I was pregnant

I was pregnant. And now I'm not.

I got the positive test on Thanksgiving morning. I had started to suspect it a couple days before, just like with Luke, and anxiously waited until I was really late to test. But I was still blown away at seeing the two lines. Once you've experienced years of infertility, it's hard to ever fully believe your body can do anything right. 

Thanks to the holiday, I had to wait five days to get a blood draw. It took forever, but I finally received the results almost a week after my positive test and they were good. My progesterone was high enough that my doctor didn't think I needed supplementation, but I still asked for it, just to be safe, and started taking it the next day. 

I had my first ultrasound in mid-December. It didn't go well, at least according to my standards. I was 7 weeks, 4 days, but the baby was measuring 6 weeks, 0 days.  But we saw the heartbeat and it happened to be a healthy heart rate for a six-week old baby. "It's fine," everyone told me. "You just ovulated late." "The dating is off." "You have nothing to worry about." My OB assured me that she saw positive outcomes in similar situations all the time. I could still miscarry, but my odds were the same as everyone else's.  "You have a healthy earlier-than-you-thought pregnancy," she told me. "I'm putting your file away and not expecting you to call."

I went home and sobbed on the couch with a comforter over my head. I was inconsolable.

By the next day I had made a decision: My baby had a heart beat and was alive and I was going to have hope because I was that baby's mother. 

The next three weeks went better than expected. I was able to have a happy Christmas, enjoy our trip up north to see my family, and rejoiced that I was pregnant with Baby #4 on my 37th birthday. We told the kids and they were thrilled. Clara wanted a sister, Luke wanted a brother, Clara rubbed my belly, and Luke reminisced by talking a little too much about my c-section where my "skin was cut open" and he "was pulled out." I don't remember being that detailed when I explained it to him.

I had my moments. I knew I wouldn't be pregnant for long and, at times, I let that slip. I won't need maternity clothes, I told my mom. I won't be pregnant the next time I see you, I told my sisters. I feared my follow-up ultrasound appointment that was so, so far away but inching ever closer. 

Ryan had a work trip coming up - a freelance gig covering the National Championship Game for the BCS -  that would take him out of town for four days. I dreaded it for the obvious reason - all alone for four days with three kids and no family nearby - but I was also scared to death that I'd miscarry while he was gone. "That's crazy. Don't say that," he said. 

The first two-and-three-quarter days went great. Really, really well. The days flew by, no one came down with the stomach bug, everyone slept through the night (well, not Luke, but he doesn't count), and we were closing in on the last day. Baths were finished, jammies were on, and we were hanging out in the living room trying to catch a glimpse of daddy on the sidelines of the game on TV. 

That's when Clara happened to find a prayer card that I had stashed under a lamp in the living room way back around the time of that first ultrasound.  

"What's this?" she asked. I told her what it was. "Can you read it to me?" she asked. Of course, I said.

It's my absolute favorite prayer card. I cling to Our Lady's words during times of anxiety. But they've always been just that - words. Even in their most helpful moments, they were a two-dimensional reassurance.

I snuggled in my favorite chair with her and read aloud Our Lady's words to Juan Diego. Somewhere around the question "Am I not your Mother?" something happened. I'll take me about a thousand times longer to explain it than the time it took for it to actually happen - and I will not even remotely do the experience even close to any justice - but suddenly the words became real and very three-dimensional. And for a quarter of a second I understood everything and saw something. It was Our Lady, holding us and it was bright and it was colorful and it was warm. And I immediately understood that unlike the many times I had read the words before, and thought, Oh, how nice that Our Lady will help us out here on Earth, that what it really meant, what she was really telling us, was the we need not worry because Eternity awaits us. There is no need for anxiety when there is God, when we will one day be with God. I know those are just words on a computer screen right now, but they were REAL to me. And I felt in that moment, I saw in that flash, that Our Lady was holding all of us, she was holding me, and more specifically for me that night, she was holding my baby right then. And I burst into tears. 

They weren't sad tears. They were tears of being overwhelmed. I don't know exactly what it was that I felt or saw in my mind's eye, but it made me cry. 

