting while the entire house trembles around her.

Ah, Allergy Season, I love you so!

To make things even more exciting, I am heading off to Zumba and Body Step. Oh, yes, people, I am doing both. This morning. One class right after another. While sneezing. I may survive. If I don't knock myself off the step during a sneezing frenzy and break my neck. Or...some less delicate region of my body.

Seeing as how I managed to fall off the step and onto my butt when I wasn't sneezing, death....or mortification...seem like very real possibilities.

In other news, The Man's absence is wearing thin. I'm trying to be gracious about it, seeing as how he is half way around the world on a mission trip, but it's hard to be gracious when I'm tired, overwhelmed and sneezing.

Not that I'm whining or anything.

I'm just saying....three weeks is a long time, and I'm ready for a certain someone to come home.

But, happiness is a choice we make, and I am choosing to be happy today. Despite the sneezes and the stupid get healthy plan and The Man being gone....

Happy.

Even if Sassy and I are up to 62 sneezes.

Wherein, Cheeky Learns How I Spell Love

2011-09-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

Today is the perfect writing day. The weather is cool, the sky overcast. It is everything I love most, and I feel more creative than I have all week.

Which is good, because I have a manuscript due at the end of October, line edits due this week, art fact sheet due Friday and an interview for an expanded E-book for next year's continuity that is due Wednesday (a very exciting project, btw). Plus, I'm working on two other projects that I need to send to my agent before I meet her in Seattle in October.

I'm swamped with work and homeschool and just....life.

And, today is the perfect writing day.

But, there is yard work to do and chores, and when we finish, I look at the harvest, and I know that today is not just a good day for writing. It is also a good day for baking.

And, for making memories.

I think that I might skip the memories and the baking in light of all the work I need to do and the creative energy pouring through me, but my violet-eyed girl has had green eyes lately.

It began when my friend decided to adopt this little guy:

Ever since that friend brought Little Bubba's paperwork to the dance studio and showed it to me, Cheeky has been a little... possessive. If a child speaks to me or if I speak to a child, Cheeky immediately parks herself on my knee and throws her arms around my neck as if to say, "Sorry, pal, this mommy is mine." If I happen to be standing rather than sitting, she throws herself against my side, wraps her arms around my waist, lays her head against me.

Mine.

Yes. The green-eyed monster and the cool fall day and the overcast sky and the apples begging to be harvested and used:

and my Cheeky girl....

wanting more of me than I feel like giving.

When I write, I write about love. I write fairy tale stories that always end with a happily-ever-after. Not real life, but in them, there is a grain of truth. It is this - in every story I write, love is not simply a word to be spoken, an emotion to be felt, it is a commitment to do regardless of feelings.

So, we will build memories together.

Me and my kids.

And, Cheeky will know that I am hers, and she will learn that when I write love, I write: love, but when I spell it.....

I spell it T.I.M.E.

And, me? I will not regret the writing that did not get done, because the love....it was done, and the memories that were created are better than any fantasy I could pen.

Better because they are ours....mine and Cheeky's and the rest of the crew's.

Made on this perfect day for writing.

Searching

2011-09-13T07:11:00.000-07:00

My sister is searching for her sons's birth sister. If you know anyone who has adopted from Ethiopia or are affiliated with any groups or on-line forums that include people who have adopted from Ethiopia, would you please repost the following:

If you know anyone who has adopted from ET, please re-post. We are searching for our sons' birth sister. This little girls' given name is Ajoash (sp?). She was adopted between late 2004 and mid 2005 by a family in America. She is probably between 9 & 11 years old. Only about 500-600 children were adopted from Ethiopia to the U.S. during that time period, so we are hopeful that we may be able to connect with her and her family. Please send me any info/questions at parker.sarak@gmail.com.

My sister had the privilege of meeting with the birth family when she traveled to bring home her daughters. She has photos and information that I'm sure she would be happy to share.

It is such a gift to have information about birth parents and birth siblings. I wish I had those things for Cheeky. As much as we are hers, there is another family out there that is also hers. No time or distance or lack of knowledge can change that, and I'm sure that as she gets older, she will feel their tug on her heart. When I think about that, my soul aches for what she may never have. Knowing that there will always be a hole that I can not fill does not negate the relationship we have. Rather it enhances it. By acknowledging my daughter's loss, I forge a tighter bond with her. When the day comes and she wants to search for her birth parents, I will encourage her, help her and support her in any way that I can. Cheeky did not begin the day we met. She began on a cool day at the end of March, born to a woman I do not know, held in arms that she can not remember, cared for and loved for two months by a family that was her first. That is one of the truths of her life, and it is what I constantly build on as I learn who my daughter is and help her become who she is meant to be.

Sisters

2011-09-11T17:03:00.000-07:00

So, fun! The Sweet Cheeky and Sassy dolls do remind me of my girls!

One of the best things about this journey has been watching the girls grow from strangers to friends to sisters.

The Sweet Cheeky Doll

2011-09-10T17:10:00.000-07:00

What can I say?

I am so touched.

I am, of course, buying one.

There are many other dolls on the site. The profits go to help an orphan come home.

http://purposedrivendolls.blogspot.com/2011/09/sweet-cheeky.html

Today......

2011-09-09T07:58:00.000-07:00

I am bringing all five kids to the doctor for yearly physicals. I brought them yesterday. Sadly, the appointment is for today.

For some reason that I still can't figure out, the nurse was unable to squeeze five extra appointments in yesterday morning.

Go figure.

So, today, I am bringing all five kids to the doctor....again.

They are thrilled.

I am thrilled too.

I can't wait to explain the bruise on Cheeky's forehead....yet again (PS....it is shaped, of all things....like a heart!).

Or give a breakdown of all my kids' extracurricular activities in excruciating detail.

Because, they are homeschooled.

Which, of course, means that they are not socialized, active or involved.

Sigh.

Yeah. I'm kind of in a mood.

Because, I brought my kids to the doctor yesterday, but the appointment is for today.

Which is absolutely TOTALLY my fault.

But, we got up at five to bring the hubby to the airport, so...can you blame me for being confused about dates and times??

Of course, I brought them to the doctor a day early, but I was an hour late for my stupid step class. The one that caused me to nearly break my ankle? Yeah. That one. I remembered that the schedule was changing.

I forgot that it wasn't changing until next week.

So, I went to body step an hour late.

I'm not sure why the instructor wasn't willing to go another round for the team. The team being me.

But, she wasn't.

So, yesterday, I missed body step and had to get on one of those horrible machines in order to stay on track RE: my REALLY stupid stupid get healthy plan.

Today, I will be at Zumba on time. Not an hour late.

Today, I will also manage to squeeze in my 2,000 word count. I will start the synopsis on my new book. I will finish washing the dishes and the towels and (maybe) do a couple of extra loads of laundry. I may even vaccum and dust.

But, mostly, today, I will be thankful.

Because, I have my kids. They have me. We are a perfectly imperfect family, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

And, because it could have been different.

It could have been six of us instead of seven.

It could have been three boys and a girl and two parents.

But it is three boys and two girls and two parents.

And, when I think of Timothy and William and all the kids like them who wait, I realize how miraculous adoption is. There is pain in it, of course. All I have to do is visit the blogs of adoptees to know that. There is trouble and trial and frustration, but that is part of being perfectly imperfect, isn't it?

So, today...in the midst of the crazy chaos that is my life, I will be thankful.

Will You Wednesday On Thursday: The Perfect Child (or Timothy's Tale)

2011-09-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

My neighbor came to visit. The same neighbor who left this on our gate as a joke:

Funny guy that he is, he made a comment about my kids and the kind of trouble they might get into while the hubby is in Kenya.

"Trouble? My kids?" I responded. "No way. They are perfect."

We both laughed at that, because, of course, no one is perfect. My children are no exception. Just this morning they were sniping at each other during breakfast and bickering as they began school. One complained that the writing assignment was too long and another tried to slip some less than complete work in under the radar.

I won't mention any names, because that would be wrong.

Suffice to say, we had some drama, but that's part of being a family.

And, really, my kids may not be perfect, but they are perfect for me.

That's what the eyes of love provide. The ability to look beyond the moment and see what can be. The ability to focus on the strengths, build on the weaknesses, embrace the unique beauty of the person who is loved. The ability to see possibilities instead of problems.

I so wish that kind of love for Timothy.

Born on January 5, 2005, Timothy had problems. Clubfeet, limited use of his arms due to deformed shoulder joints, he was not perfect. But, look in his eyes. Can't you see the possibilities? There is kindness there, humor and an endless capacity to love. With his clubfeet corrected, Timothy is able to walk and climb like his peers. Though he does have some limit to the use of his arm, he has adapted well and is very independent. He uses his hands and fingers well.

Timothy is currently being fostered in a home that is teaching him English. He is polite, social and loves to build things. The word pleasant has been used to describe him, and when I look at these pictures, I think how true that is. Pleasant. His smile, his face, his dark eyes. After all that he has been through, Timothy remains cheerful and loving.

