Tag Archives: toddler adoption

Unpacking: Two Years Ago Today

The tag on the back says “12 mos” – a measure of size and not age. I shake out the blue and white checked pants before folding them, tangible proof that our almost two-year-old is much smaller than most his age. Tiny shirts, pants, footie pajamas and an impressive array of cute onesies emerge from cloth shopping bags, filling the mostly empty drawers. I move the size 2 outfits we’d purchased to the closet. The weight and height measurements we had gleaned from medical files did nothing to prepare us for the Lilliputian dimensions of our brand new toddler.

Brand new to us, that is. Up until now he’d been an abstraction, the idea of a son sketched out in black and white via e-mails and social workers’ reports. He had seemed to come to life in daydreams fueled by my own fervent desires and charitable impulses. Caught up in my excitement, his big sisters painted this very room themselves; a sloppy, but affectionate gesture. Jungle green smeared over princess pink walls. Lions, tigers, bears and a miniature Webkinz elephant were rescued from stuffed animal purgatory to serve as both decoration and entertainment.

He came with his own stuffed animals too. Clothes, toys, soothers, a neon mobile that plays nature sounds and lull-a-byes at the press of a button; I’m told he prefers falling asleep to Bach each night (classy). He has a favourite blanket, book, game, food, way of being woken each morning and, no doubt, a thousand other things I didn’t even think to ask about. In real life, we have more questions than answers. I have no idea if he’ll like his room.

When I brought my daughters home, these same drawers were bursting with clothes. From day one I was the acknowledged expert on who they were and what they needed. It wasn’t that complicated; newborn infants are more potential than established personality. But almost two-year-olds don’t fit neatly into the boxes my imagination had constructed. He came with his own things. He came with his own identity.

A worn blue T-shirt, obviously a favourite, clutched in my hand, it finally occurs to me that, in all their wisdom, the Government of Canada, under the auspices of the Ministry of Child and Family Development, has seen fit to give us an actual person.

First steps in the door bringing our new son home forever!

First steps in the door, bringing our new son home forever!

So here’s us, two years after first bringing home boy. We’ve learned a lot and we still have a lot to learn. It’s been a wild ride! It never ceases to amaze me that they gave us a real, live person. For Keeps!

We love, love, love this little guy. Happy FOR KEEPS Day to us!

Advertisements

For Keeps: the Big Day Arrives

My son is 25% boy and 75% snot. Although we were finally getting the hang of sleep at night, all night long, today we are bleary-eyed and grumpy. And slimy (see above re: snot).

It’s not what I pictured when I imagined this day. In my daydreams we are smiley and dressed in our best (and naturally I’m 20 lbs skinnier). We stand before a stern but fatherly judge and solemnly vow to love, honour and cherish our son forever and ever amen. The audience of happy, tearful friends and family cheers wildly. The sky is filled with fireworks and/or flower petals floating in the wind (I can’t decide), as our family walks arm in arm out the front door of a quaint old courthouse.

Choruses of angels sing. A flock of doves bursts into flight. Adoption Finalized!

Roll the credits.

Reality is a lot less like the wrap-up of a sitcom. Today, at 11:41 a.m. on a Tuesday, we get an email from the Social Worker. “Congratulations! It’s official. His new birth certificate is in the mail.”

No fireworks. No cheering audience. No solemn vows. Just a lot of paperwork and waiting and an anti-climatic finish.adoption-Paperwork

“What to Expect When You’re Adopting” has a lot more blank pages than traditional family growth. There’s no standard 9+month timetable. No firmly established rituals as we transition into a new version of us. We make it up as we go along. And I wonder if the rest of the world realizes that it’s every bit as Miraculous, Thrilling, and Magical.

We were “expecting” for almost 3 years. The labour and delivery wasn’t quite as bloody as most, but terribly hard work. We don’t track it in hours or even days, but months. 7 1/2 months since we brought him home. 7 1/2 months of making him our own. 7 1/2 months of making us his own. Until today, at 11:41 a.m. on a Tuesday. Adoption Finalized.

We’ve been a family for a long time. I wondered if this would make any difference at all. Would it calm the last vestiges of irrational “what-ifs” in my mind? Would it matter?

