Traditions and Perspectives

We took down the Christmas tree today. By "took down", I mean carried it out and threw it into the fire pit. Brenna was distraught when she thought for a moment we might only take it to leaf/limb drop-off.

"Aren't we going to burn it?" 

Part of the fun of having a live Christmas tree from our local Rural King is lighting it on fire as Easter approaches. (He is risen indeed!). I'm not sure how a Christmas tree in March can produce flames 8 feet tall, but we look forward to it every year. Honestly, it's an inappropriate tradition that we all love.

Our other tradition is the gingerbread houses. My boys aren't as excited about this, but the girls still love it. This year we waited until after Christmas. Wow-- $1.89 will take you all the way with the gingerbread kit at Aldi today. Emily's looked neat and tidy with dripping icicles and gumdrop trim. Somehow, Brenna's had a structural  weakness. No matter how we caulked with icing, propped with canned goods and gripped it together, she was short a wall and one side of the roof. How was this possible? It was the same exact kit Emily had used.

Here's the kicker though-- when we placed both houses side by side on the top of the dining room hutch, (a tradition started when I had toddlers who would potentially choke on the ornamental gumdrops if I dared to take a bathroom break) both houses looked fine. It was all in the angle of perspective-- kind of like how I can stand to the side and prop my hand on my hip to attempt to look thinner. Sometimes it works.

A mama recently shared a struggle with receiving Christmas pictures from friends in the mail. Their family is going through a difficult time and it hurts. Looking at pictures of coordinating outfits and smiling children in what appears to be a cohesive family unit is almost more than she can bear. "They can't all have it all together, can they?" I love a good family picture as much as the next person. But no, probably few families truly have it all together. It's just the angle of perspective. For heaven's sake, we have someone else photograph our family simply because one of my kiddos is more likely to behave and less likely to cross his/her eyes if they know we're paying someone to take our picture.

Christmas is tricky. Holidays tend to magnify emotions that we already have, layered with expectations that we carry along with us. My tree is down, but I'm leaving the gingerbread houses up for awhile.

18 Summers

There's been a little saying circulating on social media these days... something along the lines of "You only get 18 summers with your child-- make them count." Oh the pressure. I get heartburn just thinking about it.

My oldest son turns 18 on Monday. He's spent 4 summers with us total. The first summer was absolute magic as we tried to fit in every activity and experience that we could. That summer he was our guest. The next summer we waited, worked and hoped as we held our breath for a referral to travel and bring him home as an official Kaurin. That led to the next summer with a family vacation that allowed him to meet extended family from North Carolina and New York. This brings us to his fourth summer in our home. I'm working the majority of the week, he's balancing summer school and football practice and life is pretty ordinary. But I'm ok with that. This summer he has a list of chores, does laundry on a regular basis and drives me around town. I'm finding that there's beauty in the ordinary and it reaffirms how important each one is in our family.

I look at the pictures of our first summer together and am amazed at how much my children have grown, but I also see an insecurity in me as I tried to make memories. There was a ticking clock as his time with us was short. We really didn't know if we'd get to see him again or not. I remember reaching a point that summer where when asked what he wanted to do, the answer was to fish at a friend's pond or just hang out at home.

Our home was small and simple, but it was good. We penciled in the growth marks for the kids, watched the fireflies from the backyard swing and ate too many popsicles. And when he left us, we all ugly cried. For several days.

The Bible says "Teach us to number our days so that we may gain a heart of wisdom" Proverbs 90:12. I don't want to look at the brief window of childhood or summer with a panic of time passing too quickly. Rather, I'd rather appreciate the day for what it is. The summer spent hosting gave me a new perspective on numbering my days and not wishing any part of it away. Now, I find that I like working part of the day, spending afternoons with my kids and evenings listening to Brenna talk to herself on her swing.

"You only get 18 summers..." I will not be sad for the summers I missed with Max. But I will love each day that he is with us. I won't begrudge Sam his sleepovers but enjoy the moments we have together. My four teens are showing me how beautiful it can be to hold on loosely.