Pleasant, yes.

But, he is perfect, too.

For one family.

Because, he will be exactly what they have been missing. He will be the joy that fills the empty spots in their hearts. In his eyes, they will see the endless possibilities, and in their arms, he will find the kind of acceptance and love that every child deserves.

You see, Timothy doesn't need full use of his arms to find success and happiness in life. All he needs is a family that will hug him close and say, "This is exactly where you belong."

Will you?

Timothy is on the shared list. WACAP is currently offering a $2200 grant toward his adoption.

For more information, please contact An Orphan's Wish.

When My Patience Wears Thin

2011-09-03T21:34:00.000-07:00

It is Friday afternoon, 4:47 to be precise. I know the exact time because at 6:00, 12 people will converge on my house. I am hosting a barbecue, and I am tired. I just came off deadline, and I want to sleep for a month, but I am making cupcakes, instead.

I have set them on the counter to cool, and Sassy and Cheeky are eying them with glee. Not because they want to eat them (though I'm sure they do), but because I promised to let them frost the cakes. I have done this many, many times with Sassy, but just once or twice with Cheeky. Cupcakes aren't something I make often, and she is bouncing near my elbow so very afraid that I will change my mind and NOT include her.

And, my patience.....

Oh, my patience!

It has worn thin over a long summer of hard work and of doing thousands of things for other people and not much for myself. I am thinking that I am tired of the routine and that a missions trip to Kenya sounds wonderful. My husband is leaving soon to travel there with a small group from our church, and I am staying home to hold down the fort. I want to go, but I must stay.

And, there is Cheeky, right by my elbow.

So, very very afraid she is going to be left out.

I bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Go sit down until I'm ready."

I feel it, you see. Her need. That desperate, desperate need.

My elbow hits her forehead as she edges in closer, wanting to make sure she is going to be handed one of the butter knives I've pulled from the drawer, and it is all I can do not to say, "Please, give me some space!"

I hand a butter knife to Sassy along with a tub of vanilla icing. She gets to work. Smooth and easy, because she's done this so many times before.

Cheeky is watching, and her anxiety gnaws at me. Two years, and she still worries that she will be left out, and I must allow that to be okay. I must let her feel what she feels, and I must prove...again...that her feelings are unfounded.

But, my patience....

My patience....

I open the tub of chocolate frosting, and I hand her the butter knife. She immediately jabs it in the frosting, hilt deep, chocolate oozing up onto her fingers, and I am reminded of far off days when my other children were three and four and I handed them spoons with frosting and let them decorate cupcakes.

"Gently," I would say, easing their chubby little hands toward the tubs of icing, scooping out little globs with them. "Gently," I would repeat, helping them swirl the frosting onto the cake.

By the time they were nine, they could frost cupcakes and cakes like pros. They could knead bread dough and beat eggs. They could measure flour and oil and water. By the time they were Cheeky's age, I would simply let them work beside me. All of us in sync, dancing the dance we'd worked so hard to perfect.

But, the clock is ticking. Our guests will arrive soon, and I don't have time to work with Cheeky, to help her dip the knife and smooth the frosting. I want to grab it from her hand, do the job myself. Tell her to watch and that next time she can help.

I want to.

I want to.

I pull the knife out of the frosting. I wipe chocolate from the hilt. I wipe it from Cheeky's hand, like she is two and needs me to clean up the mess. Then, I hand her the knife again. I curl my hand around hers. I dip it into the frosting.

"Gently, Cheeky," I say. "Gently." We swirl the frosting together, and I think she is like a three or four year old....so clumsy in her attempts, so earnest, so eager.

I picture her as she was then. Without me, without us,

and I feel my impatience drain away. I grab another cupcake, help her again, our hands moving in sync, her back pressed against my belly, her head bent close to the cupcake. She is singing under her breath......It's gotta be more like falling in love, then something to believe. More like losing my heart, then giving my allegience. Your love called out, come take a look at me now. It's like I'm falling....in love. Deeper and deeper in love.

Deeper and deeper.

In love.

Yeah, Cheeky, me, too.

I Know a Secret

2011-09-01T16:32:00.000-07:00

And, I can't say much about it.

Except that a certain family that I know (and, no, it is not mine) has just requested that this little guy's file be locked.

His birthday was just a few days ago. He turned five, and now.....now....he has a family that can't wait to kiss his chubby little cheeks!

That is, of course, the best part of the secret, because Little Guy has been waiting on the shared list since May 2010. So many months waiting for just the right family to see his darling face, and it has finally happened.

But there is another part to the secret, and it makes me want to jump for joy.....this certain family is a big one with many children who attend my daughters' dance school. Which means....

I will get to see this little guy in person. I will get to watch him grow. I will get to see him bloom with the love of his new family!

Maybe, just maybe, next year, I will wish him a happy birthday. Face to face!

Writing the (Back)Story

2011-09-01T08:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of getting together with Jill. Jill is the lady who wrote the article about how Cheeky came to be part of our family.

Aside from the day she came to interview the family, we don't know each other, but we're both writers. We chatted about kids and about writing, and she mentioned that she'd read this book:

That surprised me a little because the book won't hit the shelves until September 6, and because......well, because it always surprises me when someone says s/he's read one of my books.

Later, as we talked about Jill's writing project (women's fiction....my favorite kind of read), she said that when she read my book she noticed that I started the action with a bang and sprinkled (or maybe she said dribbled) the backstory throughout.

It's true. A good storyteller knows how to weave the character's background seamlessly into the story. A little bit here. A little there. No big long rambling paragraphs about why the hero or heroine act the way they do. No long narrative about where the characters come from, who their parents are, why their past relationships worked (or didn't). Just sprinklings of everything that needs to be known. Here and there. Every page and scene. Some bit of information that ties the now with the past and gives the reader understanding of what led to this moment.

It's easy, of course, to pile everything up front, explain it all because the information is just burning inside, waiting to burst forth onto the page. Unfortunately, piling too much back story in too quickly may make the reader shut the book for a while.

Or, forever.

Anyway, that's more about writing than most of your care to know, and I do, actually, have a point to this that goes beyond writing. A couple of weeks ago, someone asked me when I planned to tell Cheeky about her past. This was, of course, whispered as if Cheeky's past were a dirty little secret.

When will I tell her?

What an odd question, right? Because, Cheeky knows her past.

But, really, she doesn't know her past. Not all of it. She never will, because there is no way to know who her birth parents were, no way to get back the three years she spent in the orphanage, no way to figure out how she got the deep scar on her forehead or the smaller scar on her temple. I will never be able to tell her how old she was when she crawled, walked, spoke for the first time. I will never be able to tell her what her first words were. I have all those things for my other children, tucked away in memory books and in my heart. First hair cuts. First lost tooth. First day of school.

I have none for Cheeky.

It is a black hole that might eat her alive if I let it, all those things she does not know, pulling and tugging and dragging her in. I can not shy away from the things we do not know, because Cheeky deserves open and honest discussion of her story.....with all its holes and unknowns. I do not know when you lost your first tooth, but I know the day that you lost your first tooth in America. I do not know how you got the scar on your forehead, but I remember how brave you were the day you had surgery on your eyes. I remember how proud I was. Those are the things I say to Cheeky when she hears a sibling talking about a first and asks about hers.

Yet and still, her past is not a total mystery. I know the day she was abandoned and found. I know that she was in an orphanage, and I know the exact date that she joined China Mom's family. I know that she was a little naughty and a little spoiled. I know that she was loved. All these things and all the others that we do not know, they are Cheeky's backstory, and I sprinkle them through daily conversations. A little here. A little there. There have been a few sit down moments where I have laid out the entire story as I know it to be, because Cheeky knew nothing when she came to me. She believed her China family was her birth family, and I had to explain birth mom and dad. She never asks me about them. Never brings up the BIG mystery of her life, but I coat her with a dusting of knowledge in conversations about China and her time there, mentioning birth mom often during the days and weeks and months. I lay the foundation for open questioning, because I know that one day it will come.

When will I tell Cheeky about her past?

Such a strange question. Her past is part of who she is and it is forever part of who she will be. Therefore, it is part of who we are together. There is no telling. There is living ever day with it, weaving it through the story we share so that is not part of another life, another story, another time, but part of this time, part of now, part of us.

Like a weaver with colorful threads, I create a pattern for the future, always and ever openness about the joy and heartaches that are part of my daughter's life. That, I think, is the only way it can be if I am to give Cheeky the love and acceptance she deserves. Her backstory woven throughout our lives, so that it is almost the same. Hers and ours. The joys at what we know. The sadness at what we don't. Sharing it all every day. A little here. A little there. Seamlessly weaving, everyday weaving, always weaving Cheeky's story, so that she knows what led to this moment, this place, this family, this love.

Harvest (of the Heart)

2011-08-30T08:24:00.000-07:00

Cheeky isn't much for potatoes or onions, but she loves tomatoes. More than that, she loves going out in the garden and helping with the harvest. This is her second full summer with us, and this year, she's helped tend the garden. She pulls weeds like a pro and can spot a ripe tomato a yard away. I guess she looks for the color, as she has much more difficulty spotting the huge zucchinis!