Despite the lack of fanfare, the answer is: absolutely.

Another heart clenching, surreal, overload of emotion as we close this chapter. And I held him extra tight, snot and all, in the middle of our everyday, hustle-bustle life. You might not know it to look at us, but something amazing happened today!

So here’s us, officially, legally, forever a family.


The Why of Adoption

The mother and daughter sat silently at the table rolling out play dough and carefully cutting it into shapes, while I chased my boy. He stole stickers off the craft table and stuck them on the walls, jammed a piece of plastic ham in the mailbox, snatched a ball from the curly-haired toddler, tried to climb the gate and bounced around the room shrieking with happiness. The quiet Mom caught my eye and asked, “Why?”

She was asking what most people think, but few actually ask. Especially when they hear that he has three older sisters. Why another? Why adoption?

why

Why DID we adopt the boy?
Because he needed us.

We are so blessed. We want to give back. We want to make a difference. We believe we were put on this earth to make it better.

Parenting is one of the most meaningful things we do. We enjoy it. We’re not perfect, but we’re not Springer material most days. We have a special skill set as parents of a special needs child. We experience a level of chaos and neediness in our home that is not going away anytime soon. Why not add another one to the mix?

There are so many children who need stable, loving homes.

We have a stable, loving home.

Why did we adopt the boy?
Because we needed him.

We had always planned to have more children, but after B I wasn’t able to. That agreement we made in high school to have 4-5 kids certainly wasn’t binding, but I had a deep longing for another child; Glen had a deep longing to keep me happy.

We had discussed adoption since Glen’s first visit to a Russian orphanage. I have several cousins who are adopted through foster care. It was always an option for us. It had intrigued us from the beginning.

No matter how many times we tried to scuttle this crazy adoption dream, it wouldn’t go away. Our family didn’t seem finished.

We were missing someone.

Why did we adopt the boy?

Because we wanted to.

Because we had room.

Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I flipped through my mental rolladex, trying to come up with the right answer for Playgroup Mom. I’m pretty sure I stuttered out some combination of all the above. Because the answer that popped into my head right away would have made little sense to her.

We adopted him

Because he’s our son.

All the reasons we had to start out with are still valid, but on this side of adoption they seem too small. It isn’t just about us. It isn’t just about him. He is ours, because it was meant to be.

It was God’s plan.

This is a phrase that has been so often misused and misunderstood that it makes my skin crawl to write it. But there’s no better way to express the strange sense of “rightness” we feel.

We didn’t receive any signs from above. We didn’t have a mystical experience. We could have, and almost did, walk away from the process. We stuck it out, with all our uncertainty, until we read about THIS toddler. Then we knew. By the time we brought our boy home, we knew he had been ours all along.

When he was conceived, we were just finishing up our application for social services.

When he was developing in the womb, we were sitting in parent education classes.

When he was born, we were renovating our house to make room.

When he was being rocked by foster mom for the first time, we were waiting for our social worker to call.

When he was celebrating his first birthday, we were sweating our way through home study visits.

When he was pulling himself up to stand for the first time, we were disappointed with another adoption lead that went nowhere, and beginning to wonder if there was a child for us at all.

When he was taking his first step, we were reading an email about a little boy with a big smile and energy to spare, who seemed like just the right fit.

Grandma found these PJ's for the boy: our "Best Gift Ever!"

Grandma found these PJ’s for the boy:
our “Best Gift Ever!”

Mary Hopkins-Best studied hundreds of adoptive families for Toddler Adoption: The Weaver’s Craft. She found that one of the clearest factors associated with a highly satisfied adoptive family is the “intuitive belief in the rightness of their adoption.” This held true regardless of how difficult the process or how challenging the transition or how extensive the needs of the child. Whether families trust in God or fate or instinct, believing that this is the best decision you have ever made makes all the difference.

So here’s me, where hindsight gives a new perspective. Adoption is about giving. Adoption is about getting. But more than that, somehow, mysteriously, adoption is about finding each other.


The Language of Belonging

It’s called “claiming behavior.” It’s a big part of adoption, especially with an older child. Intentional actions to physically demonstrate belonging, not just for the child, but for our whole family.

