They Told Me I Couldn't

They told me I couldn't...

Go to school full time...

...or sometimes overtime, and graduate in four years

...or graduate with both a major and a minor

AND

Work part time...

...20 hours a week at a daycare center, making little more than minimum wage

...while still being good at my job

AND

Raise a Kindergartener...

...and give her all the things and experiences she deserved

AND

Take care of a baby...

...get up for midnight feedings

AND

"Live my life"...

ALL

In this...

...teeny tiny...

...room.


They told me I couldn't do it.



But I did.



And we all turned out...

 just...

fine.

(More or less eyebrows)

Never let anyone tell you what you "can't" do.

Safety on the Internet

Woo hoo, look at me everybody, it's another insanely personal post that's hard to share!  I'm setting records here.

This is something that's come up a lot in my life lately, and sometimes when things just keep coming up like that, I think it's a message from God, that maybe it's time to share my experiences, for the sake of others... so that's what I'm doing.  This is personal and not easy to write or read so please be kind, but every day I see and hear things that scare me more... that some young girl, somebody's daughter... is not going to be as lucky as I was... and I have to do everything in my power to stop that.




I was twelve.  The internet wasn't entirely new, but it was still in its infancy.  Remember when the internet was basically AOL?  Dialup, anyone?  Errrr-uh-err-uh-errrr-uh-errrrrrrrrrrgh!  Yeah, that's the time period we're in.  No facebook, no myspace, no xanga, no twitter, no youtube... okay, there were pictures of cats, but not near as many and they most certainly weren't as funny.  The internet had not achieved the social network status it holds today... and people underestimated it - myself included - which turned out to be very dangerous.

It started with a school project.  I got to do an independent study on anything I wanted.  I wanted to write about the military - especially JAG (yes, lawyers.  It was my favorite show.)  So I was online, doing research, when I found this message board (the social network of the time) that was ALL about this show!  Now even then I'd heard people warn - don't tell anyone where you live or your real name on the internet... don't give out your phone number or any other personal information... but I couldn't resist posting, so I created possibly the most anonymous alias I could think of (okay, it was JAGfan1.  I didn't win any points for creativity here, basically).  And I posted once, and then again, and then I was hooked, posted all the time.  I remember that people panicked when they found out I was only twelve.  Perfect strangers worrying about my safety, asking me to have my mom verify that she was okay with me being on this board (she was).    I took it all very personally, I was very defensive ("I'm mature for my age!  I'm smart, I can handle myself!")... and he saw it.

I have no doubt he knew he was playing on my weakness when a poster named Marco (yes, I'm naming names, because, you bastard, if you're still out there, I want you to know that I see you for what you always were now) came to me and told me that he could see that I was much more mature than most kids my age, and that other people just didn't understand, but he did, and would I like to be friends?  He was 35, he was up front about this - no lying about age, which is so often something we warn our kids about today - but sometimes they don't even need to lie.

I said yes, I want to be friends, and we talked via e-mail (side note - remember when people actually sent emails?) and in a chat room for our message board.  About a month after I found that board, my parents split up, and it was the second place I went to cry (after calling my best friend).  Everyone was supportive and kind... especially him... and I thought he was just being a friend, but now I realize that I had inadvertently given him another weakness to prey on.  We talked more... he 'helped me' get through it... and then when he started to share some issues that were bothering him, it didn't alarm me because we were just friends helping each other... but his issues were grown up issues that a twelve year old shouldn't have been dealing with or even hearing about.

And that was when he found the key - my most crucial weakness - the innate want - no, need - to help others.  I told you all in another post that I'm a fixer.  I always have been.  When he spoke of his problems, I wanted to fix them, I wanted to help him.  Now, I'm fairly certain that they were all manufactured to gain my trust and sympathy, bond me further to him.  He was grooming  me.  He was slowly teaching me that only he really understood me, and that I was smart and kind and I understood and helped him, that he needed me, that no one else believed in him and I was the only one who saw the good in him.  Is this starting to sound like an abusive relationship to anyone else?

Well it was.  But it happened so gradually, and I was so young, so naive, that I couldn't see it... and I was so determined to be right - to show everyone that I was smart and mature - that I ignored every piece of good advice I was ever given.

He asked me to share a picture of myself and I hesitated, because I'd been warned about putting pictures on the internet, but finally I relented when he said he'd share his picture too.  I shared one of me in a Limited Too hoodie and pigtails.  All I remember about his is that he had a goatee.  After that, I was 'desensitized' to posting pictures (I did it once and nothing happened!) and I shared many more.  He told me I was cute, pretty, which pictures were his favorites... and I took it all as compliments.

I will never forget the day he said "Can I tell you a secret?"  He'd been acting off all day.  I was nervous, in the pit of my stomach I felt uneasy, like it was going to be a bad secret.  My gut was trying to tell me that something was not right with this guy, but I didn't listen to it.  I said yes.  He said I couldn't tell, even my parents.  And then that became the standing rule with all his 'secrets'.  And he told me about a (sexual) relationship he'd had with a married woman he met online, who he still 'loved'.  He gave me her email and asked me very innocently to contact her.  Now I believe that he was using me to continue to stalk and victimize this woman.  Over time he started telling me what to say... and I said it.  I was his mouthpiece.  I regret falling into that trap more than anything else... being a tool of his abuse.

Then, as time went on, he fixated on different women (both famous people and people in our 'online community'), obsessed over them, told me all about it (often in very inappropriate ways), used me to contact them as well, and then ultimately came to me telling me how he'd propositioned one of them and they'd rejected him, and that he was so emotionally hurt that he felt suicidal... and it became my job to talk him down off the ledge.  A twelve year old.  Today I'm pretty sure there was no ledge, but even if there was, I shouldn't have been the one up there with him.

At one point, in those olden days before the wonders of DVR, I'd gone on vacation with my family once and tried to set a tape to pre-record all the episodes of JAG while I was gone, but it failed and I missed something significant.  He offered to send me a tape.  I talked it over with my mom.  What if I gave him one of my parents' work addresses instead of our home address?  That would be safe, right?  Or I could get a PO Box.  I really wanted to see that episode.  After much discussion it was agreed that I could use a work address, and he sent me the tape and a mostly innocuous note.  Another hurdle gone - I'd even had him send me something, and it wasn't a bomb or anything like that... so sharing this business address must be safe.  Later more mail packages were exchanged - seemingly innocent, but conditioning me slowly to believe that corresponding via US mail was 'okay', that sharing an address was 'okay'.  Toward the very end, he even started to push for my home address.

But while all that is a bit creepy, it wasn't the typical sort of 'internet red flag' they told you to watch out for... which is probably why I fell for it.  But I shouldn't have fallen for the bit I'm about to tell you about.  It should've been a huge red flag... but he'd built up my trust so much that it wasn't.

The summer that I was 13, the air conditioning in our house went out.  I took to lying around in my (very first) bikini pretty much all the time, and lacking modesty I shared this fact with him.  He asked me what it looked like.  After that he started asking  me what I was wearing all the time.  I told him.  He'd tell me what he was wearing.  Even if it was nothing.  I thought it was just making conversation, and when you're thirteen, talking about stuff like that isn't sexual, it's more like "Heehee, you're naked!  That's funny!  Naked is funny!"  So one day when he told me that he and another friend played a 'game' where they would always tell each other when they were naked, and that maybe we should do it too, I felt a little uneasy, but then that part of me that was desperately trying to prove myself rose up and I thought, "Hey, maybe this is just what grown-ups do, how they talk to each other.  Maybe he's just treating me like an adult like he always does.  I don't want him to think I'm not mature."  So I agreed.  He was also always trying to convince me to get a webcam.  I probably would have, if I'd had any money.  Thank goodness for being broke.