My other kids take it all in stride, but to Cheeky, helping in the garden is proof positive that she is a real McCoy. To her, every job has meaning and being included in an activity proves that she belongs.

Sometimes, this is a tough one for me. I find myself wanting to put a time line on things, wanting to measure how long it will take before she truly feels like she belongs. Weeks, months, years? Surely there is some formula to use that will show when the wanting to belong will end and the feeling like she belongs will begin.

But, of course, there isn't.

I think that Cheeky's heart is like our garden. Some days, tomatoes are ready to be harvested. Some days, the onions need to be pulled up. Potatoes grow beneath a layer of dark earth and rich soil...some tiny and some large, none seen until the plant is uprooted and the dirt brushed away. There is no time-line for when things should be harvested. They are ready when they are ready. Some things will never see harvest at all, but will lie dormant until next year when tiny plants will grow and then flourish. This year, we have carrots growing. We didn't plant them. They are are remnant of last year's crop and a sweet surprise. Seeing those frawn-like leaves above the surface, knowing that despite plowing the garden, despite planting row after row of potatoes, despite hot sun and little rain, last year's crop has yielded something bright and nourishing and delicious....it excited us, played into our imagination, made us think that anything was possible in our garden.

That is the way Cheeky's heart is. Filled with past plantings and current plantings, everything blooming in its own time. Trust, then love. Then, trust again...deeper and more defined. One day, we will harvest belonging together. Not the easy words that we both say, but that true, heart-deep knowledge that she is and always will be part of us.

It will happen. In its time. So, we both just keep planting for that harvest, knowing that in the rich soil of Cheeky's heart, anything is possible.

Will You Wednesday on Tuesday: Someone Worth Dying For

2011-08-23T19:37:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been hearing this song a lot. Probably because I am spending so much time driving kids back and forth to activities and doctor appointments, and I always have the radio on. It's by Mikeschair, and this is the chorus:

Am I more than flesh and bone?
Am I really something beautiful?
Yeah, I wanna believe, I wanna believe that
I'm not just some wandering soul
That you don't see and you don't know
Yeah I wanna believe, Jesus, help me believe that I
Am someone worth dying for
I love the message of the song as it pertains to faith, but there is something more to it. Every time I hear the song I think of him:

And her:

And him:

And, most especially, him:

I think of all the children like them, and I think of my kids and my friends' kids. I think about how we do whatever it takes to keep our kids healthy and happy. I think about how quickly any of us would step in front of a bullet or a speeding train or a raging lion if it meant saving our child's life. Our children know that we are their safe place to rest. We are the place where they are secure and loved.

I think about these words:

Am I more than flesh and bone?
Am I really something beautiful?
Yeah, I wanna believe, I wanna believe that
I'm not just some wandering soul
That you don't see and you don't know

And how Cheeky told the reporter who interviewed her that she thought I wouldn't care about her and that she was surprised and happy when she realized that I did. Then, when she was asked what she loved most about being in America, she looked at me and Sassy, and she said, "I just love spending time with my family."

I look at this photo, and I know how deep that truth runs:

Once, you see, she was a wandering soul. As fortunate as I am to have this photo, I can't look at it without feeling deep sadness. This lost little baby is my funny, bright and loving girl.

When I brush her beautiful hair and feel the ridges of her misshapen head, I imagine Cheeky lying in a crib, crying for someone to love her with the kind of love that would sacrifice everything for her.

And, now, she is home. She is planted firmly in this family. She need wander no further, look no deeper, try no harder, because to me, she is absolutely worth dying for.

That, then, is what motivates me to advocate. Every child deserves to do more than wander unseen through life. Every child deserves to have a family that will say:

You are more than flesh and bone
Can't you see you're something beautiful
Yeah you gotta believe, you gotta believe....
That you're not just some wandering soul
That can't be seen and can't be known
Yeah you gotta believe, you gotta believe that you
Are someone worth dying for

There is no perfect child. No perfect relationship. No perfect love. But, there is this: family.

That is all these children are looking for. Someone willing to step forward and say, "Your name is stamped on my heart, and I will do anything for you."

Will you?

If you're curious about the children pictured above or any of the waiting children featured on my blog, please email me for more information.

Good news! Xavier has been matched!

Two For One (Or, Arms Aren't Supposed to Do That)

2011-08-20T00:25:00.000-07:00

Well, I've always told my kids that I believe in going big.

The Architect took this to heart when he decided to break not one but two bones in his arm.

He's in pain, but that's not something 6 to 8 weeks and a huge bag of pretzel M&Ms won't cure.

The Architect told me he learned a valuable lesson from this: Don't let a guy who weighs 70 lbs more than you fall on your arm during Jiu Jitsu sparring.

I told him I'd keep that in mind. Then, I let him dig into the M&Ms, because a kid with two breaks in his arm deserves to eat as much chocolate as he wants.

Look Who Has A Family

2011-08-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

That's right! I heard from her mother, yesterday. Darling Jade finally has a family of her own!!

The Annoying Thing About Albinism

2011-08-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

Well, having read my reassurances that albinism isn't a big deal, you're probably surprised by the title of this post. And, really, albinism is not a big deal. To me. But, then, I am not the one living with it.

After engaging in some physical activity (curse my stupid get healthy plan!) that resulted in this:

I have had some time to sit.

One would think I would be enjoying the forced inactivity. What with being chased by wasp, stung by bees, bitten by daddy long legs and fishing mice out of pools, I think I'm due a little down time.

However, after seeing the above photo on Facebook and reading my explanation of how it happened, my former editor suggested that my current editor might be very happy about the fact that I nearly broke my ankle while plotting my next book during body step class (BTW, do not try that at home or in the gym or anywhere else). Her implication was that Melissa planned the entire disaster so that I would be forced into a chair and into finishing the already 16 page long (that's single space. wince) synopsis for my next Heroes book.

Despite my very imaginative brain, it hadn't occurred to me that my wonderful editor might be plotting against me, but I suppose I'd rather blame her than myself. Normal people do not plot books while jumping on and off steps, and if I admit that's what I was doing.....

Well, we all see where this is heading.

So, I've decided to blame Melissa for the accident, and I have plopped my behind into a chair and am trying desperately to wrap up the never-ending synopsis before I hit page 30.

It is not going well, people, because what I am really thinking about is Sunday's church picnic and how embarrassed Cheeky was.

As you all know, I'm big on helping my children embrace their uniqueness. Case in point, The Professor. He turned 15 yesterday, and one of his favorite gifts was this book:

That's right. THE EDGE OF EVOLUTION: The search for the limits of Darwinism. It's not something most 15-year-olds I know would be interested in. The Professor is, though. He is a Christian scientist, and he makes no apology for that or his rather quirky nature. What I have learned is that people accept us most when we are accepting of ourselves, and the people who know The Professor love him for his quirks not despite them. BTW, he is tone deaf and recently joined the choir at church. Every time I see him in the choir loft, I smile, because he KNOWS he is tone deaf and can't carry a tune, but he loves singing, so he sings.

But, I digress.

Back to Cheeky and Sunday and the thing that embarrasses her.

As I said earlier, it is easy to say that albinism isn't an issue when you are not living with it. Or, should I say, living within its confines. While Cheeky does everything every other kid her age can do, there is one thing that she cannot do, and that thing is beginning to bother her. You see, Cheeky can not differentiate between faces. IE, when she sees someone, she decides who they are based on voice, carriage, hair color and skin tone rather than facial features. Lately, this has become an issue. Not for me or for the people who love Cheeky, but for her.

It all began when she confused my friend for me. I blogged about it and will try to retrieve the blog from all the many I threw into draft after the debacle. Long story short, we were at the gym, Cheeky was in day care. She saw my friend, thought it was me, and called out, "Hi Mommy!" When she found out it was Deb and not Mom, she was very embarrassed despite my continued reassurance that it wasn't a big deal.

Since then, she has confused many familiar people, and she is beginning to notice that she is not able to do what other kids can. She can't just walk up to someone and say, "Hello, Ms. Michelle or Mr. Phil or Ms Ruth." She must either say hello and wait for their response, hoping to gain some clue as to who they are by their voice or words, or she must ask who they are, or she must do as she always does and guess, hoping that she will be right.

Sunday, she walked up to a man she believed to be her Team Kid leader. The guy is new to the church, is about equal in height to Philip, has dark hair like Philip and similar skin tone, and Cheeky started talking to him, assuming that he was her buddy Mr. Phil.

When she realized her mistake, her face went three shades of red. I know this, because I saw her talking to the guy, and I saw her bright red cheeks. When I asked what she was doing, she said, "I thought he was Mr. Philip," and she laughed, but it was obvious to me that she didn't think it was funny.