We put pictures of him on the wall, alongside our other children.

We made sure his room was ready for him.

We put his old toys from foster family alongside his new toys on the shelf.

We talk about “our family” a lot and include him in all our traditions.

We got him a health card with his new name on it.

We insisted that the hospital change the name on his file, even if they weren’t willing to change the number “until it is final.”

Last week, I bought him a stocking that matches all the rest.

Nothing tentative. Nothing temporary. This is home and he’s here to stay. Of course, he’s only 2, so I’m not sure how much of that translates. But his sisters heard it loud and clear. And we did too.

The first six months of an adoption placement are viewed by some as a trial period; a see-how-it-goes-and-if-this-thing-takes time. But we’re not wired that way. You can’t practice commitment. And parenting requires commitment.

You never know what you are going to get (not with adoptive or birth children), but parents weather the storm. And even when things take a turn for the worst, even if you can’t be everything they need, even if they have to live elsewhere or are out of your control or screw everything up in the scariest ways… you don’t bail. You scramble and fumble and give tough love and soft love and why-isn’t-this-enough-to-fix-you love, until the end. The parents I see in the most painful situations with the most at risk kids are ones I admire most. Not because they are perfect or do everything right, but because they are there. Parenting requires commitment.

This is the part where it would be so easy for me to devolve into a rant about adoption dissolution. Remember the mother who put her young son on a plane to Russia, returning him to his country of origin like he was a malfunctioning toaster? I was gratified to hear she was charged with child neglect and abandonment. This type of thing is a sadly common story, and that is probably the reason for six months of custody before finalization of an adoption.

Heaping trauma onto an already hurting child seems unconscionable, no matter how difficult they may be. Yet, I can’t sit here, with my happily-ever-after story, and judge these overwhelmed parents. I don’t know what it is like for them or why their families fell apart. I just know it’s devastating all around.

When we brought our boy home, we brought him home for good. I’ve had my moments of paranoia and anxiety: that unhappy birth family may contest the placement, that social workers may decide they’ve found a better match, that aliens would steal our bodies and replace our consciousness with their own… None of them likely scenarios. Still, it is haunting when we have made an absolute commitment to parenting, but aren’t legally his parents yet.

Right now, we share custody with the ministry. Officially, he is a ward of the state. We are required to inform them of any major changes in situation or health problems. They have to sign off on significant paperwork. We do not have a birth certificate or identification for him. Obviously, they hold this lightly; they WANT us to step up and parent and leave them out of it all.

But I will breathe easier when we are officially the sole guardians of our son. It’s more than just a piece of paper. It will give us all the rights and responsibilities of any parent, exactly the same as our other children. And it is on the way.

Today it is six months since we brought our son home. Today our social worker is applying to finalize (which usually takes 2-3 months). Today we begin the last leg of our journey, and when it is over we are going to have a HUGE party! Today we celebrate 183 days of rough and tumble, snuggly and sweet, loud and crazy!

What better way than with this modern-day ritual – another claiming behaviour for all the world to see.

stickfam

So here’s us, in cheesy stick family format on the back of our mini van.


Normal isn’t ALWAYS a Bad Word

santaSo, I’m not a big fan of Normal. I usually think being just like everybody else is pretty lame. BUT, there are times when it is a victory.

Normal, chatting about how big kids are getting and Christmas plans and rainy weather.

Normal, passing the baby around and squishing those chubby, chubby cheeks and reminding toddler hands to give “gentle touches.”

Normal, brothers jumping from tile to tile down the hallway and exchanging high-fives.

Normal, crying at the sight of Santa and reaching for Mama and scowling for the picture.

And if that normal comes to a meeting of birth family and foster parents and adoptive parents (and a social worker in a pear tree), when normal comes then, it’s called: SUCCESS.

Our first meeting around a conference table in a strange government office was tense and awkward, with gusts to civil. So I expected the same with this first Brothers Meeting.

I know that it wasn’t easy for any of us. Nana’s hands, and voice, shook as she explained who I was to her oldest grandson, again. “Your brother’s new mommy. He has two now.” Poppa shows up briefly, but quickly retreats. I think this is harder than he imagined.