Clara asked me what was wrong and I told her I was crying about the baby. About a minute later, I felt something wet and reached down to touch my pants. When I brought my hand back up there was blood on it. 

I jumped up and began to lose my mind. I ran to the bathroom, calling my mother on the way. "I'm bleeding!" I yelled into the phone. "From where?" she asked. I thought at the time how that was such a silly question. But to everyone else who wasn't expecting a miscarriage at every single moment, that statement could have meant I had cut my finger while chopping vegetables. 

My intense freak-out lasted about five minutes and then, as I walked around my bedroom frantically, I had the realization that my actions were not matching up with my thinking. My mind, for once, was calmer than I was outwardly acting. Slow down, I told myself. Don't freak out just because you think you're supposed to. Even then I knew it was just plain odd that my mind wasn't freaking out. I knew it had to be due to a force outside of myself. 

Things weren't okay, but I could handle it. I thought about calling my friend who had just left about an hour earlier, but I knew she had three kids to put to bed. So I texted another friend, Sarah, who is pregnant with her first. She responded in seconds. I later found out my mom (who lives many states away) had immediately gone on Facebook and sent messages to both of those same two friends, asking if they could come over and help. Sarah was on her way.

I didn't end up going to the ER that night like I had wanted. The on-call doctor assured me there was nothing the ER could do anyways, besides an ultrasound. But if it was waking up in the night in pain and bleeding that I feared, they weren't going to stop that. I would call my doctor in the morning. 

I assured Sarah she didn't have to sleep on my couch like she wanted to and also found out she had to go into work around 4 a.m., in just a few hours. And yet she did not even hesitate to come help me that night. The kindness and generosity of others during this entire experience has simply amazed me. 

I never thought I'd go to an OB appointment to confirm a miscarriage all by myself. Why would I? That would be a nightmare. And yet there I was, doing just that. Ryan was beside himself with grief and guilt. He couldn't believe he was on the other side of the country when this was happening. But he was and we had to make the best of it. And we were able to, thanks to more generosity. My other friend braved the cold and brought her three children to my house that morning to babysit my kids, and off I went to hear the terrible news.

The woman checking me in told me there was a balance on my account, but that I didn't have to pay it then because "you'll definitely be back!" I think she even ended with a second, "Definitely!" No I won't, I thought.

I waited among women at all stages of pregnancy, the ones who had regularly-scheduled appointments. Eventually they called me back and the nurse tried the Doppler. Not surprisingly, there was nothing. "I don't think we can fit you in for an ultrasound today," she told me. Oh, dear God, I thought. 

She left and then - thank God - returned to tell me they could squeeze me in and I was immediately ushered to the ultrasound room. "Are you alone?" the tech asked, because she wanted to know if it was okay to close the door behind me. I lost it at her question and shook my head 'yes' through the tears. She was very sweet and remembered me from last time, she said, as I cried. "Do you have any cramping?" I shook my head 'no'. "Do you have any bleeding?" I shook my head 'yes'. 

What happened next was just what I expected. No heartbeat, and the baby measured 6 weeks 1 day, one day further than at my last ultrasound in mid-December. Yet, yesterday, I was 10-and-a-half weeks into my pregnancy.

I cried off and on as I once again waited in the waiting room, when I read texts from family, as I waited in my doctor's office (her actual office, the one with the desk, which is where you go once you have no more baby), and as my doctor explained my options. But I was, for the most part, stable. Especially for being all alone. 

That afternoon wasn't bad, thanks to the extreme kindness of friends. I returned home and relieved my very generous friend who had spent half the day with all six kids. And before I knew it, my friend Sarah showed up with big bags of lunch, cupcakes, and bagels, and sat with me and my kids all afternoon during the time I baby-sat the little boy I watch. I can't tell you what that meant to me. 