It occurred to me, then, that Cheeky might be annoyed with this one thing about albinism. She loves her fair hair and her blue eyes (because, everyone in our family has blue eyes). She doesn't mind the questions and looks. She slathers on sunscreen with glee and loves telling people about her transitional lenses. As a matter of fact, I'd say she thrives off the attention that having albinism brings. But this other thing, it bothers her.

She is a people person, after all. She loves people, she loves to talk, she loves communication and connection and feeling like she belongs. She wants desperately to be part of our family, our church and our community. She wants it with a desperation that I think few of us will ever feel. Because of that, this constant mistaking of familiar people must loom large in her mind.

Later, while I sat near the pool and watched Sassy and The Architect swim, Cheeky sat beside me, and I decided to bring up the issue of faces and recognition.

"Cheeky," I said, "Does it bother you when you confuse people that you know? Like today, when you thought you were talking to Mr. Phil?"

She hesitated for a minute, and then she nodded. "I felt embarrassed, because I didn't know him, but I was talking to him like I did."

"Well," I responded. "I can understand that. When I was your age, I got embarrassed very easily. As a matter of fact, I would cry when I was embarrassed."

"Really?" she asked, leaning close and studying my face the way she does when she's trying to figure out if I am serious or joking.

"Absolutely. Ask Grammy. She'll tell you. I cried a lot, because I felt embarrassed a lot. Now, that I'm older, I've learned that people who care about me, people who are my friends, they love me so much that it doesn't matter whether I do something that I think is embarrassing. They still think I'm great."

"Really?" she said again, and I nodded.

"Yep, but you know, you confusing faces? That's not embarrassing."

"I think it is,' She mumbled, and I tugged her in for a hug, because I am really bad about names, and I know how it feels to mix people up.

"I think that's because, you love your friends, and you don't want to feel like you don't know them well. But, you can't help it that your eyes can't see the details of their faces. That's just the way you were made. Your eyes don't work exactly like other people's, and that's okay. The next time you mix someone up and feel embarrassed, just tell them, 'I'm sorry. Sometimes it's hard for me to see faces clearly.' They will understand."

She was quiet for a minute, and I knew she was thinking about my words and about her eyes and about the fact that what is easy for most people is very, very difficult for her.

"That's a good idea, Mommy," she finally responded, and then she decided it was time to brave the cold pool water again. She headed toward the pool, but before she got a foot away, she turned and threw herself into my lap. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek.

"Thank you, Mommy," she said and then she went to play with her siblings.

I watched her go, and I thought about how frustrating it must be for her to never see a face clearly. When a person is blind, it is expected that she won't know who she is speaking to, but when a person is visually impaired, things are different. People do not know there is a visual impairment, and even if they do, they can't understand the extent. I think that over time, people who know Cheeky will begin to understand how difficult it is for her to differentiate faces. Those closest to her will do what we do, give little cues to help with identification or just out and out say who they are before they begin speaking.

While I'm sitting here with my foot up and my ankle iced, a book percolating in the back of my mind, what is at the forefront of my mind is my daughter and helping her embrace who she is, accept who she is, look at her limitations as gifts to be valued and explored. After all, it isn't many 9-year-olds who can recognize the sound of a person's footsteps or recognize someone by the scent of their perfume, but Cheeky...she can do that.

So, maybe this one thing about albinism is annoying to her.

But, I guess we all have things that annoy us about ourselves.

Me?

I'd prefer to be a little less clumsy, a little less wordy and a little better at remembering people's names.

But, if I were, I wouldn't be the mom these five love.

I guess that's the key for my Cheeky. To just keep doing what I'm doing, letting her know that who she is is absolutely perfect to me. In my acceptance and love for her, in the acceptance and love of the people who care about her, she will easily and happily find acceptance of herself.

Now, back to the never-ending synospis.

I Should Be Writing

2011-08-15T09:32:00.000-07:00

But I am not. My children are upstairs playing board games. The laundry is chugging away in the machine. And, am sitting here thinking about this little girl named Teresa.

I have been praying for her for a long time. I can't remember the first day I saw her face or read a desperate plea for her family to step forward and claim her. I only know that I began praying for her then, and I have not stopped.

Teresa, the girl with the broken heart and the sweet smile, finally found a family that would love her. They have been together for just a little over a year. I visit their blog often, and I always pray for Teresa. Pray that God will heal her heart and give peace to her family. Pray and pray because there is nothing else anyone can do.

The doctors have said it is simply a waiting game, and her mother has said that they have accepted that there will be no big cure. Teresa's life spills out a little more every day, and I sit here and wish it could be different.

No life is ever cut short.

Each is what it is meant to be, numbered from the beginning, but that does not make it easy on the mother and father and sisters and brothers. It does not make it easy on those who love this little girl so well and so completely.

God has written her story, and as I read her mother's post about accepting His plan, I realized that my idea of a happy ending and His may not be the same.

Today, I should be writing, but I am thinking that not every story ends with a smile. Sometimes, the best stories end with tears.

Teresa's story is one of the best. She is a shining light and she has glowed even brighter with a family to love her. Whatever the end, whenever the end, that will not change.

Please add Teresa and her family to your prayers.

Hair Drama (revisited)

2011-08-13T06:55:00.000-07:00

Eons ago, before GIRLS, I worried not about hair. Being me, and largely unconcerned about my own untamable mane, I happily watched as my husband clipped our sons' hair every few months. No drama. No trauma. Once the aforementioned clipping of hair ended, I went on my merry way, not ever giving HAIR another thought.

And, then, they came along.

First, this one whose hair simply refused to grow for the first three years of her life, but who now sports a golden-red braid past the middle of her back:

And this one whose hair was pixie short, and to whom I made the most ridiculous promise to allow her to grow her hair as long as she wanted (Which....will be to her ankles):

And, so, I have girls with HAIR.

Having promised #1 daughter that she could get layers in her hair after her ballet intensive and having promised myself that I would get Cheeky's hair trimmed to maintain its good health while it continued to grow, I girded my loins and headed to the local hair salon.

"What do you want done?" asks the lady who is helping Cheeky onto a booster.

"We want it trimmed. Right, Cheeky?" I say, and Cheeky nods mutely because she does NOT want it trimmed. She does NOT want to be in the booster. She does NOT want anyone cutting her platinum locks.

Because, here we are back in memories of what used to be, and she is revisiting all those hair cuts where the clippers came out and her hair was shorn boy-short no matter her feelings about it.

She had no say in it then, but I assure her that she is not getting her hair cut short.

I don't think she believes me, but she says not a word as the woman wields her scissors and begins snipping.

Meanwhile, Sassy is in another chair. She is not fearful. She is elated. "Cut it all off!" is her battle cry, but there is no way ever in this world EVER that she can get all her hair cut off and still pull it back into a bun.

I offer this firm reminder as the woman pulls out the scissors, and Sassy nods.

"I know, Mom," she says, with that little 15-year-old attitude that she's been perfecting since she was 3 hidden because she knows if she shows it, she will be out of the chair without layers or a hair cut.

And, so the hair cuts commence, and the girls sit...one stiff as a board, one happy as a clam.

And, I think HAIR...who knew?

That it could mean so much?

That it could be proof of promises and of control?

That it could matter, would matter, maybe even should matter whether it was long or short or in between?

Who knew that platinum hair or gold could draw so much attention, require so much work, lead to so much drama and trauma and angst?

I walk over to Cheeky who is scrunching up her face as her bangs are snipped, and I say, "You look nervous. What's wrong?"

And she says, "Nothing."

And, we both know that it's not true, that something is wrong, and what is wrong is that she loves me and trusts me, but that she still doesn't quite believe that I will hold true to what I've told her.

"Make sure," I say to the lady who is cutting her hair, "That you do not cut too much. It is very important that it stays long."

And, Cheeky sits up a little straighter, she looks a little more deeply into the mirror, she watches with a little more excitement and a little less angst until finally, FINALLY, it is over, and she is done.

The hair is still long, and she walks to the mirror, tilts her head back and forth so that platinum locks slide over her shoulders.

"It is still long," she says more to herself than to me.

Later, we walk out of the hair salon, Sassy preening at my side, Cheeky clutching my hand and skipping through the parking lot. I open the van door. As Cheeky gets in, she turns and puts her cold little palm on my cheek and looks deep into my eyes.

"Thank you, Mommy," she says. "I love my new hair cut!"

And, I think that I hear something else in her voice. I think I hear, "You kept your promise, you did what you said and I love you for that, Mommy."

And, it occurs to me that maybe all this hair drama is a good thing.

Because, no matter the look of the hair when it is done, I have done what I have promised.

Sassy has layers.

Cheeky has length.

And, I have maintained my reputation as the mother who keeps her promises.

The Little Death

2011-08-10T10:50:00.000-07:00

A really sweet lady named Jill contacted me a month ago to tell me that Cheeky would be featured in her column in the local newspaper. It's basically a 'this is my story' column, and I was happy to allow Cheeky to participate. After all, she has an incredible story to tell, and this was her chance to tell it.

It's funny, though, how speaking something can bring it into sharper focus.