Birth Mom was sweet and calm, just like I remembered. Seeing her side by side with our son, I can see the resemblance more than ever. It endears her to me. She is important. I guess I’m more secure than I thought.

I knew the baby would win me over (who can resist a chubby 1-year-old?), but it is the 4-year-old who steals my heart. He has that same energy and sweetness that makes our boy so charming.

It seems like many of my blog posts are filled with angst-y, ramble-y complaints and worries. The next day I rethink my emotional exhibitionism. Does the whole world need to know what a neurotic whiner I am?

It’s not that life is unceasingly hard; quite the opposite: our life is a happy, full one. But normal rarely drives me to write.

Yesterday was normal. When I hoped and prayed for civil, I got pleasant. What a nice surprise!

So here’s us, surprisingly content with our new normal: openness with birth family.


Staking a Claim

He learned a new word. A word MOST parents of toddlers dread. But when he pressed his drooly little finger to my breastbone and said it, my heart grew 10 sizes.

“MINE!”

He also applied it vociferously to apple slices, a fuzzy blue blankie, Daddy’s iPad and every item he likes during a two day period. Then it slipped away, as most new words do these days. It makes infrequent appearances now while he channels his energy towards the newest, greatest, most exciting word. Yesterday it was “cookie.”

mineI know it probably wasn’t the profound statement I am making it out to be. He is trying on new vocabulary. He is possessive in the way of all 2-year-olds. He is the youngest of four and prefers to remain the center of attention at all times.

But I need these moments. I hold onto them with both hands. They are a gift of proof. Reassurance that the future we hoped for is reality and our faith is not in vain. This was meant to be. He is our son. He is MINE. And I am HIS.

This same week, while at Mother Goose singing time, some unknown element triggered a bout of grief. Whether it was the colour of shirt she was wearing or the way she had done her hair or the smell of her perfume, S latched onto one of the other Moms with a frantic grip. He screamed, “Mama! Mama!” and would not let her go. Lately he calls everyone “Mama,” so that part didn’t hurt, but the anguished cries as I pried him off of the poor woman… that stung. It happened several times until we finally left.

We have spent time with her before and since then. He doesn’t pay her much attention at all. Obviously, that day, he was reliving something. And I played it cool and acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I mentally rehearsed all that I knew about unpredictable grief and trauma, and reminded myself that this is not really about me at all.

Rejection is hard to take. Rejection from your own child is especially brutal.

So, when he reaches for me, when he fusses about me leaving the room, when he checks to makes sure I’m still there, when he makes strange, when he snuggles into a hug… I need it just as much as he does.

The greatest surprise of this adoption (apart from my pitiful stamina in the going-without-sleep-marathon) is how insecure I feel. In my mind I know that things are going well; that attachment is a process and although messy and overwhelmed much of the time, our family is thriving. But my heart is not so confident.

Tomorrow we are getting together with birth family. It will be our first outing with S’ two brothers. The three boys are being raised in different homes by different people, and none with birth mom. Hopefully they will sit on Santa’s lap so she can have the picture she wants so badly. Hopefully they will play nicely with each other. Hopefully the adults will play nice too.

So here’s me, once again, not as calm and mature about the whole thing as I thought I would be. Losing My Cool is becoming a theme. But I also hope that birth mom gets a good visit with the boys. She must already feel rejected and replaced. I’ve had only a small taste and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.


Cutting the Adoption Strings

I left the boy in Sunday School for the first time this week.

He was fine. He gave me a kiss goodbye and was immediately distracted by cars and friends and buckets of toys to be dumped out. He played with trains and babbled happily to the teacher. He put stickers on a page and sat in the circle for story time.

I should have been happy. It was the first service I sat through in months. A rare chance for Glen and I to be WITHOUT the littles: holding hands, sitting with the grownups, listening without distraction, without drama or tantrums or grabby, sticky hands on my face.

But I cried at the door. I lingered behind all the other parents. I felt sick going down the stairs. And I choked on the songs we sang.