Time passed, and this dysfunctional, scary relationship continued.  Today I'm pretty sure he had every intention of making me trust him until I was willing to meet him.  He would mention being in my state or a neighboring state and comment that maybe we'd meet someday.  Thank the Lord and my parents' gut, that never happened.

Around my 14th birthday, he wanted to send me a gift.  I told him he didn't have to, but he said it was special and he picked it out just for me, so I relented.  After it was in the mail, he told me he sent a little something else as a birthday gift and he hoped I wouldn't get mad.  I was nervous... deep down, in my gut, about what it might be, but I didn't let on.  When the package came I opened it alone in my room.  A letter, a pin of a gold angel carrying a race flag (that he said reminded him of me) and a $20.  I smiled.  I thought it was sweet.  I told him I wasn't mad.

At dinner that night, my parents asked what he sent.  My father still came over on Wednesday nights and ate with us.  I told them casually, with a smile, not expecting the reaction, nor the chain of events that came after.  I will never forget the look on my father's face.  It had me petrified.  I can't even describe it.  He wasn't just furious, he was... well, I think it was the look that someone gets on their face when they realize that their little girl is well on her way to an episode of 20/20.  I never felt so small.  That feeling that had been lying surpressed in my gut for so long grew so large it took over.  I wanted to vomit.  I couldn't finish my meal.  I thought - if my parents were so angry about this... what would they think about all the 'secrets'... the things I hadn't told them?  My gut had been right and I suddenly knew it.

I threw a typical teenage temper tantrum, but inside I knew they were right.  Even though my mom told me I didn't have to, I told him I was cutting off contact with him, I would no longer chat or email or IM, no more mail (except my parents' stipulation that I send the money back).  It was his response that absolutely confirmed that my long-ignored gut had been right.  I'd lied, told him that my parents were making me cut off contact - it was easier to lie.  So he tried to get me to disobey them - deceive them - keep talking to him but tell them I'd stopped.  I'd gotten a computer in my room for my birthday, and he knew it.  Then he tried to guilt me by saying I was his only friend and he didn't want to live anymore.  Playing on my weaknesses.  I could've easily kept the secret.  But the one thing I knew was that when anyone tried to tell you to secretly disobey your parents (unless it was something like sneaking starbursts after bedtime on Halloween), it was a big, fat, red flag... and that was what I needed to have the strength to walk away... physically, but not emotionally unscathed.

For years I kept his letters, the pin, the tapes.  I sent him an e-card every year on his birthday (in hopes that if he knew someone still cared/remembered, he wouldn't end his life)... until I got a little older, a little wiser, and realized that something had been wrong and I wanted to be as far from it as I could.  I burned the letters, threw away the tapes, and changed my e-mail address.  And then I went on with my life.

It wasn't until college that I realized the extent of what really happened.  I was in a psychology seminar where the lecturer was discussing how pedophiles groom their victims, and as I sat there scribbling notes, I realized I didn't need to write this down... I already knew it because it had happened to me.  Over the next few days and weeks, the reality of how lucky I'd been, what could've happened if things had gone differently, hit me hard.  I struggled with coping and acceptance - five years after the fact.  I thought about it all the time.   I told no one.  I was too ashamed.  How could I have been so stupid?  When I finally told my mom, then took control back by contacting various authorities (even though I knew nothing could really be done - I was doing it to take my life, my control back)... that was when I could breathe again.  But the reality never deserts me.

I was almost a statistic.

I was one of the lucky ones.

I got away.


Not everyone is that lucky.  And that's why I'm sharing this tonight.  Now and again, I hear people discussing whether or not to put computers in their children's bedrooms, whether to let them access facebook or chat or instant messaging.  I hear adults discussing whether or not to add people they don't know to their friends lists on facebook.  Because for the most part, people are trusting.  We want to see the good.  And yes, we want to build those relationships that might start in unconventional ways - I won't tell you that I never made another friend on the internet, because that's not true - but I certainly exercise a lot more caution these days.

I'm sharing this because people don't think it can happen to them.  I didn't think it could happen to me.  I was too mature, too smart.  I wasn't one of those people that things happened to, I wasn't a victim.  Until I was.

So forgive me, but if I don't accept your friend request or readily give out my address... this is why.  Once you've been burned, you try to stay away from the fire.

And I urge you, all of you, to exercise caution in your online activities and especially in your children's online activities.  For all I know, if my parents hadn't intervened, I could be dead.  Your kids might hate you.  They might scream and yell and slam their doors and tell you you're ruining their lives.  I did all those things.  Then I grew up... and I said thank you... because my parents didn't ruin my life... they saved it.  As an adult, if you want to talk to people you've never met, go for it - but don't put your life on a platter for them.  I've met some of my best friends online - rewarding relationships can start there, especially these days, but just like you wouldn't go on a blind date in a dark alley, don't let yourself be lured, unarmed into a trap by the hope of finding something good.  Talk on message boards and groups - if you accept a friend request on a social network, set your privacy so that they can only see what you want them to see.  Personally, I don't accept requests from anyone I haven't corresponded with extensively in the past.  Keep certain things about your life, particularly identifying factors, private from people you haven't met in person.  If you decide to meet someone you first became acquainted with online, do it in a public place and tell someone where you're going and when you'll be back.  I wouldn't tell you to do these things if I wasn't already doing them myself - which is why I won't tell you, as an adult, not to 'talk to strangers'.

But your kids are a different story.  They shouldn't be talking to people they don't know, period.  Their judgement, their 'gut feeling', just isn't developed enough to recognize the danger, no matter how smart or mature they are.  And that's not an affront to your child, please don't take it that way - remember, I was that child... the smart, mature one... who fell into the trap anyways.  Please.  Put parental filters on your web browsers.  Keep your computer in a public place.  If you have a laptop, put a password on it so little fingers can't disappear with it.  Talk to your kids about internet safety, about warning signs that may not look like warning signs.  Keep an open dialogue about what's going on on the computer.  Facebook has an age limit for a reason - adhere to it.  When you do decide to let your child have an account, know their password.  Monitor their activity.  Be up front about it, let them know you'll be checking up on them - don't just read their diary when they leave the door open - but do check up on them.  You're not being a helicopter parent, you're being vigilant.  I tell M (who is 13, and who I told this story to when she first got facebook) that I don't really care what she says to her friends, what they talk about, if they swear - even if it's not something I'm proud of her doing... whatever, normal teenager things - we all did them.  All I care about is that she's safe, that she's not talking to people she doesn't know or people who might be dangerous.  And I do monitor her activity - but only for safety - and she knows and (I hope) understands that.  But even if she doesn't, it's not going to change, because she's not going to be a statistic either if I can help it.

I know it may not seem like it folks, but we are on the front lines... and sometimes you can't see the enemy until he's already in your camp.  We can't stop internet predators from seeking out targets, no more than we can throw every single starfish back into the sea... but we can limit their pool of victims by protecting ourselves and our children the best as we can... and we can do that without putting ourselves in a bubble.  That's what my parents did ten years ago, and I can tell you honestly...

It made a difference to this one.

Me - 2002

Christmas Magic and The Year That Santa Came

In the past few weeks, a few different people have shared their Christmas traditions with me and others via social media.  Why they do Santa, why they don't do Santa, what variations they may have on traditional themes, what special activities they do together as a family, on and on.  More than once, it has brought me to tears - for many of these stories reflect the true nature of giving that is so vital to the Christmas spirit.

All this made me reflect on the Christmas traditions I grew up with... and the new meanings that came to them in recent years.