I suppose that after two years, we have gotten used to each other. Cheeky is ours. We are hers. It's a done deal, and we move forward. Though we speak about China family often, I have sensed more and more that Cheeky is pulling away from what was.

It is not that she does not still love China family but that she is growing a deep love for us. We, then, begin to replace the memories she has of China family with memories of our family. No matter how carefully I strive to preserve them, slowly her memories are fading.

So, Jill contacted me, and I sat with Cheeky.

"Cheeky," I say. "A lady from the newspaper wants to come over. Her name is Jill. She wants to write a story about you. What do you think? Do you want to talk to her?" I ask, because it has to be her choice.

"Sure, " she responds and bounces away.

Over the next weeks, I mention Jill's visit a few times, and Cheeky nods and smiles and acts like she knows exactly what I am talking about.

Two afternoons before Jill arrives, Cheeky sits with her photo album. She has not done this in a while, so I sit with her, and I look through the photos with her the same way I did when she first joined our family. We talk about the mean sister who beat her up, the brother who hit China Dad. She mentions being sick, and she tells me, as she always does, that she spent more time with China Dad than China Mom.

Later, she is talking to Sassy, and I hear Sassy say, "What kind of things do you think they're going to do to your body? That's the silliest thing I've ever heard."

I walk into the girls' room, and they are sitting with the photo album.

"What's going on?" I ask, and Sassy gets that I'm the older and wiser sister look that she has perfected.

"Well," she says, "Cheeky thinks that the lady who is coming over here is going to do something to her."

I am surprised, because Cheeky has acted like she knows exactly why this woman is coming.

"What do you think she's going to do?" I ask.

"I just thought she was going to do something to my body. Like, look at me and see if I'm okay."

And, suddenly, it occurs to me that this might be exactly what happened in China before her paperwork was processed. I imagine her sitting with China Mom and Dad, listening as they discuss the person who would evaluate her. Surely, she was examined and interviewed and asked questions in those days before she learned she would go to America.

I look at her, and I see that loss in her eyes, and it is like a little death. She has given up so much and maybe she thinks she will have to give up more.

"Did that happen in China?" I ask, and she nods. "Well, that is not what happens here. Here, you don't get examined by anyone but a doctor, and even then, I am with you. Jill is just coming to hear your story, because people are interested in knowing how our family came to be. She's going to write about you, and people will read the newspaper and learn what being a family means."

I think she gets it this time.

"Oh," she says. "She wants to know about our family."

"Right," I say and sit on the bed with the girls. We look at the pictures that represent Cheeky's other life and that prove that little death, that sad goodbye to all that she once knew.

Cheeky before us.

And, so, Jill comes, and Cheeky is sweet and lovely, and she talks about her time in China and her thoughts about coming here. She admits that she didn't think she would really have to leave China and come to America. She talks about how she thought all Americans were blond, and that I would be blond, too.

Finally, Jill asks what her favorite thing about being in America is, and Cheeky doesn't even hesitate. She looks at me and, then, at Sassy, and she says, "Just spending time with my family."

That is Cheeky.

Loving despite all that she has lost.

I suppose that is the true miracle of adoption. That children like my daughter can lose everything they love and still have soft and open hearts.

I realize, as I say goodbye to Jill and sit with Cheeky and look through the album with her again, that I have not planted myself in her heart. She has taken me there herself. She has planted me deep. She has given herself over to the process of cultivating and watering and feeding our relationship. She is not just a cheeky, sweet and lovely girl, my daughter. She is wise beyond her years. Perhaps that little death has bred in her a need to live with abandon and with joy. Or, perhaps, living that way is simply who Cheeky is. There is no way to separate the past from the present, to untangle the tendrils of her other life from her soul and determine who she might have been without the heartache and losses.

I wonder if I would even want to.

While I wish that Cheeky would never have had a moment of fear or sadness or heartache, she is my daughter because of where she has been.

Just as I am her mother because of where I have been.

We cultivate each other, plant each other deep, cherish each other more because we know what life was like before we came together.

So, that is what I'm thinking on this Wednesday morning. A little death and a brand new life. Endings and beginnings, and my darling Cheeky girl.

An Updated Photo of William

2011-08-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

Isn't he darling? What a sweet and precious smile and what gentle eyes. I just know that William's family is out there!

And, I know that when they finally have him in their homes and hearts, this little ten-year-old is going to make one very special family very, very happy.

Dear Jimmy (Or William Still Waits)

2011-08-04T18:45:00.000-07:00

My husband and I have been sponsoring a child in South America for many years. We have watched her grow from little girl to lovely teen, and we fill a kinship toward her, but I have never looked at her and thought...."she is like a daughter to me." I know, you see, that Elizabet has a mother. She has a father. She has siblings. Though she lives in poverty, she has food and clothes, she is being educated, and, more importantly, she is loved.

A couple of months ago, I was made aware of a boy in China who also needed a sponsor. His name was Jimmy, and I looked at his picture, and I looked at my sons, and I thought, "Jimmy has never had what they have. He has never known a mother's hug, a father's pat on his back. He has never had his own room in his own house in a place called family."

And, I looked at Cheeky, and I thought, "She could have been Jimmy. If not for China Mom seeing her in that orphanage, she might still be there."

I decided to sponsor Jimmy out of a sense of responsibility, because I could not stomach looking at his face and knowing that I had done nothing. I don't really understand the whys of it. I've looked at so many children on so many sites, and I have never felt such a strong and immediate pull.

But, Jimmy, he pulled me, and so we are sponsoring him.

Every month or so, An Orphan's Wish sends out updates. Since sponsoring Jimmy, I have been scouring the photos they include, looking for his smiling face. When I find it, I have found myself thinking...There he is! There is my boy!

As if, somehow, giving a few dollars a month gives me a right to stake a claim.

The thing is, Jimmy does not know me. He will never know me. He has already aged out of the system. He can not be adopted. His path is set, and when I pray for him, I pray that he will be happy and have a sense of belonging somewhere and with someone.

Sometimes, I want so badly to say, "Dear Jimmy, I am sorry I can't be your mother. I am sorry that I can't laugh while you act silly. I am sorry that I can't tuck a blanket around your shoulders when you are sick. I am sorry that I cannot cook your favorite meal on your birthday. I am sorry that I cannot be the place you come home to when you are grown."

Because, I am sorry. So, so sorry.

It is not that he is not happy. It is that he is adrift. Despite the wonderful care and compassion and love he receives in the CP unit, he is still an orphan, still without a family. Worse, he is without hope of a family.

William is another boy who tugs at my heart. Born in June 2000, he has been in care since August 2001.

I've blogged about William before.

He is somber-eyed, this boy, and he is waiting.

Born with bilateral clubfoot that has been corrected, William has HepB.

He also has a desperate need to be loved.

In June, he turned 11.

In three years, he will be another Jimmy.

Adrift with no hope for a family.

I know that someone, somewhere will be what William needs and what Jimmy should have had.

I know that someone needs a boy with somber eyes and handsome features, a boy who is described as extremely smart and helpful and kind. A boy who plays in the rain and is so, so ready to have someone call him son.

Will you?

WACAP is offering a $4200 promise child grant for the adoption of this child by an eligible family. He is listed as XRM.JXQ0600.01 on the WACAP waiting children website. For questions or more information, please email WACAP at ckids@wacap.org.

Shirlee McCoy: Private Eye Protector (or, one of these things is not like the other)

2011-08-03T09:47:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a rough couple of weeks for a variety of reasons that have nothing to do with my children (or my husband...just so we're clear)

First of all, I had a deadline. To meet the deadline, I have been staying up late reading and rereading the completed manuscript.

Second of all, I have been stung by three of these:

One of these:

Then, bitten by several of these:

And, believe it or not, one of these:

Yes, he is a daddy long leg. And, yes, they can bite. Apparently, I've been lying to my kids all these years when I told them that they couldn't. I found out the truth Friday when I was weeding, felt something biting me, looked down and saw said creature on my leg. In his defense, he'd crawled behind my knee, and as I shifted my crouched position, he feared for his life.

Thus, the bite.

Apparently, the insect world has it out for me.

Or, maybe, I have it out for them and they're just protecting themselves.

To top off my joy, I found a dead mouse floating in the pool. I HATE mice, and I especially hate dead ones that are floating in the pool my kids and I are planning to swim in. See, I spent a summer working in a research facility in Thailand. I took care of the lab mice. They are white. They eat their babies. I won't paint a more vivid picture than that. Ever since then, I want NOTHING to do with mice. I wouldn't even let my kids have a gerbil, because it was too mouse-like. But, I live where I live, and field mice like to hang out in our barn. Every once in a while, one gets chased by a cat and winds up swimming for his life in our pool.

And, then he dies, and I find him.

Ick.

But, back to my rough couple of weeks.

I've been going non-stop all summer, and I'm tired and, I admit, a bit grumpy.

To cheer myself up, I decided to see if the cover for my November book was up.

It's always fun to see a new book cover, but I'm usually a little nervous about it.

