November 23, 2019
- Jess Welsh
- Dec 3, 2019
- 8 min read
It has now been 10 days since our adoption was finalized. Our week started the way the last 20 something other weeks began. There was school mania, homework to finish, behavior to correct, hugs goodnight, and every day we'd wake up and I'd say "What?! 3 more days! I can't believe its here!" The kids would nod and laugh and by the end it was apart of our routine. When I was pregnant with Nora, our first biological child, I remember buying carton of milk and looking at the expiration date and saying, "No matter what, by the time this milk expires, our baby will be here." It was an odd sort of surreal moment, and I'll remember it forever. Adoption was like this for me too, but in so many ways, our adoption felt like birth backwards.
We first saw our kids at an adoption event and after that event we decided that they were ours (In God's divine will of course); the good, the bad, and the ugly. In truth, we really didn't know anything about the kids other than some very superficial details when we decided that day that they were ours. But we chose them. The state had a lot of weeding out to do, and we fought through all the channels, but we still chose them. In the foster system during training, when social workers talked to hopeful foster parents (read us and everyone else in the room), they always give the worst case scenarios. They want their parents to be "eyes wide open" kind of people, so everything begins with fear. "These are some of the worst behaviors you may have to deal with, and maybe you'll even get worse than this." "Your child may never attach to you." "Reunification is almost a certainty, never plan for adoption." Fear first, and if you survive then maybe there will be joy.
I didn't want to be pregnant with Nora when we found out we were expecting. It wasn't on my timeline, and man was I sick. I joked that my pregnancy with her was like a bad omen for what our relationship might be like. And yet still, even then, it started with hopes and dreams. "Will she be girly?" "I wonder if she'll be brainy like her dad, or musical like me?" "Oh, and of course she'll have curly hair." "I hope she gets my dad's green eyes, I really want a baby with green eyes." Even in the "unexpected and unenthusiastic beginning" it began with joy, with dreaming, with hopes, and with faith. This baby that God chose for us, that we truly had no control over, was filled with hope. This is just one huge way, adoption for me felt backwards. We have a crystal angel that hangs on our tree every year. When I look at it I remember announcing my first pregnancy to all the ladies at the church ladies' Christmas Party. We exchanged ornaments each year, and there, my first year surrounded by first friends, and little old ladies who smelled like peppermint and Christmas cookies, they clapped and cheered, and hugged, and even cried. What I would give for every foster parent to walk into their state mandated training with such hope, with such love. It was a battle to fight back every negative thought and criticism with joy and love.
We dreamed of our big kids, and we dreamed for them. We snuffed out the fear with joy and anticipation, and opened our hands to God; knowing he alone determines outcomes regardless of where our children originated. We are not outcome determiners as humans, and as parents. We are stewards. Our call is not to results but to faithfulness, and there is no formula, only God's word, his will, and our prayers. Calvin went through a period of his life where he smeared poop everywhere. It was a hellish 10 months. I was finishing my undergrad, Dan was in an intense and high pressure course that kept him literally sleeping at work the majority of nights, Nora was three (which speaks for itself), and man, it was awful. It began during naps, and then eventually escalated to basically anytime he could reach his diaper. We tried all the things, and all the discipline, and I cried all the tears. I distinctly remember waking Calvin up from a nap before having a house showing to sell our home, and smelling the poop in the hallway. I sett a timer, and gave myself 5 minutes to just cry about scrubbing walls, and crib rails and baby fingers, for the 3rd or 4th time that week before getting up, and just doing the next thing.
Do you want to know what example I heard in our foster training as the most scary and challenging struggle for toddlers? Bathroom issues. Poop on the walls. But, you know what? While I still would love to go back and remove this particular season of life, I can't. And you know what else, even if someone had prepared me that this would be my foreseeable future, scrubbing poop off walls, and washing extra laundry, I would have said "Well, I'm his mom, and we'll make it." Even moreso, God taught me more about myself and my parenting through poop on the walls than maybe any other struggle. Gross? Maybe. For my good? Always. This is how we chose to view our bigs coming into our home. Even with poop on their fingers, I'm their mom, and we will make it. The thing about adoption though, is that people think that sort of response is abnormal. "Are you their mom though? They don't even live with you yet. How much time does bonding take? That's so awesome you feel that way, I could never do that." The truth is though, I know hundreds of moms who do feel that way, the only difference is that their kids have their eyes, and dimples, and not all of mine do.