My childhood Christmas traditions were pretty typical.  We went to the mall to see Santa.  We baked cookies - chocolate crinkles and chocolate chip and peanut butter and sugar cookies shaped like stars, trees, bells, snowmen, wreaths, etc.  My parents taught me the true meaning of Christmas - why we celebrate - the birth of Christ, we went to church on Christmas eve, we read the story of the first Christmas, but our holiday always included both religious and secularized elements.  I was a stickler for the Jesus aspect of Christmas growing up - I remember one year as a child, we were making Christmas cookies and I realized there was no baby Jesus, which was just wrong in my eyes, so I set to work with construction paper (blue), drew and cut out a Jesus-in-a-manger shape to use as a cookie cutter.  And my mom, bless her heart, didn't tell me that logistically, you couldn't make a cookie cutter out of paper, or suggest we look for a cutter to buy instead... no, she took my paper craft and carefully traced around it with a knife to cut out several hunks of cookie dough that, by my estimation, looked exactly like baby Jesus.  I was so proud of those cookies.

But I digress.  What I mean to say here is that my Christmases were full of magic - both in the childish sense (that I was determined never to outgrow - my mom had to tell me the news about Santa when I was eleven) and the true sense of the season of Christ.  I never wanted for anything.  I'd go through catalogs before Christmas and circle everything I wanted (might as well have just circled the whole catalogs), I ran to my mom after every commercial and cried "Mom!  I want that!  I want that!"  Big tree- always real - decked out in colored lights and tinsel and garland and ornaments that had been in our family for years... And on Christmas morning, I woke up to piles of gifts that spread out far past 'under' the tree.

We had celebrations with both sides of my family, celebrations with my best friend, cards from far away family members (and sometimes special gifts), and boy, I was probably the most spoiled kid who ever lived. But I was thankful.  I used to write in my letter to Santa "Here are some cookies and a carrot for your reindeer.  I have been good and thank you for the presents I haven't recieved yet" (that was not a typo - I couldn't spell received until eighth grade).  One year, 'Santa' wrote back that one of his reindeer (I forget which one) liked his carrot dipped in peanut butter - so I left peanut butter out every year too.  And my mom didn't neglect to let me know that Santa really preferred Dr. Pepper to milk.  ;)

I was really a lucky kid.  Even as I got older and our Christmases became a little more modest and more about giving than receiving, I still never had any idea what it was to go without, especially on Christmas.

My dear borrowed kids came to me in high school - at least the girls - my Junior year.  AJ wasn't born until I was in college.  What became clear right away is that the kind of Christmas I'd grown up with, was something they had yet to experience.  When they were 3 and 7 years old, we had our first gift exchange - and oh yes, you'd better bet we went overboard, especially after hearing that A's big gift the previous year had been a new coat.  I have the cutest pictures from Christmas that year, my two girls dressed up in the outfits we carefully picked out... and of course balanced with an equal number of toys, because what kid wants clothes for a gift?  (Well, it turns out, these ones do.  Neither one of them has ever had that 'eh, clothes' reaction.  They were thankful for each and every article.)

A couple, just for cuteness' sake.

M, age 7

A, age 3 (love how this one captured her silliness!)

Girls by the tree

Every year after that we had our own little 'Christmas' with the girls.  Some years one or both of them didn't get much else, because times were troubled at home.

But as A got older, she started to ask a whole lot of questions - wanted to know if Santa was really coming, how would he know whose house she was at, would he really bring her what she asked for, would he come to my house, Mamaw's house, mommy's house?

A had so little real 'magic' in her early life, I wanted her to have 'Santa'.  I wanted her to believe in magic, to have that childlike wonder and joy and just get to be innocent for a time, and so when she asked me, I assured her that Santa was coming if she made good choices (we do not say "good girl/bad girl in this house).  I knew it couldn't last forever, only as long as I could keep the promise to her myself, but I wanted her to have it for however long she could.  M actually believed for a while too, even told off her classmates a couple times over it!

We'd always done our Christmas in the evening one day, because that's when I usually had M, although in later years we took to having sleepovers for Christmas because the girls always wanted to play with their new toys together (and no, they are not sisters).  A was usually here over night for one reason or another anyways.  The year A was six, I had almost thought we weren't going to be able to spend Christmas together.  Prior to our celebration, which occurred the weekend before Christmas, I hadn't seen her in seven weeks.  That was the year the second Ellfant was born.

It was one of the happiest Christmases I could remember, because my little girl was home.  I remember we got her 'Elefun' that year, and after we made gingerbread (okay, graham cracker) houses and opened presents, we all tried to catch those crazy little butterflies until the three of us collapsed in a giggling heap on the floor and my heart was so full I had to hold back tears.  Then we went out to look at Christmas lights in the car and eat candy canes, and these sweet little voices were singing Christmas carols from the back seat the whole way, eyes lighting up in wonder at the most elaborately decorated houses.

Just... happy.

The fun of that year, and how neither of them wanted it to end, and all the questions A started asking about Santa, made me think a little harder about the following year.  It would be AJ's first year of celebrating Christmas with us, since he'd only been less than two months old the previous year.  M was through her Santa days, but had experienced plenty of magic thanks to her wonderful mom, who did everything she could to make Christmas special for M every year.  A, though... that year she was six, when I asked her what she did on Christmas day (I saw her the next day), if Santa came to mommy's house too... "No, we just didn't do nothin'.  Santa didn't have a tree to put presents under so he just brought them all to your house."

It was then that I realized the one bit of the magic she was missing.  The sleepless night on Christmas eve, startling at every noise, thinking you heard reindeer paws on your roof, checking the clock every hour, looking out the window for the first hint of dawn that meant it was okay to wake up the adults, coming downstairs and seeing the house instantly transformed to a place of magic over night because Santa had been there.  So the next year, I resolved to give her the whole experience.  It turned out to be easier than I thought because she wound up living with me on and off that year anyways.

I sat down with M and explained that even though I knew she didn't 'believe' anymore, I wanted this to be special for A and I needed her help.  I told her what my mom told me about Santa - it's not that he's not real, because he is.  He's not a fat guy in a red suit who comes down your chimney, but 'Santa' is the spirit of giving, the little bit of magic in us all, the effort we put forth every year to give our kids that magic - and now that she was big enough, she was part of 'Santa' too, and I couldn't do it without her help.  Sweet M took the words to heart and helped me make the year magic.

We did everything 'by the book'.  The girls wrote letters to 'Santa' and left out cookies, a carrot, and some peanut butter.  I showed them the letters that Santa wrote back to me as a child, especially the one about the peanut butter.  They drew pictures for Santa too.  We all hung our stockings by the fireplace.  We sat by the Christmas tree before bed and read 'The Night Before Christmas', and of course the story of the first Christmas.  Then I put little one year old AJ to bed and the two little girls (one of whom I'm pretty sure was actually bouncing off the walls) in their BRAND NEW Christmas present room that we'd painted and decorated just for them (the following picture is the looks on their faces the moment they saw it).

I'll translate those expressions for you:  "This is for ME?!"

Now, the thing of it was, I had quit my job just a few months before that Christmas.  I was a full time student, caring for two little girls and a baby whose formula cost TWENTY SIX DOLLARS A CAN.  O, alimentum, how I loathe thee.  I was commuting a half an hour each way to and from school every day, with detours thrown in to pick up and drop off kids at school or childcare arrangements.  Things were tight.  The reason we decorated their room for a gift was because we already had most of what we needed and the rest we bought with gift cards that had been sitting around forever.  It was most costly in labor, which we did ourselves.  Other than that, I only had a couple presents for each of them - but I was doing stockings for the first time, and fruit is cheap and fits well, so that helped.  Still, though, I felt like we'd set the bar too high on the gift front in previous years, and while I knew they'd be happy, when all the presents were bought and then A chose to ask Santa for things she hadn't even told me she'd wanted - I didn't know what to do!  Santa couldn't let her down, not this year!