Because, really, book covers do impact sales. Much as we might say, "don't judge a book by it's cover," we all do.

So, I went off to see if my new cover was up on Amazon or Barnes and Noble, and it was. Only there is something....different about it.

Seriously...these are my last few book covers. The November release is mixed in there. And one of these things? It's just not like the other.

See what I mean?

I thought you would.

So, I am staring at this cover, sort of thrilled and sort of appalled by the sheer size of my name when son # 1 arrives.

He, of course, spots the book cover, and he says, "What's that? Your biography? Shirlee McCoy....Private Eye Protector. Since when were you a PI?"

And, I laugh, so four other kids came to see what's so funny, and they all begin looking at the cover

At which point one of them...and I will not mention any names....begins singing this:

"When it's dark and scary and you're afraid. She's there to help and she's there to save. Give her a call, she'll rescue the day. Shirlee McCoy: Private Eye Protector."

And, then, of course the other kids join in.

Except for Cheeky.

She's not quite sure what's going on. She's fluent in English, but sometimes she gets lost, and this is one of the times. So, she tries to sing the silly song and laugh about my giant name, and she wants so badly to join in that she begins laughing louder than everyone else.

And, it is all I can hear as I look at my book cover and listen to my kids, her desperate laughter saying, "Please, let me be part of you, too."

Later, I go out to sit on the deck and read through my manuscript one last time. Again.

It is quiet there, and I am praying no one will find me.

But, she does.

She doesn't come out, though.

She knows I am working, so she stands near the big window, half hidden by the curtain. I see her in my periphery, and I turn. She smiles and ducks. It becomes a game, and after a few minutes I am tired of playing, but she is not.

I motion for her to come outside.

"What are you doing? Why are you standing at the window?" I ask.

"Because, I wanted to come out with you, but Sassy said that would annoy you, because you're working."

"Well, it wouldn't annoy me. You're my daughter, and that means you are much more important than my book."

She sits down beside me, and she leans her head against my arm.

Across the field, the sky is dark, and I can hear someones sprinklers going.

Cheeky doesn't speak, she just sits while I work, her head up against my arm.

Leaning, leaning, leaning.

Please, let me be part of you, too.

And, I think that if Cheeky's heart were the cover of a book, it would look just like the one that is not like the others, because my other children?

They have my name in small letters on their hearts.

My Mom.

But Cheeky?

Her heart is emblazoned with it, the letters so big and bold that it can never be denied.

My Mommy

Because, that is what happens when you lose everything. What you have becomes so much bigger than what it is to other people.

This is a good thing for me to remember, I think.

Yesterday, I giggled at the size of my name on that book.

Today, I cannot look at it without hearing Cheeky whisper, "Please, let me be part of you, too."

Hardwired

2011-07-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

Once, many many eons ago, I did not like bugs.

I thought they were creepy and gross and slightly frightening.

Then, I gave birth to The Musician.

After the initial shock of having a boy-child wore off (I come from a family of four girls and one boy), I realized that I needed to make some adjustments to my way of thinking. After all, this was a boy. One day, he would be hanging with his buddies, and I did not want him to shudder in fear if a bug crawled his way (yeah, I know. Slightly sexist, right?). So, I began to appreciate bugs. I picked them up and showed them to The Musician and then to The Professor and then to The Architect. When Sassy came along, I did the same with her (because, I am really not sexist).

While I showed off various creatures, I would give science lectures on the bug of choice.

"This is an ant," I would say. "See how industrious he is? See how hard he works?"

"This is a spider. Spiders are cool. They eat other insects. Without spiders, we would be overrun by the insect world."

"This is a praying mantis. She stays as still as a stone and is camouflaged by her coloring and her cool wings."

My method of creating kids who love bugs has had various amounts of success. Sassy HATES bugs. The Professor is slightly phobic about spiders (though, he'll pick up any other bug-like creature). The Musician despises centipedes. Only the Architect and Cheeky seem to like bugs, and I can't take credit for Cheeky's affinity for them.

Which just proves that nurture is only part of the equation, right?

Nature has a whole lot to do with our likes and dislikes. As I've always said, kids come prewired. My job has never been to change the wiring, but simply to help channel the energy created by it.

If my kids are interested in something, if that interest lasts for days or months or even years, I learn as much as I can about those interest, and I encourage my children in those pursuits.

Sometimes, this is easy.

For example, Cheeky loves music. She loves to sing. She has a beautiful voice and pours passion out when she gets caught up in a song. I love to sing, too. We are perfectly matched in this way, and we sing together all the time. We sing while I do her hair, while we weed the garden and while we bake. When she goes into the bathroom and sings in front of the mirror and Sassy points out the immaturity of the act, I say, "She loves singing like you love to dance, and she's happy when she sings. There's nothing wrong with that."

Sassy, of course, loves dance. I've never been a dancer, but I sure can appreciate the art.

I can also appreciate The Architects new(ish) love of cars. He was fascinated by them when he was little, and he's come full circle, moving for origami creations to model making.

The other two?

Well, sometimes supporting a kid's interest is more difficult.

First of all, I've always been a no-guns person. The Musician, however, has big plans to go into the FBI. He loves talking guns and weapons and knows more about them then I ever wanted him to. Then again, I didn't want him to know anything about them. Still, I've moved past my loathing and into a place of encouragement, because he is my son. He is sixteen and very responsible, and I would rather encourage him to be open about the things he loves than deny him and have him close down on me and get into trouble exploring his passion for handguns in secrecy.

Then, of course, there is The Professor's absolute dedication and passion for.....

Particle physics.

Oh, yes, people.

Particle. Physics.

I don't even know what it is, but The Professor loves it.

At fourteen, he devours science books written by PhDs.

He loves to discuss them with with me, and I pretend that I know what he is talking about. When I completely canNOT think of one word to say about what he is explaining, I just say, "Professor, you are one incredible kid. I can't believe how much you know about this stuff."

And, he says, "I don't know very much at all, Mom."

The other day, we were working in the garden. Just The Professor and me. The other kids had given up on weed-pulling nearly an hour before, but Professor and I are hardcore stubborn when it comes to completing tasks. The sun was just beginning to set behind the mountains, and a cool breeze blew in over the field where my husband's garden is planted. We worked silently, me and my second born, backs bent over a bed of potato plants.

"Mom," The Professor said, "Have you ever absolutely known exactly what God wanted you to do?"

The question surprised me, and I thought about it for a minute. "Well," I said, "I knew He wanted us to move here. I knew it without a doubt, because He opened every door and made it really clear. I knew He wanted us to have a fifth child, and I knew that she would be from China."

"Well, this is going to sound crazy," my boy responded, "But, I know what He wants for my life. I know He wants me to be a scientist, and I'm really glad I have a mom like you who is a Christian, but who loves everything about science. I'm glad you're never afraid to let me explore everything I can about what I like."

His words took my breath away, because I don't really love every aspect of science. I love natural science, but I've never been into chemistry, physics or...well, particle physics. Sometimes, when he is going on and on and on about particles and evolutionary versus creation theories and talking nonstop about theoretical science stuff that I will NEVER be able to wrap my mind around, I just nod and smile and encourage, though inside I am wishing we could talk about singing or dancing or...even...model cars.

I guess it is the effort that counts. I guess that realizing that all kids are hardwired differently, that accepting it and encouraging those differences has given my second son confidence in himself and his ability to pursue his passions.

The thing is, we don't always have to love what our kids love to love our kids. We don't always have to understand their quirks and variables to guide them to the path they are meant to be on. If we accept that we are all uniquely created for a purpose, we can accept what others might view as idiosyncrasies or, even, weaknesses and shower our children with the kind of unconditional love that will help them grow into the people God wants them to be.

I've been thinking about this a lot as I contemplate little Jade.

Her file states that she is developmentally delayed, but her caregivers say she is bright and catching up with her peers. She is verbal and asks questions when she is comfortable. BUT, she is shy and timid. Maybe even stubborn. It's possible those three things worked against her when her IQ test was administered.

It is possible they did not.

It's hard to know what the truth is, but I wonder if the truth really needs to be known for her to find a family who will love her.

Jade's path is not the path of any other child. It is hers alone. She is hardwired to be Jade, and some lucky family will reap the joys and challenges of that.

Please, spread the word about darling Jade. She deserves to be more than a diagnosis. She deserves to be daughter, sister. Loved.

The Past Revisited (or Cheeky's Story)

2011-07-23T09:58:00.000-07:00

I've received several emails regarding two of the girls that I've featured on my blog.

This one:

She's a darling, right? Born in April 2010, she is still just a baby. Who doesn't love babies??

I updated her information here to reflect a message I received from the family who originally accepted her file. As I told her, they did the right thing in returning the file. Much better to accept our limitations than to hope for the best case scenario and find ourselves in China and over our heads.

And, this young lady:

Jade will be six in October, and I blogged about her here.

Both girls seem to be delayed in their development, and the main theme of the question I am receiving is this: Was Cheeky delayed when you met her and did she catch up?

