I could have sobbed. The kind where you make crazy, uncontrollable noises. The kind where your face makes some unsightly expressions. The kind that gives you the worst headache ever. But, I didn’t.

Right in the middle of the chaos of Chuck E. Cheese, I was watching my son being held by his birthmom. It was beautiful, awkward, and humbling all at the same time.

It was beautiful.

She was staring at him, and Max was staring right back at her. I could see the love she has for him and I would love to know what is going on in her mind. I will never know all that she thinks and dreams about for our little Max, but I do know one thing. She loves him bad.

It was awkward.

There were times when I felt so insecure. I found myself being very guarded about what I told her in fear that one of my parenting choices would disappoint her. I need to get over that. It’s also hard to know how much to tell her. Does she want to know that he smiles now when I go to his crib in the morning? Or that he’s especially fond of “Merle the Monkey” on his activity mat?

It was humbling.

It hit me. She gave her son to us. Talk about feeling unworthy. I wish everyone could know what that feels like.

I wanted Max to smile for her. He didn’t. The entire 2 hours we were together, he didn’t crack one little grin. I was so bummed. I wanted to give her that gift. As we were heading to our cars, Max woke up and she wanted to take just one more picture. She leaned down to him and said, “I love you,” and he gave her a huge toothless smile. I’m pretty sure she did a little dance.

I think we were both very satisfied with how well the evening went, and we’re ready to do it again soon.

Oh yeah. When I got in the car, I sobbed.

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Abby has been married to her college sweetheart, Wes, for 7 years. After 5 years of infertility, they began the journey of domestic adoption. Blessed with a (more than they had planned) open adoption experience, they were able to witness the birth of their first child, Max, last summer. Wes and Abby are trusting God as he leads them in their relationship with Max’s birth family.

Every family has their own thoughts/beliefs regarding whether or not they will change their child’s name upon adoption. Some do. Some don’t. Everyone has their reasons.

Our kids came to us through foster care, and foster care rules specify that foster families cannot change a child’s name during the time they are in foster care. That only makes sense. It’s hard enough having to bounce from foster home to foster home, let alone having to learn to answer to a new name at each home. We also learned that even children who are in an adoptive placement can’t have their names changed UNTIL the adoption is final. Since we were in adoptive placement for 2 years, we didn’t change our girls’ names . . . very much.

Veronica was the oldest of the sibling set of three we adopted last year. She was nearly 6 when we got her and 8 by the time the adoption finalized. “Veronica” has never been on my top list of names I would choose for a child of mine, and I asked her if I could call her “Nikki.” She agreed.

It’s been 3 years since the girls moved in with us — 3 years of changing, adjusting, and growing. And Nikki has, without a doubt, blossomed. She came to us as a tantrum-throwing jekyll-and-hyde. Her cute face belied an angry spirit. When things went her way, her eyes sparkled and her smile lit up the room. She was an absolute joy.

Should we dare ask her to complete a chore or deny a request, her angelic demeanor immediately morphed into white-hot rage. She threw herself to the floor, kicking and screaming and striking out at anything or anyone who was in the near vicinity. Blessed with vocal chords that surpass normal volume capabilities, her tirades could be heard by neighbors across the street and down the road.

Usually, her tantrums lasted until she would finally collapse hoarse and exhausted, physically unable to continue. She would literally wear herself out. Minimum tantrum time was 2 hours. Daily.

Once she slipped into tantrum mode, reasoning with her was impossible. All we could do was let her fight it out on her own, make sure she didn’t harm herself or anyone else, and endure. When it was all over we’d pick up the pieces with her, go over what had led up to the tantrum, reassure her of our continuing love for her, pray with her, and move on.

Over time (a lot of time, actually!), as she began using the managing tools we were teaching her, the tantrums waned. We weren’t so aware of it at first, but those outside our family began commenting. “She’s so sweet!” someone said. “She’s a new girl!” my mom exclaimed. “She looks happier.” a friend observed.

Most importantly, Nikki noticed. The other day, she sat down next to me and said, “Mom, remember how I used to be called Veronica?” I nodded. “I’m glad I’m not called that anymore.” Curious, I asked her to explain. “Well,” she began, “Veronica used to be really bad. She threw tantrums and got in lots of trouble. That’s the old me and she doesn’t live here anymore. Now, I’m Nikki!” I understood perfectly. She associated her old self with her old name. She wanted a new start and a new identity.

Our conversation made me think of a verse in Revelation 2. Here Jesus promises to give all who overcome a new name. What a wonderful hope we have! Someday, when Jesus takes us home, we will also be able to say, “That old, sinful me doesn’t live here anymore. I am a new person!”

“I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.” Revelation 2:17

“Whoever is a believer in Christ is a new creation. The old way of living has disappeared. A new way of living has come into existence.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

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Margie “inherited” her passion for adoption from her foster grandmother. Today, Margie and her husband Shawn are blessed with five incredible kids, all adopted from the foster care system, plus four others who are unofficially official members of their family. They are also the proud grandparents of one very special little boy. Teaching full-time, running a home business, and learning all the ropes of their first international adoption keeps Margie hopping. She enjoys blogging about it all and connecting with equally busy moms.

Lydia is 2 today. And, I didn

The girls went through a period of time recently where they asked a lot of questions about their first mom mostly in the car on the way to school. And by “the girls,” I mean Peanut and the Cuddle Bear. Princess has a script she uses whenever she thinks someone wants her to talk about her first mom (“she only yelled and only fed us sweet cereal and always spanked us and never gave us baths”), but she never EVER brings up anything about her first mom that isn’t scripted (every statement in this script ranges from slightly true to completely false and does not touch at all on the real reasons for their removal). However, she is always there for these conversations, so I tailor them for her specifically.

Peanut’s questions tend to be “why” questions, and I answers them as factually and sensitively as I can. Which is hard, because although I know the facts from that time, I really, really, REALLY don’t understand. And, I try to leave it at that.

After Peanut exited the car for school that week, the Cuddle Bear asked some different questions. The Cuddle Bear was 18 months when parental rights terminated, so she doesn’t have much memory from that time. She wanted to know what First Mom was like. What did she look like? What kind of hair did she have? Did she have brown skin or peach skin? What was she like?

I had the privilege of knowing First Mom a little, so I did the best I could.

When we got home I got out a picture and color-copied it for her. She was playing in her room. I handed it to her and said, “that’s what First Mom looks like,” and I headed back downstairs.

At the stairway, I thought to stop and turn back. The Cuddle Bear was looking at the picture with a dreamy, beautiful smile. She raised a finger and softly fingered First Mom’s face. I stood there watching, and I checked myself over to see what my feelings were.

Nothing. I felt totally okay.

Then, the Cuddle Bear turned and saw me there.

“Mom! Why are you watching me!”

“I’m just loving you, baby girl.”

Her smile changed from a dreamy smile to full-on brightness.

“I love you sooooo much, Mommy!”
“I love you too, sweetness.”

I went downstairs.
She stared at her picture.

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Kerrie is the mother of a family of six through birth and adoption through the foster care system. Their days include a mix of reactive attachment disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, visual and language processing disorders, and general strangeness mixed with joy, peace, and healing. You can get to know their family more on their blog, Good Moms Are a Lot of Things.