I remember crying to my friends one night online - friends I knew from a message board, mostly, only a few of whom had met me or the girls.  A wanted a pillow pet.  Those stupid things were twenty dollars.  I'd had the 'Cinderella dress to match my shoes' since Halloween - but the kid sprung the pillow pet on me at the last minute.  I racked my brain for how to get her one.  Then M showed up wearing her mom's (far too big) coat one day, saying she didn't have one.  Another thing I hadn't planned on buying.  I looked for that one in a swap section of our board.  It had to be bought, she needed it.

Eventually I swallowed my pride, planned to wrap everything separately and fill in with homemade gifts.

Then Santa came.

First, he came in the form of a friend, who sent me a message to tell me she was going to be in my area soon, and her son was just a little older than AJ, would I want some of the toys he had never really played with for AJ's Christmas?

Cue tears.  She presented me with two BIG BAGS of gifts, including a coat that HE desperately needed.

Then came the friend who wrote to tell me after Thanksgiving that she'd been at her pastor's sermon on random acts of kindness, and as she sat thinking of whom she could be kind to, A's face popped into her head.  She had some credit at gymboree, and she loved buying girl clothes but she didn't have a daughter, would I please let her send something for A?

Let her?  I cried again.  Told her she didn't have to, but that we were struggling and if she wanted to buy girl clothes, A certainly needed them.  Yeah, I made sure she had sufficient clothing, but, you know, my girly girl... she always wanted more pretty things.

Then came the friend who sent me a picture of a coat, and did I think it would fit M?  I told her yes, I thought it would, and asked her how much she wanted for it.

She put it in the mail and told me not to worry about it.  She didn't need it anyways, she said.

Tears again.

The straw that broke the camel's back though... was maybe a week before Christmas... just after I'd had the breakdown over the pillow pet situation... and lo and behold, one day, a package came addressed to me from Amazon... but I hadn't ordered anything.  I opened it... and I thought the tears would never stop.  Not only the coveted pillow pet, but the perfect one for A, and not just that, but a gift card, so that I could get something 'for me or for the kids'... from another friend.

Here I'd resigned myself to having to explain the absence of the pillow pet... and it shows up unexpected at my door.

Tell me that's not 'Santa' in the truest form.

When it came time to wrap the gifts, some of them were from me, and I wrote that on the tags.  But some of them weren't from me.  They were from the collective kindness of a world who wanted to help me make the kids' Christmas special.  I couldn't take credit for that.

Those tags read 'Santa'.

After the kids were in bed that night, I stayed up late arranging the presents just perfectly, stuffing stockings, eating cookies, and of course writing a note back from Santa about their good choices.

When A saw this, she shouted "HE ATE THE COOKIES!"

Michael's, one dollar, and glitter glue.  Awesome.

Didn't turn out too shabby at all.

When M questioned me about it in private later about the Santa gifts, after the discussion we'd already had about keeping up the pretense for the little kids, I looked at her straight faced and said, "No, those really did come from Santa.  Remember what I told you?  I didn't buy those things.  They came from people who just wanted to give - and that's what Santa is."

I took picture after picture of that year's magic.

The one everyone commented on though, was one I didn't even realize I was in until later.

Why?  Surprisingly, not for the cute little girl in the foreground... but for goofy old me in the previous day's clothes in the background...

They all said I looked so genuinely happy and that they could just see how much I loved those kids.

And they were right.  Because the biggest present Santa brought that year was for me... the perfect Christmas with my babies.

Oh, and this.  Best gift ever.

So, when people ask me if we 'do' Santa, I tell them yes - because he's real.  And most adults look at me warily, like I might start speaking in tongues or something, but if they'd been there, the year that Santa came, they'd believe too.

To Those Who Doubt

This post may be considered Part IV of my "A Heart for Adoption" series, but it is a little different and therefore titled a little differently.  This post concerns things that have happened in the past which some might say were signs from God that I was not meant to adopt.  It concerns trials and tribulations, stumbling blocks in my path, things that we smile and keep under the surface and don't talk about because they're ugly and negative.  And this is where I'm going to prove to you, that those things too, are a part of God's plan.

One specific event is the main impetus for this post.  In August 2005, Hurricane Katrina struck the Gulf Coast and devastated New Orleans and other parts of coastal Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi.  Not far behind, Hurricane Rita came to devastate Texas, and pelt Louisiana once again.  I saw the news on TV.  I saw the footage of families stuck on their roofs awaiting rescue.  I saw the photos and videos of looting, of bodies lying in the street, sometimes covered with a white sheet, sometimes not.  I read the horrible stories of families crammed into shelters just trying to survive.  Then, one day, standing in the hallway at church, the tragedy hit me in a whole new way.  I discovered a bulliten board advertising my own church's missions to the area.  And I felt God tap me on the shoulder and say "Katie.  I want you to go."

As I did when God called my to adoption, I shook my head and said to Him, "No, I can't do that.  That is not for me.  It is too hard.  I cannot do it."  And as He did when He called me to adoption, He never relented until I was bent to His will.  With a shaking hand, I put my name on that list.  Seventeen years old.  The girl who had panic attacks when she traveled.  The girl who cried spending a week away at a fun summer camp just a few years earlier.  All reason said that this trip wasn't for me, but God spoke louder, and He told me to go.  Further, He made a way for me to go.  I want to share with you a couple brief stories about how God cleared my path to make that trip.

One of the things holding me back initially was the cost.  I spoke to someone in charge of missions at our church, telling them that I wanted to go, that I felt called to go, but that the price was going to be an issue.  I was told I could apply for a scholarship.  This eased my mind a bit and I waited for further word on what I needed to do.  Then, a few days later, without any further discussion, I was told that I was fully funded.  I needed supplies, but the cost of the trip was paid in full.

Praise God!

Then, having been given this amazing gift, I determined to be able to obtain my supplies.  It was hard, and by the time we had the money it was somewhat last minute.  Only the week before the trip, I went to a store with my family in search of steel toed boots.  Now, let's get something straight here.  I'm not a big, strapping, muscular woman.  I took karate and I can hold my own, but at 5'1" and 80 lbs, I'm petite to say the least.  My feet are no exception.  I wear a women's size five or six.  I can still buy shoes in the children's section if I want to.  How on earth was I going to find a steel toed boot in a women's five or six?

So we went to the store, and just as I expected, there were shelves and shelves of steel toed boots for both men and women... in sizes upward of 9.  I tried one of the women's 9's.  I thought, maybe, if I wear thick enough socks, I can make these work.

Well, there's no point to steel toed boots when your toes aren't anywhere near the steel.  Those boots would have been a greater hazard than going barefoot.

Feeling defeated, I looked the shelves upon shelves of 9's, 10's, 11's, up and down.  Then...

WOMEN'S SIZE 5



No way.  No.  No way.

Seriously?  No way.

I scanned the rest of the shelves.  That was the only box below a 9.  I pulled it out.  I was sure it had to be a box from another shoe, misplaced.  Clearly, they just didn't make steel toed boots for wisps of women like me.  I opened the box.

There was no mix up.  They were the same boots.  Would they fit?  I tried them on.

Like a glove.

Out of hundreds of pairs of boots made for men and women bigger and tougher than myself, on a night less than a week before I left to go off into a disaster area, there was ONE perfect pair of boots, in MY SIZE.

That night, I looked up to the Heavens, and I thought... I hear you, God.  You called me.  I said Yes.  You made a way.  Thank You.