Doesn’t he need me? What if he does need me and I’m not there? Is it too soon? Am I compromising attachment? Have I been hovering too much? Will they really call at the first sign of sadness? What is wrong with me?

I don’t stress about my other kids this way. Not even B with her special needs and behavioural issues and one-on-one helper and pull-ups at age 8. I know them. I know what they can handle; what to expect from them and for them. I trust my instincts.

But the boy is new. I love him every bit as much as my other kids. But I don’t know him the way I know his sisters. The four months we’ve had together have made a huge difference. But I haven’t been raising him these past two years. And the instincts just aren’t there.

Or maybe they are there, but I question too much to hear what they have to say. I wonder about the traumas he’s been through, the adoption itself, his medical issues, his temperament and personality, and what his version of “normal” is supposed to be. When things go wrong, I panic. When things go well, I doubt.

The rule of thumb for adoption is: however long you were apart from your child, that is how long it will take to feel that seamless sense of belonging. That means almost two years of adjustment – for me! So much of our focus has been on making HIM feel safe and loved and truly at home with us. But it cuts both ways.

Those first weeks felt like a really long babysitting job. I had to keep reminding myself that I am the Mom. As wonderful and magical and God-ordained as adoption is, it is not a natural situation. My boy is not home-grown, and transplants take time.

We are adjusting and growing together every day: sleepy morning cuddles, dancing to Jukebox oldies in the living room, ‘helping’ me clean the floor… He fits. This IS where he belongs. And someday I won’t even remember life without him.

Until then, parenting isn’t quite the same. My emotions run high and my confidence is low and my big 2-year-old boy gets treated like a baby sometimes.

So here’s me, having a little trouble cutting the apron strings.

Linking up to The Parent Hood for the first time!


First Contact: Birth Family

I sifted my fingers through. I banked up the sides. I carefully patted it back into place. My little pile of worries and insecurities.

It doesn’t feel so little as I slog through traffic and construction on my way to The Meeting. I’m preoccupied by the width and breadth of it. I suppose it is to be expected, from a student of psychology and a writer… worse yet, a blogger. A whole lot of self-absorbed navel-gazing.

I prayed my way through a list of concerns, for each of the people attending, saving my favourite subject until last. Me. How do I feel? What am I thinking? How will this affect me?

But it isn’t about me.

We slipped in the door 7 minutes late. They were sitting around the table already: the social workers with Birth Mom, Nana and Papa. Pleasantries are awkward and Nana can’t even look us in the eye.

Because this is hard.

WE haven’t taken him away from them, but he is gone all the same. They need, need, need… beyond what we can provide. We promise the bare minimum. Better not to disappoint. “We’ll see” is the watchword. A couple of meetings a year, pictures every few months… but it’s not the same as being Mommy every day or Nana who bakes cookies or Papa who explains what “offside” is.

Suddenly my little pile seems insignificant. One uncomfortable hour cannot compare to years of loss. Years past and years to come. We find common ground in a strange place as Birth Mom admits “at first, I didn’t even want to come and meet you.”

But it isn’t about them.

We show each other our best sides. They share little bits and pieces about S and their family. We greedily store away each morsel. He got his hair from his Birth Dad. The curls remind them of his big brother. They are hockey fans too.

Most importantly, we joke to diffuse the tension. It works. We can laugh together and that is a relief. It’s proof positive that our boy has a sense-of-humour-gene in the mix. I’m relieved. Humourlessness is a serious issue (ha ha ha… don’t judge me).

Birth Mom is young and sweet. She speaks with confidence. She calls him her “Miracle Baby” – the little champ who fought his way through every problem. She is trying to do the same. She is lovely.

Nana is protective, sentimental, sad… she is still grieving. And Papa wants to fix it all, but can’t.

By the time we leave, we are friends of a sort. We’ve faced anger and tears and discomfort. We’ve come out the other side because we are on the same page.

It’s all about him.

As long as he is happy. As long as he is safe. As long as he KNOWS that he is loved by all his family, in all its forms.

I don’t expect every meeting to go this smoothly. It will get bumpy and hard and inconvenient. We’ve inherited a new branch of “in-laws” and all the troubles that come with it. But that’s a pile for another day.

