Co-Sleeping

It was 1:30 a.m.  I felt the persistent head bump of Hazel telling me that she needed to go outside.  I tried to ignore her, but she wasn’t having any of that.

I peeled myself off the bed and carefully fell away from the bed, tip-toeing out of the room, down the hall and downstairs, three dogs in tow.  I was downstairs for less than a minute when I heard him.  First, he groaned. Then, I heard his feet shuffle across the floor.  And the crying started.

I grabbed a drink and hurried up the dogs so I could run back upstairs.  I hit the landing and saw him down the hall.  He was leaning against the wall, face in his hands, sobbing.  I whispered to him, desperately trying to keep him from waking up everyone, as I hurriedly grabbed him and guided him back to bed. 

“Why did you leave me?” he sobbed.

Oh baby, love, I just took the dogs out.  That’s all.  You’re okay. 

As I cradle him in my arms, he falls back to sleep.

Seth has slept with me for years.  I’m not even sure how long it has been.  He used to sleep in his room… in his bed.  But several years back, he started coming to my room a couple of hours after falling asleep.  And a couple of years after that, he invited himself to sleep with me, full time.

And this is a real thing.  He cannot and will not sleep without me, even when I have to be away for work.  He will sleep with my mom and, sometimes, with a nanny, but for the most part, I have to be home if I want Seth to sleep.  We go to bed together; we get up together.  I sleep early if I want him to go to bed.  I remain frozen in my spot if I want him to sleep in.  A combination of his anxiety plus some legit fears means he’s not going anywhere, any time soon.

Sure, I would love to sleep alone and stretch out my tired bones and sleep without his over-sized 11 year old, five foot two, 100 pound body placed firmly next to me (or on me).  But for now, we are a co-sleeping family, and it is what it is. 

This means I am often rushing home in order to literally put my children to bed, but mostly, to put Seth to bed.  With me. 

Having grace for me and my Seth around this issue is needed and wanted.  It’s not an excuse and it’s not made up.  This is who we are.  This is who Seth is.

Disclaimer

I’m going to start throwing down some candid writing on my blog.  For me.  Because I need it and I need to process and I don’t journal but I will blog.  (Whatever)

Before I put it out there for my two readers, here are my disclaimers:  

I love my children.  Full stop.  Adopting them…. being their mom… is the greatest decision I have ever made.  I love being a mom and I love being a mom to these children.  I am incredibly blessed on every single front.  I adore them with my whole heart.  Even Zechariah, who came home just before turning 7, feels like he has been with me forever.  I birthed every one of them, as far as I’m concerned.    

So when I write about trials and hard stuff and my frustrations and my life, please don’t assume this means I have regrets.  Don’t assume I wouldn’t do it all again in a heartbeat.  Do not assume I don’t love every moment with these babies and every day of our crazy lives.  It’s just hard sometimes, okay?  Living life is often living in the grey.  The good and the hard.  The love and the pull-your-hair-out frustration.  All of it.  I love them forever.

Here we go….

Inside Out

We recently saw the Disney movie "Inside Out."

It's marketed as a kids movie about feelings inside of a little girl.  Honestly, I found it much more relevant and challenging to us adults than for kids, but my children seemed to enjoy it.

Because we saw the movie with friends, Zechariah ended up far away from me, at the other end of our long row of people.  After the movie, he confessed to having cried during some parts.  I didn't dig into it at the moment, but I assumed that it related to leaving Uganda and feeling joy and sorrow at the same time, something the movie addresses.  I put my arm around him and as we walked to the van, I chattered with him about how God gives us a full range of emotions about situations and it's good to feel them all.  Zechariah says he does and then he named them:  joy, anger, sadness, disgust . . . 

At bedtime, I intentionally raised the movie because I wanted to open the door to more conversation on this topic.  I specifically asked Zechariah what made him cry during the movie.  He immediately started to cry and could barely squeak out, "The part when she stood up in school and said she was missing home."  Zechariah sobbed.  Leah clung to him.  Seth protested and said we should stop talking about it.  Immediately.

Seth had to excuse himself (he can't do "sadness" yet) and Zechariah, Leah and I snuggled and talked about how when we allow the sadness to come out, just like at the end of the movie, then joy can start to sneak back in because the sadness is released.  I told Zechariah that it is OKAY to feel sad about Uganda.  I told him it's OKAY to miss it; it's OKAY to miss friends; it's OKAY to feel angry that his life worked out the way it did.  And none of these things hurt my feelings.