I wish I could sit here and tell you all that I went to New Orleans and triumphed over the perils of disaster, helped the helpless, fulfilled what I thought was God's plan for me.  But I can't.  Because, sometimes, God's plan isn't quite what we think it is.  Sometimes, God leads us down a road, and we think we know where we're going, until the road veers off sharply to the left... and He is still with us, but we're left confused, wondering what happened to that road God sent us walking down to begin with.  That is what happened in New Orleans.

The details are unimportant.  I could spend pages and pages telling of the devastation I saw there.  I could attest to how truly unprepared I really was for what I was going to see and experience.  I could explain exactly what triggered my panic attacks, who helped, who made it worse.  I could point fingers and assign blame.  I could adopt a defeatist attitude and proclaim that I failed God.  But none of that is what this post is about.

I left on a Saturday morning.  I arrived at camp on Sunday night.  I had my first panic attack on Sunday morning.  I went to my first day on the jobsite on Monday morning, bright and early.  I had my second, and worst, panic attack, before lunchtime.  I wasn't prepared for that trip.  I wasn't prepared for what I was going to see.  I wasn't prepared for the attitudes I was going to encounter.  From then on, the next 24 hours were a continuous state of panic.  It became clear that I couldn't handle the mission.  I felt unsupported, misunderstood and alone.  On Tuesday afternoon, I flew home early.

This is the part I don't talk about - because I don't want to point fingers or assign blame - but it's an important part of the story.  When I left, I was told many things by many people.  At the time, I was hurt and bewildered and upset with those who were at that camp with me.  Now, nearly six years later, I forgive those who I feel did me wrong, and I recognize that they did not set out to hurt me - they just didn't understand what I needed... and how could they, when I was so unprepared myself?

I was told, most vehemently, that I was letting God down.  Sometimes words were minced, sometimes they weren't.  At least once, those exact words were said to me.  "If you leave, you are letting God down."  "If you leave, you are ignoring what God called you to do."  "If you leave, you are going against God's plan."

Another thing I was told, is that I needed to "get over it".  Again, sometimes words were minced, sometimes they were not.  I was told that I was being childish and petty, and that eventually I would have to get used to leaving my home and my family.  I was asked, "What are you going to do when you go to College?"  "What are you going to do when your mom dies?"  And to a scared teenager in the midst of a panic attack, nothing could have been more frightening.  I was told "You have to deal with this now or you never will."  Then and now, I ask myself, deal with what?  My panic attacks?  By ignoring them?  Panic attacks are a medical issue. They are like low blood sugar or epilepsy.  They need treatment by doctors, therapy and medication.  "Tough it out" has never gotten anyone through a seizure.

Again, I don't want it to sound like I am assigning blame on those who said those things.  I truly believe that they felt they were helping, in the best way they knew how.  But as unprepared as I was for what I was going to deal with in New Orleans, they were similarly unprepared for what they were going to deal with in me.  The fault is no one's.

Further I say to those remarks - "You are letting God down"... "You are abandoning God's plan..."  Do any of us ever really know what God's plan is?  Yes, I felt a calling to go on that trip.  I still fully believe that it was God's plan for me to go on that trip, regardless of how it ended.  But why God wanted me on that trip?  Well, I can hazard a guess, but truly that is known to Him and Him only.  I thought it was to help the people of New Orleans.  To rip out drywall, carry out waterlogged belongings, decide what to save and what to throw away.  So did everyone I was with.  But maybe we were wrong.  Maybe God had something bigger in mind all along.  Maybe He meant for me to go home early.  Maybe He meant for me to experience that panic, to realize my limitations.  To the remarks that "If you don't deal with this now, you never will" and "What's going to happen when your mom isn't there?" ... I say... I did deal with it then.  I didn't deal with it in the way others expected me to, but I did deal with it.  It was an eye opening experience.  I realized how limited I still was in my ability to be independent.  And when I got home, where I was comfortable and in a state of readiness to learn, I worked on those things.

For anyone who may still doubt that what happened was all in God's plan, let me tell you a few things that happened because of that trip, because of how it ended, that might not have happened if I had "toughed it out" or pushed myself beyond my limits.

1. I survived.  Yes, there was a question as to this.  I was a troubled teenager, I'll be honest.  Panic attacks make you lose your reason.  I was pushed to the edge.  Any further and I might have been pushed off.  But I wasn't.  Six years later, I'm still here.

2. I sought further help for my panic attacks, learning my limitations and how to stretch them without pushing myself too far.  Since then I have made three solo vacations - something I could have never done if I'd been trapped in a bad situation and felt that once I left home, I was without recourse.  Those trips stretched my limits.  I had at least one panic attack, but it was mild and I was in an environment in which it was possible to fight it off.  I gained coping skills.  I gained experience.  I dared to leave the nest again, which I might not have done if I had been further traumatized by the rest of the week in an environment I couldn't handle.

2a.  Because I stretched those limits, I have more confidence in myself and my independence now.  I know what triggers my panic attacks and what tools I can use to combat them.  I'm far better prepared for all future trips.

3. I stayed home for college.  Some might see this as a missed opportunity.  I do not.  Because while friends who went away to college were doing this:

Credit:  Google Image

I was doing this:

I wouldn't have been there for that moment if I'd gone away to college.  And that one moment right there... makes every single thing I went through in New Orleans worth it.  And you know what?  There are thousands and thousands of other moments just like it.  

Guess who had never had a birthday party before.

...Yes, I'm glad I didn't go away to college.

4. Because of what I learned about myself, how far I've come, the changes I've made, the preparedness that I have now that I didn't have when I went to New Orleans... 

I am being prepared for adoption.  Yes, God prepared my heart for adoption by walking with me as I did what many said was "letting Him down".  God... had a bigger plan for me... than I had for myself.  

So, I'm done hiding in the shadows and pretending that trip didn't happen.  I'm done pretending I wasn't hurt. Because I was hurt.  There was trauma.  I was unprepared.  I did go home.  But I did not let God down.  I walked down that path he led me down, even as it veered off to the left and I didn't know where it was going.  And as I walked... God prepared me for callings I didn't even know I would find.  So to those of you who doubt my ability to go through the adoption journey, to those of you who says "But what about what happened in New Orleans?"... I say - that was just another piece of the puzzle.  That was God preparing me, in His grand scheme, to do what I had no idea I would be called to do.  Without going into the details of what I did to put myself in a better state than I was when I left for that trip, know that I did, and I am.  That trip, as much as it showed me what I couldn't do, it showed me what I could.  It's not a reason why I can't or shouldn't adopt, it's one more reason why I should.  To those who doubt... to those who say I still can't do it... I say... 

Watch me.

50 Things About Me

Hello out there, blog world.  I realize it's been a while since I've blogged - for one reason or another life has been busy or exciting or exhausting, and by night I've been caught up in the blogs of various adoptive families (wherein one always leads to another, which leads to another, which leads to another...) and now for the first time in a good couple of weeks, I think I may have less than 15 tabs open at once...

I also realize the blog has been very serious lately - and for good reason, as the situation right now is dire and prayer is still urgently needed.  But I've learned something... even when we're praying our hardest, even when the rain starts to fall and we have no shelter... there's a rainbow - God's promise - in the sky, if you just look for it.  So even though times are still hard and prayer is still needed... it's time for something a little less serious for a moment.  So, borrowing from a social networking trend, and to add to the brief 'about me' in addition to my blog posts that concern my own life, I'm going to share 50 things about me.  I expect them to be random.  Because...