Winning

I notice a push lately with online articles on motherhood. It tends to center around the idea of always choosing to join in the experience with your child, to say yes, to be the fun mom at every opportunity.  Be present! They're only little for a little while. Make memories. And document every memory with a picture or it's like it didn't even happen.

While I used to embrace it, I just can't anymore. I bought into those ideas when my children were small and for a season I orchestrated messy fun, outings to the park, play-dates with friends, blanket forts and literary circles under our maple tree. But a few weeks ago, when the Valentine party invite came home for my daughter's life skills school, I marked the box for "not attending". I have attended 14 Valentine parties in her school career and I'm tapping out.

 I have teenagers and here's the thing, sometimes it's just enough that you're staying sane. Sometimes the biggest win for the day was not answering snark with snark in return. The victory came in the gentle answer that kept a situation from escalating. It might have been the love you showed by making your child his sandwich when you knew he was running behind with extra things to do that morning, even though he can pack his own lunch. The win for the day might have been not doing an audible gasp, but instead giving a calm and steady reminder when your teen driver became confused about who needed to yield before turning onto Lincoln Avenue.

I miss the camaraderie I had with the other moms during the little years. It was less lonely then. Now, friends may not respond to a text, busy with their own teens and the craziness that comes from driving kids to social engagements and sporting events. I used to be more than a little self righteous about how the teen years would look at our house-- we would not over-schedule. We would eat dinner as a family every night.  We would strictly limit screens. Everything looks a little different and feels a little different. Tonight one of my boys fired up Gilmore Girls on Netflix to watch with me, and it felt incredibly sweet and thoughtful.  The quality time wasn't at all how I envisioned it would be, but it's quality all the same.

I'm too tired right now to create magic. Yes, childhood is brief and that's the point. They're not meant to stay. When I pull my oldest boy down to hug his neck, I can't help but whisper, "I feel like we got you home just in time to help you launch." Part of that breaks my heart a little, but another part of me is ok with that. It's just how it's supposed to be. 

Little things and Clutter

It's been a long time since I last posted in my blog. Our adoption this past year and a half has felt a bit like a new moon orbiting our earth and pulling at the tides. Everything changed. So many things have been put aside and put on hold while we have adjusted as a family and have loved on our new son. Which may explain the clutter in my home.

I read the quote this week "Clutter is just delayed decisions". The truth of that statement resonated with me. I am surrounded by delayed decisions in my home. I began taking pictures of the cluttered areas in my home, in order to have a better idea of a "before" and "after". Just like seeing pictures of myself lets me track if my weight has gone up or down, seeing these photos of my home has been a moment of truth. I can walk past it and stop seeing it, but somehow viewing that photo I just took makes me pause and then want to take action.

I've wanted to paint my bedroom for a few years now, but the clutter has held me back. It felt too difficult to move everything and deal with the "stuff". Our bedroom carpet also needs replaced, but the thought of moving and sorting through "stuff" has kept me borderline content with our matted forest green flooring. Delayed decisions, delayed actions and delayed dreams to a certain extent.

But this week I began to slowly declutter with an online community of support. And as I watch them part with things-- some of value, some just junk, it makes me braver to deal with my stuff. Even the stuff that once belonged to people who are now deceased. Oh the guilt and obligations that can reach beyond the grave!!!!!! Keep it! Store it! Treasure it! Pass it on! Ugh. I may choose cremation when I pass and just ask for a discount rate that will allow my loved ones to throw in extra stuff with me into the oven and spare my children from dealing with my junk. Instead of a visitation, maybe we could just caravan truckloads of my crap to the cremation facility. But I digress.

It's freeing to let things go. It feels a little rebellious. It's also hopefully going to shed a little light on a decision yet to be made---It's going to allow me to discern if we have truly outgrown our home as a family of 6, or if we simply need fewer things to allow more living to take place. That's the real test this month. So, I'm going through my linens. I threw away a box of tapioca from 2012 and a spatula that the mixer tried to eat. Looking forward to more purging!

Very Soon

The plane tickets are purchased. The apartment is lined up-- we're just about ready to go. In three weeks we will be on our way to D's country in Northern Europe. We're gathering up items to pack, including all of the "just in case" things like Tylenol and trash bags. D's bag is already packed. And that alone tells me everything I need to know. We're so excited to see him!