Beatrice Noelle was born rapidly in the wee hours one Sunday morning in December and I was heartbroken about missing advent. Before the service that afternoon, our preaching pastor came to the hospital and held baby B and prayed over her, and over us. We were new to the church family having only attended for about 6 months, and he was busy, but he was there and we were so grateful. On November 23rd, we adopted our three bigs and once again our preaching pastor was there. But this time, he waited hours as our docket time slipped further and further down, and instead of offering a prayer in a quiet hospital room he stood in a courtroom and he spoke Gospel hope to us. He represented now 18 months of family life and relationships that we built here in Albuquerque. I listened to him speak and thanked God for our church family who prayed, wrote letters, sent countless meals, gave gifts, and etc. for our family; for kids who may smear poop on the walls. Our church in Albuquerque was the one place where adoption didn't feel like birth backwards, but instead, our path forward.
The hardest thing about moving for us is finding a church, a new family everywhere we go. But the one thing moving has taught us, is that we cannot survive without a church. We need people who love the Bible and who love others to hold us up, to weep with us, to wander to the well with us, to challenge us, to rejoice with us, and finding a new family every few years is hard. We tell people that we like it to hurt when we leave a place. We want to feel the sting of goodbyes, because it means we were loving well, and being loved well. I found our church through a website, and after listening to sermons, reading belief statements, emailing the pastors, and even meeting one of the pastors during our house hunting trip it was basically decided this was our new family. We walked into our first Sunday at the church with the red doors saying, "I hope we love this church as much in person as we did online" and we loved it even more. 18 months later, with tears in my eyes, I cannot write enough words to enumerate all the blessings that they've given to us. But, I can tell you this, our adoption was carried on their shoulders and in their hearts. When I look at my kids, I think of our family here who carried them through our home's threshold and welcomed them into their hearts. When the world said "fear", the church said "hope." When the state said "no", they said "let's pray." When I said "What am I doing?!" They said, "Let us help." Find your people, love them well is what I say. I will be challenged to love people as well as I have been loved here no matter where wander next.
After birthing babies there was a moment each time where I sat in a hospital bed holding a tiny human that had been inside of my body and I thought, "Okay. Now, the baby is outside of me...what is next?" It's a surreal moment. The expectation, and the anticipation, and then all of the sudden, it's all realized. Adoption was this way too. We sat in a courtroom, heard a few words from the judge and lawyer that apparently fulfilled the requirements that made us legally a family, and then that's it. The rest is all paperwork. Much like birth, there is insurance to figure out, birth certificates to order, and dealing with the social security administration (and yes I'm calling them back again tomorrow because of course it's still not right yet), but the kids are here. I don't have to second guess which last name to write on a form or tell the receptionist. I don't have to worry about having my house safe enough for a state worker to check. We can take down the superfluous fire escape route framed in the hallway, and we can be the kind of parents who are confident in their parenting because they know that Jesus defines it, not the government.
This is where we are. We are here living in the normal of it all. There was pomp and circumstance. We dressed up and took a million pictures. Aunts and uncles and cousins and friends traveled from near and far to sit in a courtroom and hear it declared "Samara Welsh, Samuel Welsh, and Kya Welsh." We laughed and open housed with friends afterward. We ate adoption cake, and gave all the hugs. We cried some and laughed more, and it was so beautiful. But more beautiful is what is now. The pomp may be gone, but the kids are not. The cake is half eaten in the garage but the names are forever on their birth certificates. We no longer hear "fear" from the world but "congratulations!" People we know and love no longer dread the metaphorical poop on the walls, and instead dream with us about what our family will look like in a few years. Our kids know our family, and it is family to them too. Our kids sit in church and know that it is not a hollow building filled with self important people. It is their home, and it is filled with their family too. I will wake up tomorrow with sounds of cereal bowls and baby jabber. There will be knocks on bathroom door to "hurry up I need the hair stuff!" and "You're getting a PB&J and if you fight me I'm getting mom." Everyday it will grow more and more normal, but I will never forget the miracle of it. Our miracle didn't come in screams of agony as we drove to hospital rooms. There is loss in that. I will always wonder what sweet Samuel was like as an unruly three year old and if Kya always smiled as much as she does now. I dream a little backwards that way, wondering about the moments we missed. But, our joy is in what God has at our feet and that now, and always, we will wander to whatever he has for us, together.
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