1. I'm very random.
2. Lately, I haven't been able to sleep until the early morning hours, and these blog posts keep striking me in the middle of the night.
3. I started writing this 50 things a long time ago.  Like, days.    
4. My favorite lotion is from Mary Kay.  It's some sort of... red tea and something... it was a gift from a daycare parent years ago and I ran out last winter, I was very sad.
5. All my favorite names start with M or A.  Funny, considering 2 of my DBKs are M and A!
6. Tonight... no, every night... I really miss my best friend Angie.  
7. The other day, I watched Wife Swap, and I enjoyed it.  I now know the real meaning of 'guilty pleasure'.
8. I have a silly band shaped like a cat and a bracelet I made on my right wrist. They both mean a lot to me for different reasons, but I bet when people see them, it further cements in their mind the idea that I must be a child.
9. I look ridiculously young for my age.  When I did service learning at a middle school while I was in college, I often heard kids exclaim "That kid is DRIVING?!" as I pulled out of the parking lot.  I'll bet if I put pigtails in and overalls on, I could pass for under 12.  Professional acquaintences who are police officers want to use me in sting/undercover operations.  Have I made my point yet?  
10. 8th grade was my favorite year of school, and social studies was my favorite class.  I retained more information there than I did from four years of college.  Go ahead.  Ask me the capitol of Minnesota.
11. Once again, these things are going to be very random.  Please tell me that counts for another thing.
12. I don't like dogs.  I put up with them when I visit friends, I even bear a little bit of affection for some of them, but I'm not really a fan.  I don't even like puppies.  Cat person all the way.
13. I have a collection of Polly Pockets that most four-year-olds would envy.  
14. I have endometriosis and it sucks.
15. My favorite show is Bones, but I can't watch it until I know everything's going to be cool between the two main characters.  Permanently.  NO SPOILERS!  Unless you just wanna say "Everything's good". That, I'm cool with.
16. I've seen Hannah Montana in concert.  A certain little girl had never been to a concert before and had her heart set on it.  We had a blast, and I know the words to all the songs.  I am not ashamed.  I was told I was "The best Katie in the whole world" that night.  <3
17. I still sleep with my baby blanket.  And a stuffed dolphin, and A's elephant when she's not here.  Once again, I am not ashamed.
18. I'm always cold.
19. I'm convinced I'm going to repeat myself.  Whose idea was it to make this fifty things?  But now that I'm committed... well, I'm committed.
20. I know way too much about car seats even for a car seat tech.  I can probably give you weight stats and compatibility issues for any seat on the market.
21. I love babywearing.  It's so much more comfortable to shop with little man in the moby than it is to lug an infant seat around.  I'm currently enamored with my borrowed Baby K'tan.  
22. I'm seriously afraid of bugs.  Like, unnaturally.  I can't sleep if I know there's one in the room.  I will go completely berserk in public if a bee buzzes by my ear.  It is embarassing.
23. I also have an irrational fear of oil wells.  You know the ones that pump the oil out of the ground rocking back and forth?  *Shiver*  Stupid things have almost made me wreck my car twice.
24. Lee's famous recipe may be my favorite food ever.  I really want some right now.  
25. I'm running out of things to say about me.
26. I'm a fan of attachment parenting.  Or in my case, attachment... whatever the heck it is I do.
27. I'm getting sick.  My temperature never runs over 97.1 unless I'm sick.  'Normal' is positively miserable.
28. 28 is my favorite number.
29. Blue is my favorite color, and it has been since it was purple for a little while, and before that blue again, and before that it was briefly orange because it was the color of Josie's hair from Josie and the Pussycats (the cartoon.  I feel like I'm aging myself here.)
30. I was bullied as a child to the point I had to see a therapist.  I had literally no friends for three months.  Very few of my peers from that time period even remember the way they treated me.  It's given me a need to go on an anti-bullying crusade.
31. I believe very strongly in a lot of causes.  I only have a blog for one.
32. I'm pro-life and unapologetic about it.   I'm not an extremist and I'm not unsympathetic, but I believe in the sanctity of human life from conception.  
33. I don't understand why Christians don't practice/celebrate the customs of the Jewish people from whom we are derived.  Why did the coming of Christ put an end to those things?  This is not me being a smart alek, I'm seriously curious.  
34. I write short fiction and nonfiction stories, as well as fanfiction.  Yeah, I'm a nerd like that.  Poetry, too.  
35. My friends and family mean more to me than anything in the world.  Each and every one of you.  Even those I've never had the priviledge to meet.
36. My favorite smell is apple cinnamon.
37. I'm thinking way too hard about these 50 things.  I need one of those question-answer survey things instead.  
38. I have a black cat named Boo who turned one this week.  He's currently vying for my attention.
39. I have an unhealthy addiction to Dr. Pepper.
40. I enjoy playing with Legos to an inappropriate degree for my age.
41. I don't actually believe in ghosts, but I like to explore things that are 'haunted' because they often have really interesting histories, and because it's really fun to make fun of ghost hunters... in a friendly, jesting way ;)
42. I became the fourth generation of my family to graduate from my college in June.
43. I've been nauseated for six months.  No, I'm not pregnant.  Well, I mean, anything could happen, but if that's it, you'd better get the Pope on the line.
44. I've kept journals since I could write.  I don't remember ever throwing one away, but there's one I can't find and it drives me crazy.
45. Being a teenager was very, very hard for me, and with few exceptions I wouldn't do any of it over again if you paid me.  I wouldn't change it if you paid me either.  I believe my experiences make me who I am.
46. I'm intensely fascinated by history, particularly the human side of 'stories' you've known for years.  I'm curious about what it was really like to live through a time period - not just who the important people, places and dates were, but what life felt like.  Because of this, I do and always have done a lot of independent research.
47. It's February in Ohio and we still haven't had a snow that covered the tips of the blades of grass.  Maybe Al Gore was onto something...
48. I hate my curly hair.  If it didn't feel selfish and wasteful I'd have it straightened again.  I think I look frumpy.
49. Frumpy is a really funny word, if you think about it.  A lot of words are like that... like oligodendrocyte and hippocampus.  Hooray for being a health ed major!
50. The last ten things have taken me an hour to come up with, so I'm really glad this is over now.  Questions?  Five things about you?

A Heart for Adoption, Part III

This piece of the story, while similarly important to those before it, will be told with less detail for one simple reason.  Unlike the posts before it, the subjects of this post are people who are still living.  Out of respect for their privacy, some details will be left out, and I will be using initials or relationships to refer to them rather than actual names.  This does not mean, however, that this post will be any less truthful than those before it.  These are my thoughts and emotions, bare as I feel them, uncensored... and this is the next piece of my puzzle.

I mentioned in a previous post how I used to volunteer in the nursery at our church with my friend Angie.  This was something I loved doing, and I did it every Sunday after Confirmation, unless I went to Bible Study with my mom.  I wound up being at church for something like 4 hours most Sundays - 8:30 am early service, 9:30 am Confirmation class, 11:00 nursery or Sunday School with Mom.

One of those days, sometime in March, my mom met up with me after her class and I was in the nursery and told me I should've come to class with her today.  I asked her why, and she told me there had been the most adorable little girl in her Sunday School class - one of the women's granddaughter.  I replied that there were adorable children in the nursery too.  She then told me a little bit about the woman in her Sunday school class and the circumstances she'd explained that caused her grandchild to be with her that day.  Their family was hurting - and if there's one thing I always had, it was a soft spot for children who were hurting.

A couple of times I went to Sunday School with my mom, hoping to meet this child she said was just too cute, and so well behaved.  I met her grandmother, I enjoyed being in the adult class and was treated like a member, but the little girl hadn't been back... until one day in April.  I was in the nursery, but things were slow, so I changed my mind and went downstairs to my mom's class.  When I came in the door, I saw the little girl sitting there next to her grandma, and I smiled at her.  She ducked her head under the edge of the table, but before she did, I could see the hint of a smile on her face.