I have been wondering why I have felt so strong because, honestly, I'm the weakest person I know. I have some theories. I think Ryan might sort of be my crutch (my fault, not his); when he's around I can fall into my typical emotional mess during difficult times. It's what I do because he is there. Without him, I simply can't. It's like when one of my kids gets badly injured - when blood is involved, or a bump the size of a soft-ball immediately protrudes from their skull. If I'm not alone, if someone else is there to help, I feel faint and my legs don't work. I am totally and completely useless. Yet, if I'm alone with them, I can handle it. I rise to the occasion because I have to. I'm pretty sure that's what happened the past couple days. 

I also believe that I mourned this loss back in December after that first ultrasound. Not that I think I won't continue to mourn it; I completely expect the grief to come in waves. But Tuesday was just confirmation of what I already knew. I actually felt relieved, in a way, to know I no longer had to pretend to be optimistic, since everyone but me believed all was fine. We could now move on from this weird limbo. 

My three children are also a huge reason why I believe this experience has been manageable so far. Not only do they keep me busy, but they remind me of all that I've been given. Blessing upon blessing upon blessing. And, since this all has happened, I can't help but stare at them and wonder how anyone is born. Life is so fragile in the womb. How did Luke make it? It's sometimes too much for me to think about for too long.

Of course, God's grace is ultimately the real reason behind my current stability and sense of peace. At some point yesterday I had the thought that, well, so much for all those prayers for a miracle I've begged God for during this pregnancy. Then I remembered the rope He threw me seconds before it all started, in the form of a prayer card, brought to me by my daughter, and the flash of inexplicable Divine Love and assurance that I experienced. That was my miracle. That was my answer to all those prayers. He thought of little me and gave me a gift that I could carry with me throughout the terrible experience that was about to come. And, I realized, that's what trusting Jesus is all about (a concept I've struggled with a lot in the past): He may not will the cup to pass us by, but He'll never leave us during our struggle. And, if we let Him, He may even become present to us in a very real way.  

And as for my baby, I have a very simple view of it right now - she is in Heaven, where we hope and pray all of our children will eventually be. Why should I mourn that? Yes, I mourn for me, but not for her. 

Trust me, that is of God because I'm not normally a rational thinker in times of stress. 

Is it odd that I'm sharing all this? I don't know. Maybe it is. I have been given a gift of peace in a difficult situation and I feel compelled to talk about it. I'm also selfishly sharing my story to ask for your prayers. The physically painful part is yet to come, and I would appreciate any prayers for that you are able to offer. 

Let me also state that I know how lucky I am to have experienced a pregnancy, let alone two. That is not lost on me at all. I thank God that I was able to conceive again, and marvel at the miracle of it, no matter how short a time it lasted. My prayers are always with those still waiting to become mothers, and I'll offer up the emotional and physical pain that is to come for all of you.

Busy busy

It's been a crazy couple of weeks.

Luke, feigning concern, is actually happy to see someone other than himself messing up a photo for once.

A first birthday, Christmas, an 8-hour trip up north, a rare day of work (outside the home, that is) and bringing-home-the-bacon for me.

Do I look like I have a lot of information to offer on improving your marriage?

Fun with my family...

What percentage must be smiling for it to be a success? I'm hoping 33.3.

Lots of great food, Luke's first college basketball game in which Ryan left the tickets in Virginia but it all turned out fabulously.

He did so great, despite the much-talked-about mascot being on Christmas break. Oops.

An 8-hour drive back home a day early to miss the Great Storm of 2014, my birthday in which I turned old, and a brand new laptop which also happens to be my FIRST laptop since I started blogging believe it or not and will allow me to blog much, much more. Or so I hope.

Surely I missed something there.

Now we're back at home, we seem to have lost our baby and gained a toddler.

"You want the shot, the apple stays."

 A walking toddler, at that. With lots of curls and opinions.

Please ignore the fact that my daughter is in the fireplace. It's clean and non-working. I swear.

We have more toys than we know what to do with, and I'm pretty sure our house is shrinking. Ryan's working overtime this weekend and I'm hunkering down as if a snow storm is coming, stocking up on bread and milk and processed food because I'm not leaving the house with these kids except for Mass.