It was about a month ago that I woke up from a vivid dream. Dreams aren't frequent for me, and realistic dreams are even less common for me. In my dream, we had surprised him by arriving in his country. He was at the dentist office, reclined in the chair when we came into the room. He got up, came over and hugged me. In that dream I could feel the hair on the back of his neck and even smell his soap. At that point I woke up, feeling disoriented because it had seemed that real. And my thought at that time was, "It's going to be very soon."

And it is. We will keep you posted on our travels as we are able.

Overwhelmed

It's only Wednesday, but it feels like it should be Friday. This week we were overwhelmed to receive donations in addition to those on our YouCaring account that pushed us up and over the edge of what we needed for our immigration application and dossier. That means we're now working towards in country costs for trip 1. This is a really big deal! We are just over 1/3 of the way to our final total. It's amazed us how many people have given a financial gift in the past few months, told us that they were praying, or have asked about him and shown excitement about our news.

In the midst of the paperwork, planning fundraisers, writing grants and organizing documents it can be easy for me to get tunnel vision and focus only on the task at hand, but a few times each week, I receive the same text, "So Mom, when are you and Dad coming to get me?"

He's waiting so patiently. But each time I receive one of those texts, it encourages me to stay up a little bit later to work on the grant writing, pick up extra sub jobs for the classes with a more challenging dynamic, and pray. He has a face and a name and there isn't a moment that we aren't thinking of him. The only comparison I have is that when I was expecting each of our three biological children, once I knew of the pregnancy, there wasn't a waking moment that I "forgot" I was pregnant. The similarity is that there isn't a waking moment that I'm unaware of him, of the eight hour time difference and that he's beginning his day when we're ending ours and what we need to do to bring him home.

I remember sitting at the big "clash" football game last fall a few weeks after he had headed back to his country. The sounds and activity were overwhelming with the bands on the field, the players, the cheerleaders and dancers, all of the students. I sat and just took it all in. I wondered what he would think of it all if he was here and had a moment where I allowed myself to dream, "What if he's here for this next year?" With the way things are going, there's a chance he really could be here for that game this fall.

I don't want to get caught up on a timeline and predict too far ahead what I think will happen. There's only so much control we have over this-- so much of it will depend on waiting for translation, for his country to decide on court dates, for our social worker to complete her part. But I admit it... we would love to take him to that football game.

Stepping out of the boat

The past few months have been a roller coaster of emotions for our family. And what seemed impossible, now appears to be possible. To quote the Bandit, "We have a long way to go and a short time to get there" but deep in my soul, I believe that we will indeed get there.

I listened to an online sermon today from my home church up north on Peter stepping out of the boat. The message resonated with me, challenged and encouraged me. Multiple books have been written on this and probably countless sermons have been preached on the topic, but only because the idea of taking a risk to do something extraordinary yet improbable reaches down deep inside to a touch-point that God purposely designed and placed there.

 If you had told me a year ago that we would be moving forward to adopt a child, I would have been skeptical. Greg and I had long talked about adoption, but never pursued it.  After locking eyes one last time with D in O'Hare last summer before he left, that whisper came, "Step out of the boat". The hollowness I felt echoed the whisper when his shoes weren't lying by the door, his toothbrush had been packed away and Justin Timberlake no longer played in his room. And yet, I fought it. Because how do I know if this is what I'm supposed to do, or just what I really want?

This whole process has been a time of asking God to speak slowly and use little words so that we don't miss the point, we don't miss His leading and we don't make an error in judgement. It's easy to view everything through my lens and believe there is a tidy answer that aligns perfectly with my perspective. But we all know it isn't that simple.

Amidst the complexity, our prayer has become, "Lead us where you want us to go and close the doors we're not meant to walk through." And after months of slowly walking down a dimly lit hallway and tripping over gray objects, the most important door in the process has swung wide open.

I hear the waves and my feet are dangling over the side. I can't help but wonder if Peter felt like he was going to throw up when he moved his leg up and over the edge, or if he was simply euphoric, a combination of the two, or something else entirely. Someday I'll have to ask.