The little girl spent the whole class coloring and rolling her crayons on the table.  When the adults weren't looking, she and I played a version of peek-a-boo that involved ducking under and over the table.  By the end of the class she was grinning at me.  After class, my mom introduced me to the little girl, M.  M was three, but almost four, and she was having her birthday at Chuck E. Cheese!  (This was told to me with much enthusiasm).  M was quiet, shy, but I'd managed to charm her out of her shell.  I told her grandmother that I worked in the nursery and that if she ever didn't want to bring M to class with her, she could drop her off, that I would be there.  She told me that M didn't like to stay with people, that she'd tried the nursery before and M had fussed.  I promised her I'd take care of M.

Can you say foreshadowing?

After a couple months, M started coming to the nursery.  She would only stay with me.  She would come in crying often, she was a sensitive child and one thing or another would set her off... and then she would insist on spending the first half hour of the service on my lap, budging only for cheerios and crayons.  The second half hour, I would try to engage her in play with the other children, but stay close by.  After a while she started playing with them... and after a while I didn't even have to be right next to her the whole time.  Over time I got to know M and her grandmother very well.  They didn't have it easy, but they loved each other so much.

In the next few years, a series of things happened.  M started school.  M's grandma, who she lived with (as well as possibly her mom - I didn't know much about those early years) fell ill and had to be placed in a retirement home.  We visited her there and she told us how M was behind in school and how she missed her. In the summers when I taught VBS, I offered to pick M up so she could participate.  I'd pick her up at the house she shared with her mom and her great grandmother, take her to VBS, take her out for ice cream, and then take her home.  M would tell me animated stories in the car.  In between summers, I missed seeing her at church.  Those days truly proved that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.

When I was 15, having only seen M for VBS one week out of the past year, I continued to volunteer in the nursery with other children.  They weren't as needy as M was, so I never felt them quite as close to my heart. They never faced the opposition in their lives that M faced at such a young age.  They didn't need my protection.

Until one day in the summer, the middle of July, a harried woman came to the door with a one-year-old little girl in her arms.  Mousy brown hair, uncertain expression, big brown eyes... she reminded me of a tiny version of M.  The woman introduced the child as A, and herself as A's grandmother.  She told us she was needed in the service and wasn't sure if A would stay with us, but was going to give it a try.  I promised to take care of A.  A started to cry as soon as she was placed into my arms.  I repeated my promise, and then tried my unfailing childcare technique at the time:  bribe them with cheerios.  At first, A didn't seem to want the cheerios.  She wouldn't stick her hand in the cup and pick them out.  She was about 15 months old at the time and I expected her to have this skill.  As I sat with her in the rocking chair, I tried picking one out myself and feeding it to her.  That did the trick.  A had now discovered that I had FOOD.  She stopped fussing.  She sat on my lap and ate cheerios the whole time.  I loved every minute of it.

A was close to my heart from the start because she reminded me of M.  I missed little M so much at that time, and I worried about her with her beloved grandma in the retirement home.  Now each time little A came back to the nursery, I took her under my wing.  She never cried at drop-off again.  At first, she'd cry if I put her down, or if there were no cheerios in sight.  Then, as she got used to sitting on the floor with me and playing with toys, she'd cry if I picked her up... unless I had cheerios.  The funny thing about little A was that she could walk... but she didn't know it.  While she was playing, she'd walk along just fine for a few steps, then realize it and plop right back on her little diapered bottom.  I'd laugh, and tell her, silly girl, you can walk!

A only came to the nursery sometimes - when she was with her grandmother, I took it, as I'd never met her mom.  But when she did, she was my little cutie, and we'd play together the whole hour long.  A turned two, and grew more confident in her walking, but she still never said a word.  Point to the cheerios, cry when picked up (even by me), and hide when she had a dirty diaper... but no words.  One day, A's grandma came to the nursery to pick her up and pulled me aside.  She said she knew I babysat outside church, and wondered if I'd be interested in watching A sometimes.  She told me that some unfortunate events had occurred in the lives of their family and that A and her mom were now living with her, and they needed someone to keep her when their work schedules conflicted.  The words were barely out of her mouth before I said "Yes".  She asked what I charged.  I gave her my usual answer:  "Whatever you can pay me."

It was a while before I heard from her.  Then, another Sunday, she asked if I could watch A the following week.  I agreed, and she told me what time to be at her house.  The first day I watched A was a Wednesday.  Funny, the details you remember.  I was 16 by then and driving.  I went straight to their house after school.

A was asleep in an upstairs room when I arrived.  When she woke up, after performing The Most Challenging Diaper Change I Have Ever Done (children can hide... places 16-year-olds can't fit...), I resorted to my usual method of bringing A over to my side.  I offered her food.  This seemed to cheer her up and then we played with blocks, me stacking them up, her knocking them down.  Then we went for a walk - where I will never forget the absolute joy on her face climbing up the curb in the small subdivision... and hopping down onto the street, all the while holding my hand.  We did this over and over.  We had a blast.  Knowing that A had recently been through trying times, I enjoyed giving her time just to be a kid.  When I left I was asked what time I got off school the next day.  I told them, and they asked me to come back after school the next day - so I did.  And the next day.  And the next week.

The next week I asked permission to take A with me to an after-school event, Spanish club.  Her grandmother granted it willingly, and as I had a break between the end of my school day and the afterschool activities, I went to A's house after school, got her up from her nap, got her dressed, brushed her hair, packed a bag full of diapers, crayola color wonder markers and paper, and animal crackers.  I put her in a car seat I had bought myself (secondhand - which is bad - but I didn't know it, oops on me), and took her to my school.  I carried her inside and held her on my lap.  A behaved perfectly the whole meeting, and was much beloved by my classmates (most of whom asked "Is she yours?").  So thus began a comfortable routine - on the days when I wanted to attend clubs and meetings, I'd get A ready beforehand, and bring her with me.  The only difficulty we ever faced was the lack of a changing table in the high school bathrooms.  Go figure.

One day, not too long after this routine was established, A and her grandfather followed me out to my car to say goodbye to me.  As soon as we were outside, A toddled around to the door next to her car seat and pointed to the door handle.  She wanted to go too.  I said, "Oh, sweetie, I would take you with me but I think your Mommy and Grandma and Grandpa might miss you!  I'll be back tomorrow."  A shook her head and pointed firmly at the door.  I gave her a hug and told her I wished I could take her with me but I couldn't, that I had to go.  At this point, A attempted to climb me.  Her grandfather had to pry her off me as I got into my car, and I'll never forget her precious little face, sobbing for me as I drove away.  I sobbed too... all the way home.

A and I continued our routine through Christmas.  Her attachment to me grew.  She stopped running away when it was diaper changing or hair brushing time!  I bought her Christmas presents.  I took her to special events, even on my days off, just because I wanted to.  Her family appreciated the break.  I read about speech delays and tried my hardest to get her to talk... to no avail.

Come January, our routine was comfortable as ever, and then I got a phone call - another Wednesday.  It was M's grandmother, whom I had left a poinsettia for at the retirement home a few weeks earlier, with a note and my phone number.  She was frantic.  It was around 2:30 pm.  She told me that M's mom had to go to work at 4:30, and the person who used to watch M, who was 6 now, had suddenly become unavailable - could I take her?