At base, I'm thankful for Inside Out because it may help us start to unpack real feelings about adoption and life and Uganda.  Because adoption:  it's not all rainbows and unicorns.

International Adoption -- Triumphs and Travails

While it is difficult, as an adoptive mama, to see adoption under fire, the criticisms being lobbied at the business of adoption have merit.  They didn't spring up out of nowhere and they aren't “made-up, over-reactions to isolated incidents.”  No, these criticisms are the product of years of well-tread experiences across numerous countries in every corner of the world.  The criticisms are born out of true stories of abuses, corruption and greed. 

Recently, one my friends hired a private investigator to search for the biological mother of her adopted child.  Expecting to find nothing or, perhaps, distant relatives of her child who was allegedly abandoned, she instead found someone who may actually be the birth mother of her child, placed for adoption at a young age.  This adoptive mother is experiencing all sorts of different emotions.  Having been deceived about her child’s background, she feels angry.  She is also sad for the loss her child has and will continue to experience – the loss of the First Family.  She is devastated for the birth mother who was (apparently) duped into relinquishing her child.  Adoption fraud results in pain for everyone involved.

And her story is not unique.  From Vietnam to Guatemala to China to Ethiopia and beyond, the corruption associated with International adoption is not new.

I have two children who were adopted from Uganda.  They are not biologically related and have different stories that led to their adoption.  In 2010 when I met her, my daughter was at a then-prominent orphanage in Kampala.  Because of her HIV positive status, she was overlooked by the orphanage and considered “unadoptable.”  Nevertheless, I pursued and subsequently completed Leah’s adoption.  Afterward, a friend of mind was able to get me a full copy of Leah’s file from the orphanage. 

During my first trip to Uganda, I learned that in Uganda and other developing countries, children may be placed in orphanages by their biological family for temporary financial relief but not so that they are available for International adoption.  This means that when you visit an orphanage, not all of the children may actually be orphans and many may not be legally available for adoption.  Having learned that, I took a deeper look into Leah’s orphanage file.  I was told that Leah had been abandoned at birth and no family could be identified.  Instead of corroborating that, Leah’s file contains a letter from someone purporting to be a relative.  Unfortunately, no one followed up on the letter to determine its validity.  There are also other documents in Leah’s file, identifying potential relatives of Leah and where they might be found.  But the orphanage did nothing to contact or reach out to these individuals.    

So like many people before me, I embark on a journey to look for Leah’s biological family, braced for whatever and, dare we hope, whoever we may find.  I've hired a team in Uganda who I trust who will trace the open leads – finally, over four years later – in hopes of learning more about my Leah and her extended first family.  I don’t do this so I can add to the chorus of people disenfranchised with adoption. I’m doing it for Leah.  She needs to know her roots and her life and her family and her everything.  We don’t know what we will learn, but we proceed in faith. Will you cover us in prayer as we go?

You look like family

It has been 15 years since we last gathered.  That time, it was Michigan; this time, my parent's house.  In Michigan, many of us weren't married and even fewer of us had children -- the next generation.  This time, there were close to 70 of us, the younger generation picking up where the elders have gone home.

 

My Grandpa Stutzman (Bob) had 9 brothers and sisters.  Ten of them in all.  George {as he is still affectionately called} went to heaven in 1998 and I still ache for him.

 

This weekend, George's one remaining brother (Uncle Royce) was here for the reunion and his sister (Aunt Rosie) "joined" us by Facetime on Saturday, having just had surgery.  What a blast it was connecting with family nearby (Michigan) and far away (Florida/California).  Uncle Royce reminds me of my George in many ways and it blesses me to pieces to be with him, soaking up those Stutzman roots.

 

It was late Saturday afternoon when I turned to my brother Joel and said, "I think it's so cool to look around this {ginormous} family and see certain facial features that come through so strongly.  I mean, there really is a Stutzman look."

 

Even as the words came out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back.  Right there... confronted with a reality that I "know" but had never "known."
 

My brother was adopted and across race lines.  There is zero chance of him or his babies looking anything like the Stutzmans, outside of mannerisms and behaviors which we share.  And the same goes for my babies.

 

Of course, this is not new information.  I have heard adult adoptees speak for years about how difficult it is took look around crowds for a face that look likes yours, always scanning and searching to see the familiarity we all enjoy in the faces of our beloved generations.  I never fully knew or appreciated that until this weekend.  Until there were my babies.