Based on those questions, I'm assuming that many people who are currently visiting this blog aren't familiar with Cheeky's story. Since I am still in the process of removing photos from previous posts and can't repost them yet, I'm going to go ahead and revisit Cheeky's story here.

The short answer is no. When we met, Cheeky did not have any noticeable delays, but she was 7. Bright and bouncy and quite impish. She'd spent 4 of her seven years in foster care with a family who adored and spoiled her. They had pushed for her to attend public school with other children her age, and, while she wasn't the best of students, she certainly did well enough to be allowed to continue in the classroom.

This is Cheeky age 4:

She looks quite happy and sweet, right?

This is Cheeky at approximately 13 months. It's the only baby picture I have of her:

It was taken by someone who visited the orphanage, and I can't look at it without feeling heartsick.

Cheeky spent the first three years of her life without a mother's love. The more I know my daughter, the more I understand the sadness in her face in the above photo. Cheeky is a clinging vine, she must be watered continually with love and attention. She thrives off of physical contact, and she needs it as surely as I need moments of silence and time to myself. She still bears the mark of her time without love. Her head is misshapen from lying in a crib for too many hours, flat on one side and bulged out slightly on the other. It is nearly impossible for me to get her pigtails straight because of this, and I cannot do her hair without thinking about the baby she used to be. When I get impatient with her constant leaning, constant clinging, constant need to be connected to me, I picture the little girl in this photo, and my impatience fades.

Shortly after we arrived home with my vivacious and exuberant daughter, I received and email from her China Mom. Lizzie, her husband and their English speaking daughter met with us in China. We broke the rules and arranged the secret meeting after finding dozens of notes hidden in Cheeky's belongings. I will be forever grateful that we went with our gut and allowed the family to come to our hotel. Through that meeting, I have made a friend in China Mom, and I have received invaluable information about my daughter.

In the email, Lizzie told Cheeky's story. I had it translated by a Mandarin speaking friend as I could not believe that the on-line translator I was using was correct. My friend cried as she interpreted the story. She said she felt shame for what had happened to my daughter and sadness for the little girl she was. I cried when I read it because I was not there for Cheeky when she needed me.

Cheeky's story began as every other child's. She was born and, for nearly 3 months, she was cared for by her birth mom. I believe birth mom waited until the weather was warm before she bundled Cheeky up and left her in a box in a busy market near a train station. After that, details are vague. Cheeky's orphanage is well-known for allowing visitors. Plenty of people visited during the years Cheeky was there, but only one snapped her photo. I think that this is because Cheeky was not usually out during public visits. I think (but can't prove) that she was kept with the more severely disabled children. My reasoning for this is simple, Lizzie visited the orphanage often after she became a foster mother, and she never saw Cheeky there.

Until one day.

The day that changed everything for my daughter.

There was a big event at the orphanage and Lizzie brought her foster children there for the celebration. She went upstairs and spotted a child she'd never seen before. A little girl with white hair and skin sitting in the corner by herself. Her heart (as she said in her letter) was immediately captured by the child. She walked over and spoke to her, but the little white girl did not respond. Lizzie didn't give up. She crouched down in front of the little girl, and she held out her arms. "Come," she said, "Let me hug you."

Slowly, slowly that little girl reached out, and Lizzie picked her up and hugged her close.

How my daughter must have bloomed in that moment, opening up and reaching out for everything she'd been missing out on!

She clung to Lizzie for the rest of the day, and when Lizzie had to leave, she cried.

For the next three months, Lizzie begged to be allowed to foster the 'little white girl'. Finally, her request was granted. Just a few weeks after her third birthday, Cheeky was brought to Lizzie's home. She walked with an unsteady and strange gait. She could not speak, could not express her needs or wants. She could not feed herself. She wet herself when adults spoke to her. She never smiled or laughed if an adult was in the room, but Lizzie would hear her giggling with the older children. If she stood for any amount of time, Cheeky shook violently, and Lizzie rushed her to the doctor, fearing she had epilepsy. She learned, instead, that Cheeky had a vitamin D deficiency from being kept inside.

Born with albinism, visually impaired, severely delayed and with symptoms of autism, she was deemed unadoptable, but Lizzie deemed her lovable and poured her heart into Cheeky. As spring bloomed into summer, so too do children bloom (those are Lizzie's words...I think she is a writer, too). Cheeky was no different. Given unconditional love, she blossomed.

She grew. She developed. She caught up with her peers in almost every way. She entered preschool/kindergarten and held her own, and at some point it was decided that she was adoptable. The story of how we all connected, my family and Lizzie's and our sweet girl is another story for another time.

We did connect, and Cheeky has continued to prove how bright and funny and lovable she is. How resilient. How adaptable.

When we met, she had low muscle tone and balance issues that have been corrected with eye surgery (it's a lot easier to balance when your eyes work in tandem) and ballet. I'd place Cheeky's family age and social maturity at about 6 which coincides with the number of years she's actually had a family. Mentally and academically, she is 9, but there are a few holes in her knowledge of life and the world. In other ways, she is very mature. She is independent and caring. She is helpful and savvy about people and their emotions.

She is Cheeky.

Unique and joyful, and just exactly who she should be.

Of course, she is only one story, and her story is the kind everyone hopes for when they fall in love with a waiting child's face.

We should never ever base the decision to adopt on what we hope for, though. Children are as individual as snowflakes. No two are alike. Therefore, every adoption experience is different. Every family experience is different. And, that's what this is about, right? Not saving a child. Not rescuing one. Not doing a good deed or answering a call.

Building a family.

That is the beauty and the purpose of adoption.

We should go into it knowing that our experience will be determined by the child's innate temperament, her strengths and her weaknesses rather than our desires and dreams.

Every child deserves the chance to blossom into her full potential. Whatever that potential might be.

If you have further questions about any of the children featured on my blog, questions about albinism, older child adoption or Cheeky, please feel free to email me.

Being Private in My Public World (or, I'm Back)

2011-07-21T13:53:00.000-07:00

So, I'm about ready to go public again, but I'm feeling a little nervous. Once bitten, twice shy, right?

The thing is, I'm a very public person. Google my name, and you'll find photos of me and my books. You'll also find photos of my kids. There's no way I can avoid it, and that scares me. On the other hand, some good work has been done through this blog, and I can't stop that work.

What's interesting to me is that it isn't my career that has brought over 200,000 visitors to this blog. It's my daughter. People are fascinated with Cheeky, and rightly so. She's a beautiful girl with a wonderful story to tell. She's adapted easily and is doing phenomenally. But, really, I think it is the joy she has brought to my home that draws people to this blog. Just seeing her face, reading about her sweet soul has reminded people that 'orphans' are children with hearts and personalities and needs. They are not a cause or a reason. They are not pitiful or broken. They are individuals. Each with unique needs and gifts and challenges.

When I first began this blog, I had no idea it would impact so many people. I did it as a way to pour out my fears and excitement as we got ready to travel. It is true that I'm a writer. I know how to turn a phrase and create an image with words. But, it is the power of my love for my children that brings this blog to life.

They are the deepest part of my heart.

In the end, this experience is only making me more determined to do what I've been doing. To keep writing about my experience as Cheeky's mother, to keep saying that older children need and deserve a family's love, to keep insisting that building a family takes work and passion and commitment and, most of all, love. To keep advocating.

To keep walking this path God has placed me on.

Because, I truly believe it is where I am meant to be.

And, because I truly believe that the unconditional love of a family is the most powerful gift we can give a child.

It is impossible to be private in my public world. I spent nearly a week just trying to keep up with the emails that were coming in. Today, I am going to move forward with caution, tiptoeing back out into the public forum and watching carefully to see what and who that brings. I'm sorry to say, photos will be limited. If you're interested in keeping tabs on how Cheeky is growing, you can friend me on Facebook.

If you've been coming here for a while, you'll notice that all my previous personal posts have been removed. They'll be back, too. I just haven't had time to remove photos, yet. You'll start seeing them reappear a few at a time.

In the meantime, I've left up the advocacy posts.

If you're interested in any of the children listed, please email me for more information.

When A Bee Stings You In The Butt

2011-07-19T08:14:00.000-07:00

Last night, Sassy and I were pulling weeds from a flower bed near the base of an old pine tree at the edge of our yard. One of the hottest days of the season and the heat lingered as we worked. Old gnarled roots jutted up from the flower bed, and I went to work pulling and yanking with abandon. I'd spent most of the day working outside, trying to clear my head. I think you know what I was trying to clear it of.

My little girl's face, plastered on a website that has somehow conveniently disappeared.

I am wondering, as I pull weeds, where it has gone, and if my daughter's face will appear somewhere else. I did find Cheeky's imagine here. I believe, but have no proof that whoever posted it to the other site, found it there. Just look at the web address, and you'll know why I think that. As you can see, I asked that the image be removed. My blog link was taken down, but Cheeky's face is still there. I've contacted the moderator, but he still hasn't removed the image. It infuriates me.

But, I digress.