Our little southerners. Pretty sure Luke is sock-less.

So it's kind of been survival mode over here in recent weeks. It's in a good way, but still survival mode.

A complete lack of anything that resembles normalcy means school has taken a back seat to the craziness. That worries me, because there will always be craziness. I also haven't seen the inside of a gym in weeks.

Life will get back to normal soon. I think. And then I'll be longing for a little crazy to shake things up. 

One year ago today

One year ago today our family was on the last leg of our epic road trip (almost-all-the-way-) cross-country. It was December 23, a Sunday, and we had just stopped for Mass in Odessa, Texas, followed by a brief visit to a shrine; a shrine not to a saint, mind you, but to high school football - the Permian Panthers football stadium, which is the team on which the book, movie and TV series Friday Night Lights is based. I had given in and allowed my husband to stop, despite being in a race against time. When would we ever get back to Odessa, Texas? Never. And he was putting up with so much, driving 18-hour days with two toddlers in the back.

So we stopped. Very quickly. And I joked that he better hope our daughter wasn't born while we were there because I'd forever tell that story.

Guess when she was born.

We were pulling out of the stadium when I got the text that forever changed our lives. Our third child, our second daughter, had been born that morning and was healthy.

Truthfully, my estimates show we were most likely at Mass when she actually came into the world, right as I was wrangling a restless two-year-old out front, praying before a statue of Our Lady of Grace which was adorned with a vase of roses (hello, St. Therese). 

We high-tailed it to Arizona and arrived just after midnight. The hospital was so incredibly accommodating, letting our entire family, kids and all, in to meet our daughter and sister in the middle of the night. And the birth family. Words cannot describe our experience meeting them in that crowded hospital room that night, around one in the morning on Christmas Eve, so I won't even try. I will just say that it was as grace-filled of a room as I've ever walked into.

And there was the tiny baby with a full head of hair. One family - so generous, welcoming, loving and selfless - putting her into the arms of another.

One year later, that baby is all toddler (suddenly!), with big, blue eyes and gorgeous curls.

 
And she is so loved.

We adore her beyond belief. And I know her birth family does too.

Happy first birthday, Esther Grace Therese. You bring us immeasurable joy, and we thank God for the gift He has given us!

A couple of my favorite things

If you've been a reader of my blog for a while you know of my love for Brother Francis. I happened upon some videos on YouTube one day a couple years ago, found my way to their website, and ordered our first Brother Francis DVD. I couldn't help but share here, on my blog, how awesome the DVD was and how it was teaching my kids all their prayers. So post I did, and somehow the Brother Francis people found that post and have since been sending me the rest of their Brother Francis episodes to review.

So we were thrilled when the newest DVD from Brother Francis arrived in the mail - The King is Born.

You can find it here.

Clara and Luke knew that Christmas is Jesus' birthday, but beyond that their knowledge was lacking. Last year our Christmas was a little, let's just say, unorthodox. We spent it in a hotel room, many, many hours away from home, with a new baby (the similarities to the Christmas Story were not lost on us at the time!). Although we had an Advent calendar before we left for our big trip, I'll be honest, that was really more about crafts than Scripture.

So this year I knew I wanted to focus on teaching them what the holiday is really about. And who better for a busy mom to turn to for help than Brother Francis?

Like with all the episodes, a lot of information is packed in here. Watching it, I can't help but imagine the writers trying to figure out how they are possibly going to get ALL that very important info into 25 minutes. But, somehow, they do. And they keep it interesting for kids. And, like with all the episodes, I think different ages can take away different levels of learning from this video. My kids were happy watching it (catchy songs, interesting animation), but I think older kids would be too (the story was detailed and not overly simple).

But, as I'm always surprised to find, I think toddlers even get more out of videos like this than we realize. I remember after watching the Let's Pray episode, Clara started telling me (at age two) about mysteries. So to me, Brother Francis is a win-win for this reason. They watch a lot of stuff that is right at their age level; why not show them something that keeps their interest, yet also exposes them to information I may otherwise not think to share with them? While we have prayed the Rosary together, I probably would have stopped short of explaining what mysteries are because I would have figured it was over their heads (not to mention I would have no clue what to say. Explaining things to small children is not my strong-suit).

