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.

I never fully realized the full ramifactions of being an orphan until we adopted two orphaned boys from Ethiopia. Other than the obvious and devastating loss of their parents, an orphaned child quickly spirals down an abyss of loss; loss of opportunity, loss of family inheritance, loss of status within their community, loss of protection, loss of … everything.

In Ethiopia, an education requires monthly fees, school books, and a school uniform. Without money to pay for school fees, that child cannot attend school, and the opportunity to get an education and “make something of themselves” is lost. Any family property, livestock, or land is lost. Anything passed down from parent to child, from mother to daughter, from father to son … is lost.

It’s a parent’s most valuable legacy … the things we teach our children. The wisdom gained through hardship and experience, that we attempt to pass down to our children to (hopefully) lessen their mistakes. The advice and counsel we try to give as they navigate through childhood into their turbulent teens. But, for an orphaned child, … there is no such legacy.

This last weekend, my parents came to help us with some house painting and to build a new railing for a deck. My dad’s construction background comes in very handy on these types of projects, and Jay and I are very willing to take instruction and learn from his expertise. This time, we had a new little helper that was extremely curious about all the tools that were suddenly appearing and the fresh load of wood that arrived with Grandpa.

Jayden (9 years old) ended up working alongside his grandpa all day and well into the next day. Little boys are sometimes known for their short attention span, easy distraction, and quickness to boredom – but there were tools involved, and measuring tapes to learn how to use, and levels to hold in place until the bubble reached just the right spot! A dream come true for a curious (and mechanically inclined) little boy!

Jayden tucked himself along his Grandpa’s side, and Grandpa was happy to have such an attentive helper and hard worker. And, amid the hustle and bustle of all the projects, I had one of those moments where it suddenly dawns on me that something momentous is happening.

Planets are alligning,

broken cogs are suddenly meshing perfectly

and a little boy who was once an orphan was in the process of gaining a birthright … a new heritage … a legacy, right before my eyes.

I stopped to watch (and take a few pictures) as Grandpa patiently explained to Jayden how to hold the deck spindle in place so he could screw it securely in place. How to check it to make sure it was plumb and straight. After a few, Jayden caught on, and I watched my Dad smile approvingly and Jayden’s face break into a brilliant smile.

Pretty soon, they had their own rhythm going, and they were working together in perfect harmony with few words needing to be exchanged. When grandpa needed a different drill bit, Jayden anticipated it and presented the right one. When a new railing section was ready to be placed, Jayden was ready with the platforms and jigs to help with the placement. When the drill started to lose power, Jayden walked over to the charger to bring a fresh battery.

Later on, I watched as Jayden demonstrated to his little brother, some of the finer points of the tools. Pointing out the different drill bits and the various screw heads.

Pretty soon, Wesley was trying his hand at the hammer and drill, and sitting patiently while handing deck screws to his Daddy right when he needed them.

Later, I thought about what Jayden’s birthmother had told me about his birthfather. “That’s no child of mine,” he had said, disclaiming him as his son, and setting Jayden on a path of despair, starvation and bitter poverty.

And now … this little boy not only has a Daddy who claims him; he has a Mommy, a brother, 2 sisters, 2 grandpas, 2 grandmas, and more cousins, aunts, and uncles than he can count. And little by little, knowledge and wisdom and experience are being handed down to him within the birthright of his new family.

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“We have a child in nearly every lifestage (preschool, elementary, tween, and teen), and we’re loving every minute,” commented Karen and Jay Wistrom about their four children. Two bio daughters and two adopted sons from Ethiopia keep this family of 6 on the go. Karen is the Vice President of Marketing for a cabinetry manufacturer and also volunteers as a sponsor coordinator for 2 care-points in Ethiopia with 152 orphaned and vulnerable children through Children’s Hopechest. She captures the blessings, the tears, and the momentous occasions of family life, adoption, parenting, and orphan care on her blog.

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