So, I'm out pulling weeds with Sassy, the heat lingering, sweat pouring down my face. It's a good feeling to work so hard. I lean down and grab a handful of weeds, toss them into the wheelbarrow. That's when I feel the first sting. Right on my thigh. It hurts like the dickens, and I'm not sure what has bitten me. I swipe at my pants, and that's when I'm stung on the ankle. I look down and see wasps pouring from a hole in the gnarled roots of the tree.

"Run, Sassy," I yell. "Run!"

"Mommy, are you all right?" she calls as she starts running toward the house, the doggone wasps chasing after her. Then, she screams, because she has been stung.

And, that's when it happens.

I'm taking off after Sassy, telling her to get in the house when one of the hateful little creatures stings me right in the backside.

Let me just tell you, this fluffy body can move fast when given the right motivation, and at that moment, I am more motivated than I have ever been in my life. I make it to the front door in record time, flying into the house, the ugly wasps right behind me. I slam the door, but not before three wasps make it inside.

At this point, I am madder than a wet hen, and I grab a magazine, roll it up and go on the hunt. I take out all three wasps in less time than it has taken me to write this sentence. My leg hurts, my ankle hurts, my butt hurts. A few minutes later, I am nursing Sassy's very swollen sting, thinking that I can't let her or my other kids be stung again. I decide I will wait until the wasps settle down, and then I'll hit the nest with a can of Raid (or two).

See, when a bee stings you in the butt, you don't just stand around waiting to see if more bees will come. They will. When a bee or wasp stings, it releases pheromones that call other bees to attack. Trying to fight them off is useless, because once you're stung, you're bound to be stung again and again and again. The best thing to do is go into hiding until the hive settles down and goes about its business again. That's when you can strike back. Now, I'm not condoning the wantless destruction of bee hives, I'm simply saying that when a hive is a danger to your family, you go back out and you destroy it.

So, for those of you who are wondering about this blog, about the site that posted Cheeky's photo and about what I plan to do, here's the scoop. I'm not retreating for good. Just for a time. I will be taking most photos of my children off this site, but I will never stop telling our story. Nor will I stop advocating. In a week or so, I'll be public. If the world's wasps begin to swarm again, I will take even more action than I already have, and I will do what I can to take them down.

Sure, I've been stung in the butt, but I'm still going to keep on blogging. After all, good things bloom where love resides, and good things have bloomed here. Families have formed. Eyes have been opened. Hearts have been touched. Love has grown. Not even the darkest darkness can change that.

Shirlee

Going Private

2011-07-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

As much as I have enjoyed sharing the journey my family is on, I've always known there was the possibility that I'd have to go private. Sadly, the time has come.

There are sick people in this world, and I need to protect Cheeky.

Hopefully, it won't be too much of a hassle for my friends and family to log on to visit with us. You can also connect with us via facebook.

I'm feeling really sad and very sick right now, but I'll get over it and be back to blogging soon.

Shirlee

Update on Girl Born April, 2010

2011-07-16T08:31:00.000-07:00

I received some updated information on this cutie. A doctor who reviewed her file was concerned about her growth and development. At one point, she was listed as having cataracts, but that has been removed from her file. Whether or not she has them is unclear.

As with any child, it is important for parents to enter the adoption process with as much information as possible. There will always be unknowns, and preparation for the worst case scenario is much better than holding out hope for the best and then regretting that decision.

Regardless, this little one is a doll, and I know there is a family out there whose life will be changed for the better when she crawls into it.

If you're interested, this darling girl is listed with WACAP.

And, One More Boy!

2011-07-15T11:39:00.000-07:00

I do so love boys!

And, who can resist a boy like this?

Cute and cuddly and so, so sweet, Peter was born in February 2009. He is currently living in a foster home, and it is obvious that he is loved and cared for. He is listed with BAAS. Yep. He's squinting. Sunlight will do that to kids with albinism. Don't you just want to scoop him up and kiss those sweet cheeks?

Looks Like I Spoke Too Soon (or 3 little girls with albinism)

2011-07-15T11:18:00.000-07:00

I guess I spoke too soon in my earlier post when I said girls were matched more quickly than boys. There are three young girls waiting for families. Two are babies. Just fifteen months old.

Amelia was born in April 2010. She is listed with GWCA, and she is too cute for words. Look at her chubby cheeks!

The next little cutie is listed with WACAP, but she will be on the shared list soon.

She was matched, but her updated report listed some delays and the family backed out. She was also born in April 2010. Personally, I'm not usually concerned about delays in children with albinism. It's fairly common if they're in an orphanage setting.

Then, there is this little darling. She's also listed with WACAP and is 6 years old. Like the other two girls, she was born in April. April must be a month for beauties!!!

As always, if you have any questions regarding albinism or older child adopting, email me at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com. If you have questions specific to these children, please contact the listed agencies.

Will You Wednesday on Friday: Just A Little Love (Jade's Story)

2011-07-15T08:12:00.000-07:00

Most of my advocacy posts that feature children with albinism are about boys. It is a strange thing that very young boys like Wesley and like Jake (who is ten months old and, yes, waiting) wait much longer than little girls.

I mean, who wouldn't love to have either of these two darlings in her life?

Just look at little Wesley:

Look at darling little Jake:

Does it not shock you that they're still waiting?

Young girls with albinism, on the other hand, tend to be matched more quickly. That's why I was surprised when a friend emailed to say that little Jade has still not been matched. At 5-years-old, she's still quite young. She is also completely darling. Plus, she has already defined her sense of style. Look at her sporting her yellow boots and matching sweater:

Doesn't she look like a little diva?

Cute-as-a-button Jade turns six in October. There have been some questions about her mental development. I've heard from some people that she is delayed and from others that she is not. I've heard from someone who knows someone who met Jade (yeah, convoluted, but it is what it is. I just say what I've been told) that Jade is rather shy, but seems completely on par with her peers in every way.

What I know for sure is that Jade's motor development is a match for her peers. She runs, jumps and plays like her peers (a true miracle for a child with albinism who lives in an orphanage). Jade sometimes seems to respond a bit more slowly than her peers when she's learning new things, but she does catch on, and she is able and eager to share her needs and desires with adults in her life. She expresses herself well, is independent and cheerful. In every way that matters, Jade is a typical 5-year-old. Happy and caring, she loves to sing and draw and play 'mommy' with her dolls.

How sad that she does not have a mommy to show her what a mother's love is.

How sad that she does not have a family that will stand beside her in the tough times, who will patiently help when she is struggling, who will cheer when she succeeds.

How sad that a few words scribbled in a report written by people who do not really know this little girl have planted enough doubts to keep loving families from saying, "she is ours."

The fact is, we can not know what Jade's full potential will be until she reaches it.

How can she reach it without someone to love her?

Love and committment.

Those are what Jade truly needs.

Not assessments. Not descripitives. Not definitive answers to how far she will go in life.

What she needs are people to love her as she is, guide her to where she can go and push her to be the best she can be.

Will you?

Jade is listed with Adoption Associates.

Jake is listed with BAAS.

Please contact me at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com if you have any questions about the children listed in this post or any questions specific to albinism.

The Leaning Tower Of Cheeky

2011-07-07T07:46:00.000-07:00

She leans.

On me.

Against me.

On my leg, my thigh, my arm, my shoulder.

Everywhere we go. In the store, the dance studio, church.

She leans.

As if to say, Here I am. Here you are. We are together.

I am picking cantaloupe at the local grocery store, and Cheeky is leaning against my side. All of her weight is pressed against me as I search for perfectly ripe fruit.

I am not a touchy feely person.

I like my personal space.

As a mother, I have striven hard to overcome that, to make room in my bubble for grasping hands and reaching arms.

Only one of my children is like me. An extroverted introvert who craves time alone and desperately needs space. The others have always been quick to hug and cuddle and be close. They crave physical contact the way a desert landscape craves water.

It is our job as parents to adapt to our children. It is not their job to adapt to us.

And, so, I have learned to relax my boundaries, allow them into my bubble without resentment or irritation.

With Cheeky, I must make even more room, because there is an endlessness to her need to step within my bubble, to be in my space, to touch my arm, my hair, my stomach. It has been going on for months now, and as she leans, I inhale, exhale, trying to let go of my tension.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Wrap my arms around her shoulders or back or waist. Touch her hair. Her cheek. Smile even though inside I am wishing, wanting, desiring my space.

And, in my head, I am picturing this:

My little girl, lonely and unloved.

My little girl without a mother to nurse her, hold her, sing her sweet lullabies.

My little girl lying in a crib for hours and hours and hours.

Crying?

Needing?

Longing?

I was not there, then, but I am here now.

It is a parent's job, duty, responsibility to adapt.

Every day, I adapt a little more to Cheeky's leaning.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Imagine her crying in that crib.

Crying for touch and comfort.

I wasn't there.

But, I am here.

I will give her what she needs.

Access to my bubble. My space.

For however many months and years she needs it.

Even forever.

Because, it is what she needs to feel my love.

And, I do so love my leaning tower of Cheeky.