 

As I looked around my parent's yard, I saw an abundance of beautiful faces and I knew this was my home.  But it's also my children's home.  Because of the awesome decision my parent's made forty years ago, the Stutzman line will now and forever after include people with beautiful brown skin.
That's a beautiful thing.

 

But in the meantime, it's time for my babies and me to have a family meeting to talk about what really binds us together as family.  Not our eyes or our face shape or our height or the color of our skin.  No, it's love. 
Blessed be the tie that binds.
 

Transitioning the Mama

Bringing home an older child feels very different than bringing home a baby or a toddler in some obvious ways and other not so obvious ways.  Zechariah (at almost seven years old) can talk to me about what he is thinking/feeling.  He can tell me when he’s upset in a way that I didn’t experience with Seth (infant adoption) and Leah (2 years old).  He also has the ability to ask me to take him on an airplane to Uganda – his homeland.  In those times, more frequent these days, I weep in my heart for him and for the country that he now knows only from a far.  

Today was another type of milestone.  I went to the local elementary school to meet with the principal and decide where Zechariah belongs for school.  At almost seven, he has never set foot in a school, so it’s tricky.  Saving the story of what the school is like for another day, I loved my meeting with the principal.  She is amazing and we are soooo blessed to be just two blocks away from her awesome school.  But somewhere about half way through the meeting, I started to get this intense feeling of dread.  Here I was – talking about a child who I’ve only known ten weeks at this point – getting ready to send him to school.  Real school.  Not preschool school.  But “big kid” school.  By himself.  Without me (or his nanny). 

As I felt the fear well up in my heart, I reminded myself that this is part of older child adoption:  letting go earlier than you otherwise may.  With Seth and Leah, I got to hold tight for a while longer while they stepped slowly (or at least slower) through the stages of growing up.  Zechariah, however, is ready to go.  He’s begging to go.  It’s time to go.  On Wednesday, he will go.  And I predict, I will cry.  A lot.  Because whether he is 6 or not, he’s my newest baby and he’s already so grown up.

Uganda 2012

We also spent time coloring and creating.

And learning....

 LOOK at that pencil hold!
Never been to school....

 We spent a little time at the American Recreation Association (ARA) where we could swim, eat, play, and play some more. 

 Kathryn, did you know bamboo is very strong?  HA

 And legos, legos and more legos!

One evening, we hosted the African Hearts.

Moreen helped us cook.

Leah was totally into it! 

Shut your flapper

Our trip to Uganda has been beautiful and blessed.

I love it here.

My children are comfortable here.

Two of my children share this country as their home.

Uganda is forever *and happily* a part of our family.

Having now completed two adoptions here, I know that the time in country can be hard.

I am intimately aware of the feeling that you want to get out and take your new baby home.

I've lived it.

Twice.

But the ugly American thing is something I simply do not understand.

Recently, while wesat at the U.S. Embassy, I felt completely and utterly embarrassed to be an American.

While Zechariah and I waited to see if we could get an appointment, two other families from the States sat off to the side, loudly talking about their displeasure with just about everything in this country.

The children were clearly tired of waiting.

{I get this}

So while the three adults whined and complained loudly about drivers and how expensive everything here is and how much they want (need) to go home, their children amused themselves.

Two small ones crawled around the concrete, putting a variety of "no-nos" into their mouths with nary a glance from their new parents.

The older children busied themselves with sticks, stones, and grass.

None of the three adults seemed particularly interested in the children.  In fact, the bulk of the interaction amongst the adults and children was for discipline.  The littles were in trouble if they climbed anything.  (Why were they allowed to be alone in an unsafe area in the first place????)  The bigs were screamed at if they did anything the parents didn't like.  So much so that at one point, one child did not throw away a piece of paper fast enough and the mother got up, stormed over to her, SPANKED HER IN PUBLIC and returned to her seat.

Are you kidding me???

And it didn't get better from there.  The adults continued to whine and complain about how awful hard their lives are here.  Have I mentioned that the courtyard where we all sat was FULL of Ugandans?  And English is their national language?  Oy....

 I could go on with all of the things I heard them say that would make your skin crawl -- like "If they're going to have an orphanage and allow kids to be adopted, they should at least provide us with a driver" -- but I won't.  Suffice it to say that it was embarrassing and I walked away with these thoughts:

If you do not like Uganda, do not adopt from here.