I couldn't say yes fast enough.  I couldn't wait to see M again!  I didn't have A that day so I was home, and M's mom brought her over.  She was shy at first - she hadn't seen me in a while - but she warmed up.  We worked on her homework together.  We read a book.  We played.  I told her about how I used to take care of her in the nursery when she was little.  She ate dinner with us, at a place at the table my father had painfully vacated years earlier.  She tried to eat the whole chicken bone - she had never had chicken with a bone in it before.  We had a blast.  When M's mom picked her up and asked if she'd been good, I told her she was a joy and that I'd watch her anytime.  She thanked me and told me she'd see me tomorrow.

M's grandma hadn't at first mentioned that they would need childcare every day now, but now that her mom said that, I realized it should have been obvious.  What else were they going to do with her on short notice?  I was ecstatic that I would get to see M every day - every weekday, anyways.  It was at that time I faced the opposition that I spoke of in another post.  People told me - the hours are too long - you already babysit every day - you can't take on another child.  When are you going to do your homework?  What are you going to do when you have both of them?  Don't you want to 'be a teenager'?

The first two I had answers for.  The last one made my eyes cross.  I was 16.  I went to high school.  If not 'being a teenager', then what on earth was I doing for the last three years??  Apparently, people felt that I needed to 'be with friends' and 'be a kid' and 'enjoy life' - and surely I couldn't do those things with two little girls attached to my hip.  I told them just the contrary.  I wouldn't have enjoyed life without them.  And though obstacles marred our path at times, I knew I was right, I kept my head up, and a new routine began - one in which I picked A up after school, brought her to whatever clubs or meetings I had, then back to my house where we waited for M.  Then we'd eat dinner together and play until both girls were picked up.  I was lucky.  A was comfortable enough with me by then that going to my house barely phased her.  She knew M from church, when a few times someone brought M and her grandmother with them.  In fact, their grandmothers knew each other!  I'd finish my homework in study hall, between classes, at lunch, or in class (much to the chagrin of my teachers).  Anything I had left, I incorporated the kids into.  I vividly remember reading poetry aloud to A out of my English book.  She didn't have a clue what I was reading, but I was reading to her, so she was happy.  When I sat down with M while she did her math homework, I did my own math homework. We found our way, and sometimes it was exhausting, but it was the way that worked for us.

Over the following years, the girls, if possible, made their way even deeper into my life and my heart.  A started spending the occasional night with me when everyone worked late.  I'd drop her off before school.  M opened up like she never had before... playing and animatedly telling stories.  In those early years... this is what I said yes to, that everyone thought was so crazy:

A, Summer 2006, Age 3

A, Fall 2006, playing at COSI

M, on her 7th birthday, excited to have a cake with her name on it.  She's carefully removing the candles to lick them.

M, Winter 2006.  Christmas present.  "I'm cute, let's put me in charge."  

Now, was I supposed to say no to those little faces in the name of "Being a teenager"?  What did that mean, anyways?  Was it this?

From "The Secret Life of the American Teenager"

Or was it this?

London Evening Standard (2008).  "Teenage Girl Smoking".

No... why would I choose that life, when I had this?

All of us, Summer 2007.  Me squinting.  I'm not photogenic.

Yup.  Through my last two high school years, I had at least one 'tagalong' everywhere I went.  I became known as "The girl with the baby" or "The girl who comes in here every day after school with a kid in a stroller".  And yes, the rumor circulated that one or both of them were mine (simple mathematics people, come on... I'm only ten years older than M!)... but I didn't care.  We were making memories and smiles that would last forever.  

And my dear little A, my nonverbal A?  At a Spanish club meeting in my Senior year, at 3 years old, she said "Unodostres".  It was her newest trick, props to Dora.  After that, she started saying more words, until eventually... she never STOPPED talking!  And precious M, who was so shy... I enrolled her in gymnastics (with permission) and saw her literally grow in leaps and bounds!  

I kept getting criticism.  A few people were supportive.  My wonderful mom - thankfully - was one of the supportive ones.  In fact, I'm pretty sure they had a hold on her heart similar to the one they had on mine.  But others... were indifferent at best, and downright hurtful at worst.  Among other things, I was asked "What are you going to do when you go to college?"  Sometimes that question was followed with "You've got these kids all attached to you and now you're just going to leave them!"  Another person pointedly informed me "You need to stop playing 'house' with these kids.  They're real children, with lives and feelings, and they're going to be hurt when you leave them."  

I was downright insulted by those insinuations.  My response - "I love them as though they were my own flesh and blood, I will NEVER leave them," was met with just as much criticism.  "But they're not yours."  "You can't promise that."  "You need to live your life."  "Don't you want your own kids?"

Do I look like I care?

The date is wrong on this one:  It was Fall 2008.  The girls are 9 and 5.

Little did everyone know, I had an experience in the summer of 2006 (which is for another post, another day) that showed me that I was not meant to leave home for college.  I chose a small school close to home and commuted for four years.  I got a job at a daycare center, where the occasional presence of one of the girls was not minded, and I even enrolled A over the summer for two years.  

Many of you are likely wondering now, what was the relationship of these children to me that I was this intimately involved in their lives?  It certainly doesn't seem to follow the traditional babysitter-child lines.  And you would be right.  This is the part that remains undisclosed for the protection of those involved.  Suffice to say, we became like family.  

In October 2009, another little one joined our patchwork little non-family family.  A's mother gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, whom we'll call AJ.  

Myself and A visiting with the baby.  He's only days old here.

I started watching AJ when his mom went back to work in late December.  Along with the joy of having a baby around, came enormous obstacles, ones that I was once again assured that I could not possibly overcome.  After one too many sleepless nights, I fell asleep in one of my college classes.  I was sternly chided by the professor not to let the children infringe on my education.  I thought to myself - don't let your education infringe on the children.  Sure, college was important to me, but it was a means to an end, a way of achieving a desired quality of life so that I could continue to do good in the world around me.  Even my advisor at school told me, when I told her I was trying to schedule my classes in blocks two days a week so I could be home with the kids the other three, that she "didn't see how" I was going to graduate in four years, work 20 hours a week at the daycare, and take care of three kids.  

(Imagine a picture of my diploma here.  I don't have one, and I didn't go to commencement.)

Yup, I did it.  In four years.  After changing my major halfway through my sophomore year.  Taking one quarter of overload, for which I temporarily took an incomplete due to the surgery described here.  Taking two independent studies.  Adding a minor.  Magna Cum Laude.

Take THAT, naysayers.

Oh, what's that you say?  Surely the children were neglected because of my studies?  

Do they look neglected to you?

So - you ask - what does all this have to do with my adoption story?  Well, as much as I taught the kids... colors, first words, long division... compassion, honesty, kindness... They taught me even more.  

They taught me that family isn't defined by whose blood runs through your veins.

They taught me that a person isn't defined by their limitations.

They taught me that when everyone says you can't do something - it's even more of a reason to do it.

They taught me that hard work reaps great rewards.

They taught me to ignore the people who said I was wrong, when I knew I was right.

They taught me that I will always be glad... to set another place at the table.  

'My' three little cuties... M, A, and AJ... they are now 12, 8, and 2... and I couldn't be prouder of them.  They are blossoming into beautiful, wonderful, young people, and I am blessed to have them in my life.  They bring joy to my every moment.  They are a huge part of my adoption story, because they taught me the lessons I needed to learn to begin my journey to adopt.  And I hope they'll be proud honorary 'uncles and aunts', when I bring my children home.  

Why yes, that's me in skull footie pajamas, at 22 years old.  Jealous?  And look how big my little M got!

Probably my favorite picture of me and A.

And probably my favorite picture of me and AJ.

For anything I've done for them, they've done tenfold for me.

To M, A, and AJ - my little patchwork non-family family - I love you forever.