So we'll be watching this video throughout Advent. And I keep thinking of how this DVD would make THE BEST St. Nicholas Day gift for my kids - if they didn't already have it. 

*******************

While I'm on the topic of gifts.....

I'm always on the hunt for saint dolls. So much so that I actually made Clara one last year because I just couldn't find any that weren't ridiculously expensive. Little did I know, my friend Mandy is a super talented artist and has an awesome Etsy shop...with JUST what I was looking for!

Seriously, how cute is that?

I ordered a doll for Ryan's Goddaughter a couple months back and it was completely adorable. So, I bought another one for my Goddaughter for Christmas.

I love her stuff so much I wanted to blog about her, because I know there must be other moms out there like me who are looking for saint dolls that don't cost a fortune.

She makes dolls, plushies and finger puppets and while she isn't taking any more custom orders for Christmas, there's still a lot to choose from on her site (although there are just two dolls left.. I'm glad I grabbed one before they were gone!).

And once is Christmas is over I'm sure she'll be accepting custom orders once again, and her dolls make great feast day or birthday gifts too. So go check her stuff out :)

Birthdays

It's birthday season around here. Today (or technically yesterday, since I'm publishing after midnight) was Luke's.

Unlike most mothers on their children's birthdays, I will not say that I can't believe Luke is three. It's actually rather believable. He's always kept up with Clara, has been talking practically since they pulled him from my womb, and (lucky for us) never really had a terrible two's. Now, don't misunderstand. Luke had his very own unique breed of terribleness that involved not going to bed at night until past midnight, no matter WHAT I tried, but that can't be attributed to age. He's done that his entire life (although there is a VERY promising update on that front that I'm still a little nervous to boast about just yet. Stay tuned).

While my two oldest always seem the same age, today starts the week when they actually are. For five days, I have two three-year-olds.

Be still my heart. This photo makes me want to write another post about adoption right now.

With the way Thanksgiving fell this year, with Luke's birthday before it and Clara's the weekend immediately after, we decided to have a joint party for them this past weekend. We don't always have parties (seems to be an every-other-year trend we unofficially have going at the moment), but when we do, the kids get very into them. And as excited as they get about them ahead of time cannot even compare to the lasting impression the party leaves.

Luke has a photo book that chronicles his first year and there's a page devoted to their monkey party. It's his favorite page, by far. In particular, he loses it every single time over the cake I made. He gets so excited leading up to that page that he can barely contain himself and I had to talk him out of a monkey cake again this year.

So parties - and cakes - are big deals in our house and I started discussing this year's theme with them earlier this month. At the time, we were right on the heels of a Jake-and-the-Neverland-Pirates Halloween, and my Jake and Izzy were beginning to make the transition into the more classic Peter and Wendy. I can't say I wasn't happy. That theme had a lot of potential. The ideas pretty much created themselves.

I love planning parties for my kids. Love it. Fall is my season - Halloween costumes right into party decor. Stressful, yes. But a good kind of stress (and this from the person who no longer paints because even that is too stressful for her). It's easy. It's glue-guns and felt and sewing only when entirely necessary. It's making pretty things that they can use in their rooms (that's a big requirement, and why I make the decorations in the first place). So I spent most November evenings making banners, party favors, more banners, and any decoration I could think up.

It all came to together this past Saturday and was a success because Clara and Luke had a blast.

 

My only regret was not having the party earlier in the day. It gets dark way too early this time of year to have any usable natural light for pictures. You know, priorities.

So I was about to relax last night - with wrapping presents my only task before Luke's actual birthday today - when he, as I tucked him into bed, announced how excited he was for his Batman birthday. Okay.... And it wasn't some manipulative thing, like a spoiled kid trying to bleed their mother for every creative ounce she's worth. He said it so innocently, so excitedly, with those big doe eyes (okay, maybe he's just really good at being manipulative...) as I stuck my head into his Thomas the Train tent that goes over his bed... that I had absolutely no choice.

The glue-gun came out one last time.

I set out to make a cape and a banner. Upon pulling out all of my yellow and black felt from my "craft room" (a.k.a. my mess of plastic Target bags thrown in among my clothes in the tiny closet I share with Ryan), I realized I didn't have enough. But I had an old pair of black sweatpants that had seen better days. Once too many holes in all the wrong places means I can't wear them to the grocery store, I really have no use for them. So I cut one leg off, opened it up, and it became a cape. No sewing, nothing. Just cutting. I had enough felt for the Batman symbol and for a banner. Phew.

It's safe to say he loved the cape (side-note - my mom once told him a story about a red-haired boy who grows up to be Batman and, ever since, he very reluctantly accepts it as his destiny).

Photo-of-Lukie-and-his-Batman-banner FAIL.

I'm starting to realize I may have set the bar too high. After freaking out about the awesomeness of his banner and cape this morning, he asked, again innocently, why his Peter Pan birthday banner was still up and hadn't been replaced with another Batman banner. And he told me how excited he was about his Batman cake. Uh oh.

His defrosted chocolate cupcake and green (from Peter Pan) frosting were more than good enough for him though (okay, I might have created the Batman wings out of buttercream) and he was thrilled about the entire day, even mommy's request to take a birthday photo (well, maybe thrilled isn't the right word here, but he obliged).

I love this of him. Just want to eat those cheeks right up. Almost makes me forget all the hitting and fighting.

Now only one more birthday to go in the next week. Then Advent (which starts the same day, in fact) and another birthday, then Christmas. Then it's my birthday. Just in time for me to start feeling really tired and old.

Love you to pieces, Lukie... I mean Batman. Next up, Clara!

Adoption: Thoughts from the other side

I have lots of thoughts swirling in my cluttered head about adoption, most of them having to do with me giving the "old me" (pre-adoption me) advice. Since that's not possible, I thought perhaps someone else out there could benefit from my current perspective of being on the "other side" of adoption. We've made it through the discernment, the application, the home study, the wait, and the call. We adopted a daughter. And then we did it all over again. We've crossed over to parenthood and I can now look back on all those hang-ups I used to have back then, when I put it off for (what felt like) so long. So here are some of my first thoughts, on God's immense grace.

It took us five years to adopt once finding out I was infertile. Four years passed before we even began the home study.

We desperately wanted to start a family, so what took so long?

Well, it took time to mourn the loss of the ability to conceive. That's not an easy reality to process. I basically went through the Five Stages of Grief, and that can take a while. There were surgeries in there, several doctors, countless medications. Six cycles of this, nine cycles of that. I counted years by treatments. I could barely manage my part-time job that was infertility, let alone begin the difficult journey to adoption.

Not that I didn't think about it. Every day.

Ryan wanted to move forward. He wanted to be a dad and, more importantly to him, he wanted me to be a mom. He had a peace with the thought of adopting that I did not.

I struggled with it constantly. Went over and over it in my head. I wanted to have a family, I didn't want to keep my husband from fatherhood, I wasn't getting pregnant and probably never would...  But, oh, the hang-ups.

It's amazing how discerning a big decision like that can really dig deep down in your soul and brings all your insecurities to the surface.

A big one for me - a HUGE one - was that there would always be another mother. That just ate away at my insides. I wouldn't be number one. I'd be number two. The understudy. I wanted to be IT, the child's entire universe. His mother. I couldn't bare the thought of sharing that title with another woman. I was so broken down already. I just didn't think I had it in me.

I was jealous of a person I didn't even know. I didn't even know if there would ever be such a person. But I was jealous of her.

I can't tell you how I specifically overcame those thoughts, but I did. I let go and jumped. Took the ol' leap of faith. I prayed the heck out of it and muttered, "Jesus, I trust in you. You better take care of this." And guess what? He did.

There is no other way to describe my change of heart other than pure and total grace. Grace is one of those words that gets thrown around in Christianity. A buzz word. I knew I wanted it, others said they'd received it, but I had no idea how to even know if I had it. Those things you can't touch, see or smell are tricky like that.

But my change of heart about adoption and birth parents can only be attributed to grace, so I'm going with it.

We never met Clara's birth parents. We don't know anything about them. I have ways that I could do a little research in this age of the internet and all, but I just haven't. I know some of you might think I have crazy willpower, but the truth is I have had no desire ever to find out anything more than we currently know. It was easy, not having a face to put with the title of birth mother. There was no one to be jealous of, no one to compare myself to, no one to make me feel inferior. I knew she was adopted, of course, that there was another mother out there, but it was very easy to forget when we knew so little.

When I first laid eyes on Clara - the nanny, who cared for her after she left the NICU, handing her to me.

Then came Essie. Or, rather, first came her birth mom. It was she who I knew months before I first met my daughter, and she was so incredibly sweet. I was already an adoptive mom, I had this down. I knew I would love that baby like I birthed her, that there would be no worries. I learned early on with Clara that it's those sleepless nights and 2 a.m. diaper changes that make you a mom, just as much as carrying them in the womb.

We got to know Essie's birth mom over email and then we met her at the hospital, shortly after Essie was born. I cannot describe to you how grace-filled that room was. If I wasn't sure what grace was up until that point, I knew then. It was palpable. God turned it into something I could touch, see, and smell. Because He is awesome like that.

This photo doesn't tell the whole story. It's the birth family behind the camera that made it so special.

And you know what? I've never once been jealous that Essie has a birth mom. I've never once felt insecure knowing she's out there, that she carried my beloved daughter in her womb for nine months, that she was her first mother and will always be her mother. I get teary-eyed at that thought, but not because of any hang-ups. It's because I'm so glad Essie will always know she has another mother and I feel beyond honored that she chose us to raise her precious girl. I will forever feel honored to share that title with her.

I love knowing that Essie looks just like her. And I hope Essie has that neat way about her that the whole family all seemed to have when we briefly got to know them (I can already tell she does).

I know I didn't overcome those insecurities on my own. I'm not that strong. I like to wallow in self-pity and don't read books about spiritual growth. But I took a leap of faith back in 2008 and God did the rest. It's amazing being on the other side of it now, looking back at my former worried self, wondering how I would cope, and knowing now that it's all okay. Better than okay. I worried for so long about how I would handle always knowing there's a birth mom out there. And then it happened and knowing she's out there has actually been an enormous blessing. My heart feels healed. The absence of jealousy and insecurity is a beautiful thing.

So have faith. God wants to heal your heart. If you're like me, you may not know how to get there even if you want it desperately. If there's a road map, I haven't found it. But I'm here to tell you it can happen. He will work on your heart and your insecurities if you let Him.

Adoption is such a blessing. Born from pain and suffering, but so beautiful. I'm so thankful to have it in my life. And I'm so blessed that God used it to do a little work on a sinner like me.

It's Election Day.. Vote for Essie!

It's Election Day and, of course, we voted. And I discovered that I apparently have an Election Day uniform because I'm cool like that.



And if on this Election Day you feel like there are just no candidates you can really get behind, like no one you can really, really trust and love and support, well... I have one for you. And you can vote for her no matter where you live.

It's Esther Grace. Remember this costume? (I know, it's been so long)

I happened upon a costume contest last week and entered her and just happened to check an email account today that I hardly ever use, and there was an email saying she's a finalist!

So please, exercise your right to vote this Election Day and head on over and cast your ballot for one candidate we can all support (thank goodness it's Election Day as I'm writing this. It's making it a lot easier.. and cheesier).

I mean seriously. How can you resist that face? I know elections shouldn't be about superficial things like looks, and hair, and clothes, and the boxes the candidates' moms made for them. But just forget about all that this time and vote for cuteness.

Essie's trailing the leaders by a couple hundred votes. And voting ends Wednesday at midnight. So click here right now so Essie can win some organic toys. Pretty please???

Thanks!!!!! Happy Election Day!