Your children WILL want to return.

If you do not have a heart for children who you did not birth, please do not adopt.

I've never seen such poor attachment amongst newly anointed parents and their children as I saw today.  If your heart is not open, don't go there.

If you are not prepared to stay in Uganda -- and be happy about it -- for as long as it takes to get your child home, find another country to adopt from.  May I suggest your own country where the culture of your child may be more like yours???

If you cannot exhibit just a little bit of class in a culture that is VERY different from your own, don't travel there.  That's pretty simple, right?

And above all, if you don't have the respect for your children's birth country and culture that is required to raise that little person to be proud of who s/he is, you need to move on.  International adoption is not for you.  Stay yourself in the US and please, for the love of all decency, shut your flapper.

What we've been up to.... in pictures

Learning letters....

 Meeting Max....

Thanks Sammy!!!

 Lunching on the porch....

 Thanksgiving feast with friends... 

Grasshopper eatin'....

My best and worst decision....

Legos.

If I hear one more smash of a lego creation....

UGH

 And some bean makin' with Auntie Moreen.

We love Uganda!!

Adventures in Boda Boda riding

On Monday, November 19, we were up and having a lazy morning when I received a text that read, “Please come to Immigration immediately to pick your passport.” After a quick discussion with Lara and a call to Christopher to confirm he could not be at my house in the next ten minutes, I came to terms with the fact that Zechariah and I would have to do this trip boda-boda style. We threw our clothes on and attempted to tell my first born and baby good-bye. {They didn’t take it well….}

Our guard was not at the gate so we hiked up the hill and started to attempt to flag a boda driver. A couple passed up by but then a man, in all black with a dark helmet (rare) pulled to the side. I walked up to him and told him we need to get to Immigration right away but that my baby was with me and we did not want to go fast. He questioned me about which office I needed to visit and whether it is on “Jinja Road.” I told him it is. The man then welcomed us on his bike and told me he would take us *for free* to another boda driver who would drive us to Immigration.

We hopped on. The man was perfect. Drove slowly; avoided holes the size of his bike; was gentle. After a few minutes, I started to beg him to take us the whole way. I didn’t want to risk a crazy driver (I mean, we were driving a good 12 kilometers without helmets….). I told him I would pay him…. A lot. He told me it wasn’t about the money. (what?!?!?) I continued to beg as he pulled up to a line of bodas about a mile from our house. He stopped about 40 feet away, got off his bike, and turned to surmise the drivers. As he looked them up and down, he finally pointed at one who joined us at the bike.

The young man looked nice enough but also like one of those young “kids” who darts in and out of traffic in an effort to beat everyone to the next stop. Our first driver quizzed him about where immigration is (he knew) and then proceeded to drill him about driving carefully with my baby. It was right around this time that the driver turned to me and smiled, displaying a gap between his two teeth that you could drive a truck through. I quickly shoved some money in his hand and thanked Jesus for sending an angel that reminded me of Grandpa George to get us to our appointment safely. He gave me his card in return: Moses, of course…..

Our second driver was equally good, pulling to the side anytime traffic got a little crazy. I was impressed. We made it to the passport office quickly and alive, although I was thinking that while I had survived the ride, Christopher (our regular driver) would surely kill me for taking a boda. We paid our second driver way too much and ran to enter the premises. Just then, I read a text from Lara: not ready until 3, went to Isaac’s (lawyer). Confused, we jumped on {another} boda, lectured him on safety, and headed to our attorney’s office. This guy took safety much less seriously and after only a minute on the back of his bike, he crossed a major intersection against traffic, weaving in and out of cars and bodas heading 90 degrees opposite us. Oy.

We took a few more bodas that day and I’m convinced Zechariah was a in heaven. The end of the story is that we still don’t have our passport and there is no real end in sight. But God is on His throne, knowing the beginning and the end of this saga…. Lord willing, soon. Until then, we are going to try to stay off these vehicles and safely in Christopher’s care.



Gotcha, Little Man



The day I met my eldest...

He wouldn't look at me.

And certainly wouldn't talk to me.

 He was completely and utterly terrified.

And who wouldn't be?!?!

 But the minute I met him, I knew he was ours.

 Terrified tho he was

 He would relax on and off....

 More off than on initially.

This far away look frequented his face.

 But the stinker was never far behind!

 This is Carol, who runs Manna Rescue Home.

LOVE HER.

 And this is beautiful Fort Portal Uganda!