So here’s me, putting our son ahead of my comfort. Because that’s what Moms do.


Losing My Cool

Turns out, I’m not as cool in real life as I am in theory.

I’m talking about the kind of cool that stays calm and collected in the face of a challenge. The serene, unflappable cool that takes life as it comes and assumes that God is in control and everything is going to work out.

If you’ve read this blog before, I’m sure this doesn’t come as a surprise.

But it’s caught me off guard this week. You see, I was sure I knew how I felt about my son’s birth family. I was adamant that they are an important part of my child’s life and therefore, important to me. I was compassionate about their struggles and their losses. I was encouraged by every indication they gave of love and interest in S. I was cautiously optimistic about openness and a continuing relationship with them; regular updates, pictures, and biannual meetings on neutral ground did not seem much to ask. I was secure enough and mature enough to face their angst and anger without taking it personally.

Until we actually set the time for the meeting. Suddenly my high-minded ideals seem naive and impossible. Though my mind continues to believe the truth of it, my heart revolts. I am sad. I am threatened. I am afraid. And I am, inexplicably, angry.

This week I will finally meet the mother of my son.

That sentence doesn’t even make sense. It is unnatural and strange. I share this incredibly intimate bond with a woman I have never met. I know heartbreaking details of her most difficult struggles. I know as much about her medical history as any doctor. And her child is now my child.

She carried him in her body. She felt his first kicks. Her voice was one of the first sounds his ears heard. She held him in the NICU. But she was young and broken and overwhelmed. She could not be what he needed.

Unlike many adoptions nowadays, she did not choose us. Nor did she choose adoption for her child, though she agreed not to fight the ministry on it. So far.

Our adoption is not finalized yet.

After 6 months in our custody, the government will apply to make it permanent (this takes another 2-3 months). It is extremely unlikely that anything should threaten this, but not impossible. Someone could petition the court to overturn the placement. Someone could try to take our boy.

Friends of ours recently lost the child they are desperate to adopt, abruptly taken and returned to his birth mom. Their grief and very real concern about his safety is palpable. Legal or not, he is their son. And they are devastated.

My cool, rational brain recognizes that this is not a realistic worry for us. But my heart isn’t always rational. And I won’t breathe easy until we hold the final papers in our hands.

Birth family is not our enemy.

This is the family that brought our beautiful boy into the world. They gave him a name. They dreamed dreams for him.

We have a plastic-covered book of pictures which we call “Everyone Loves S.” The first page is a picture of our family, the next section contains pictures of foster family and the last pages are pictures of Birth Mommy and brothers and grandparents. As we look through it with him, we name each face and tell him “Nana loves S, Poppa loves S… Everyone loves S.”

It’s true. They really do. As best they can. And we know enough of their story to understand where things have fallen apart for them. They are not evil, heartless villains, just flesh and blood people who are in over their heads.

And some part of me is glad, because now I have the son I wanted so badly. This competitive streak is alarming. I examine their shortcomings and am reassured that we can do a better job as parents. Mine! I see their dark hair and eyes, noticing that S looks more like my children than theirs. Mine! And I know it is ridiculous to be this petty and insecure, but he is mine, mine, mine…

I guess I’m not as mature and confident as I thought.

But I can play it cool.

I will let my mind and not my heart guide me. I will set aside my fear and insecurity. I will keep mama bear in check. I will protect, but not attack. I will pray when I want to obsess and forgive when I want to judge and trust when I am overwhelmed.

Adoption has enough losses already. This week we will try to build something positive and redeem some connection with his past. Because that is what my son deserves.

So here’s me, and I know it’s not a competition. I read “Percival the Plain Little Cattepillar” 7 times a day. I catch him when he leaps off the monkey bars. I wipe his nose and change his diaper. I teach him to sign “please” when he wants ANOTHER handful of blueberries. I rock him to sleep every night. I’m his Mom.


Birthday Letters for The Boy

Birthday Cupcakes specially decorated by the Big Sisters

Once again our family tradition is going public. Each year both of us write a birthday letter to our children on their special day. The pitfalls of having two writers for parents…

One day we hope they will cherish the encouragement, advice and wacky memories we recount in these epistles. Or at the very least, their spouses/kids/biographers will appreciate the historical significance and goofy photos.

Today’s guest poster: Daddy!

Dear S,

Welcome to a new family tradition – the birthday letter! You’ll get one of these from both Mommy and I each year on your birthday, as we look back on the year you’ve just finished, look ahead to the year that’s just beginning, and celebrate the boy (and someday, man) that you are becoming.

It seems so strange to be writing a letter marking the end of your second year, when we haven’t even known each other for two months yet. But that’s okay – it only took me about two minutes to love you!

I thought I might never get the chance to write a letter to my son, since your big brothers never got to come home to be part of our family. After 12 years of being surrounded by girls, I wasn’t sure if I had any boy left in me! I feared I may have lost it under a pile of doll clothes, princess outfits and ballet slippers.

But it sure didn’t take you long to make me man up! You’re energetic and fearless in a way that the little girls never were. Before you even came home, we played our first hockey game together, and we haven’t stopped playing ever since. I can’t wait for the day when we can stretch out on the couch with some pizza and a couple of pops, game on the television, and tell the girls to pipe down so we can hear the play-by-play. Which reminds me, it’s about time I gave you your first Canucks sweater….

When we’re not playing hockey, we’re usually wrestling, as manly men like us are known to do. Sure, the girls used to wrestle me too, once upon a time, but not like this – with a fierce growl, and a look of destruction in your eye. This is new to me, and new to you too, since you’ve never had a daddy until now.

Maybe that’s why we hit it off so well, so fast. To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect when we met each other. Would you like me? Would I like you? Would you be afraid of me? Would you even look at me? Would you run from me? Would you annoy me? Would you spend all my money? (Well, yes, probably to that last one.)

After one ear-to-ear grin, I knew the answer. I had nothing to fear. Sure, it may take a while… or maybe not. As I put on my shoes to go home after that first meeting, you reached out and let me pick you up. I may never put you down… at least not for a while. Happy Birthday buddy! (Oh, and have I told you about our cake yet? It’s good.)

Love from,

Your Daddy

And now, a word from Mommy:

Dear S,

I can’t believe that it was only 2 months ago when I first laid eyes on you. You were so much smaller than I expected with big blue eyes and a shy grin that lit up the room. I loved you already. I would have even if you weren’t insanely cute, but it didn’t hurt. I had loved the idea of you for years. Before you were even born we were praying for you and imagining what you might be like. It was thrilling to finally meet you.

You did not have an easy start to life. You came into the world 3 months early. The file they gave us was 4 inches thick and by the time we read through it all, we realized that was only your medical records for the first month! It did not look good for you. But you were 3 lbs of fighter, possessing absolute determination. That hasn’t changed.

Your birth mom loved you and wanted you, but she wasn’t able to take care of you. When you were 2 months old your foster mom started visiting you in the hospital, after 2 more months she was finally able to bring you home with her. She is a very special lady: a nurse who takes care of babies with complex medical problems until they can go home with a forever family (birth or adoptive). You did not like to be touched or held at first, but she taught you how to be loved and to give love back. Soon you were a cuddly little charmer. That hasn’t changed either.

You have officially been part of our family for 1 month. Our lives have been turned upside down, but no one’s more than you. It hasn’t been an easy month, but it has been a very good one. Your Daddy and sisters have discovered that you are the best thing they never knew they always wanted. I wanted you all along, but even I am blown away by how important you are to us all. We are enjoying you so much. You are so much fun: so much mischief-making, full-tilt, maniacal laughing, enthusiastic fun. I’m so glad you are part of our family!

Today you are 2 years old!

Those 2 years have helped shape you into the amazing mini-person that you are now. The tough little trooper who overcomes the odds time and time again. The sweet, loving boy who sticks close to family and has bonded with us so quickly. The smiley monkey who keeps us laughing, and on our toes.
Even though it makes me sad that we have missed so much time with you, I wouldn’t change you for the world!

You have such a bright, happy future ahead of you and we will be there with you every step of the way. Always, always, always…

Happy Birthday!

Love Forever,

Mommy


%d bloggers like this: