Friday, July 25, 2014

The Moments That Make Us

It's been a WEEK. And by a week, I mean the kind of week that feels like it will never ever ever stop, and could I please just get five minutes to myself to read a book or brush my teeth or maybe just maybe drink one cup of coffee in peace instead of taking sips while handling 50,000 other things all at the same time kind of week.

You know what I mean.

It started on Monday. I was very excited to get a writing assignment for a print magazine (Country Weekly), which involved interviewing a new artist (Joel Crouse), at a fun place downtown (12 South Taproom). I traded my faded shorts in for a skirt that's been hiding in the back of my closet since the birth of Reagan (but amazingly still fit, sort of), asked my father-in-law to keep the sweet little boy, and drove downtown. I was even early enough that I got to go into one of those cute little shops that plays soft music and has flickering candles all over the store and charges $12 for a bar of homemade organic lavender soap.

The interview went great, and I drove home with that rush that I get when I get to do what I love. The story wasn't due until Friday, but I figured I would get it transcribed while Reagan napped, and by Tuesday morning, I'd have it turned in, wowing the editor -- and maybe myself just a bit -- at how proficient and reliable I was.

And then The Fever began.

My father-in-law commented that Reagan felt warm to him, but I thought/hoped/prayed that it was just because Reagan had been playing outside. I mean, not only did Reagan eat two lunches, but he had been outside alllll day. Surely, he was fine.

But as soon as I got him up from his nap, I knew he was warm. Too warm. 101 degrees warm, in fact.

Sigh.

He barely ate his dinner Monday night, and fussed through the night until my husband slept with him on the couch. I fell asleep somewhere around 12:30, and got up to start my day a little after 5. By Tuesday afternoon his fever was mostly gone, but he was achy and kept saying "It hurts, Mommy. It hurts." We cuddled, we colored, we watched 7,169 episodes of Caillou (his new favorite show). We  played outside a bit. He even asked if he could help me make dinner (true story).  He seemed better, but still fussier than normal.

He went to bed at his normal time, but woke up a little later. I held him, cuddled him, gave him medicine and put him back to bed. At 11, he woke up again, screaming. I brought him downstairs, read him books, cuddled some more, and put him back in his bed, again, and then sat by his bed, holding his hand until he fell asleep. For about 45 minutes, I sat there, watching him fall asleep. Every now and then his eyes would flutter open to make sure I was really still there. If I moved, he'd stir and hold my hand tighter.

This is what motherhood is, I thought. This is what I waited for all those years. This is so worth it. I felt that motherly pride and silently patted myself on the back for doing such a great job.

At 4:00 in the morning, when he woke up yet again, I wondered why in the world anyone ever bothered to have children in the first place, and convinced myself in my exhausted grouchy exhausted exhausted EXHAUSTED state that the very idea of having children was ludicrous, and I would never once in my life get a full night of sleep again.

Needless to say, I did get a full night of sleep -- the very next night in fact, while my husband slept on the couch with Reagan all. night. long. (This was after he  told me that I needed more sleep than he did, which I think was his polite way of saying I had officially morphed into The Crazy Person).

He was right, and by Thursday morning the world looked much better. But it made me think about the moments in our life that make us who we are. They are the good, life-affirming, positive, feel-good moments -- like getting to do a job you love, holding a child's hand while they fall asleep, drinking a cup of coffee uninterrupted while the sun comes up, catching up with an old friend. Those are all really good moments.

But it's also those sleep-deprived nights, the times when our car won't start, or the bills pile up, or the diagnosis is bad. It's when someone cuts us off on the road, or the waiter is rude or the request is denied.

I'd like to define myself by the good moments -- the times when my life is going well and I like who I am. But I need to remind myself -- often (and probably a lot more often than I do) -- that the bad moments, or how I respond to them, define me as well.

Yesterday, I took Reagan to the doctor, and then ran a couple errands. By the time we got home, I was supposed to log in to a webinar about our adoption. It started at 1:00 and we pulled in right at 1:00. I unbuckled Reagan and told him to get inside as quickly as possible. He didn't feel the same sense of urgency that I did, and stopped to look at every stone, leaf, bug, flower, piece of dirt on the short walk to the front door. I was in a hurry, didn't want to wait for him, so after several reminders, I snapped at him -- and felt instant remorse. I was asking a two-year-old to respond as a grown-up.  I stopped, put my stuff down, got down to his level and told him I was wrong and I was sorry. He hugged me and gave me a kiss and showed me the rock he found -- and I still got to listen to the entire webinar.

I'm trying. I'm trying to be better in the good and the bad. I'm trying to focus on my attitude and not the situation. Not only to better myself, but for those around me as well. It is an absolute certainty that disappointments and rough times and difficulties and trials are going to happen. It's a part of life. But what I can choose is how I respond in those moments, the good and the bad. I'm a work in progress, for sure, but I'm trying.

But it is much easier after a full night's sleep and a good cup of coffee.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Adoption Update

Several months ago, we announced that we are adopting from India. Since then, in between moving into our new house, working, and chasing after an incredibly active two-year-old, we are making progress!

We sent off a large batch of paperwork last week. I met with our amazing social worker at AWAA this week, for a lengthy interview, and my husband will meet with her next week. We are still working on our dossier, which is French for paper chase, and they aren't kidding! Birth certificates, physical forms, background checks, finger-printing, child abuse clearance, employment letters, two different forms of financial statements, and on and on and on. Some have to be notarized, some have to be originals, some have to be copies. I'm grateful I like to be organized, but even so, our dining room table sometimes holds nothing but piles of papers.

We still don't know who she is, where in India she is from, or what our timeline will be for bringing her to our home. We have recently learned, though, that our agency has decided to keep our family's birth order intact, meaning whoever she is will be younger than Reagan -- a decision we totally support.  Part of me feels sad for the older children who may end up on the streets soon, but we have said from the beginning that we feel like there is a specific child in India who is meant to be with us, so we are fully trusting and supporting the agency's process.

We are also leaning towards taking Reagan with us when we go get her. We may take someone with us to take care of him during the day while we are running all over the country getting various documents signed. I want this entire experience to be one Reagan remembers fondly as well, and while we haven't decided for sure, my instinct right now says he needs to be as much of the experience as possible.

We're very, very, very grateful for everyone who has helped support us in bringing her home. It's been a humbling blessing to see so many of our friends, near and far, make a contribution into this entire process. Words will always fail me when I think of the ways people have helped us out. The estimated cost is as much as $40,000, according to the latest information on our agency's website. But, while we have been concerned about many, many things throughout this process, the one thing my husband and I have said over and over again is that the financial aspect of the adoption has never been one of them. We really do have faith that it will all work out.

With that said, we're planning a few more fund-raisers, so stay tuned. I'm already working on a few dinner party ideas and a songwriter night, and I'm very open to other ideas as well, so feel free to pass them on!

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of our friends who are walking this journey with us. We are very blessed.

P.S. To help us bring her home, click here, and in the bottom right-hand corner, put 'Johnny and Gayle Thompson' in the space for Designated Family. Checks can be made payable to AWAA, and sent to America World Adoption Association, Attn: Accounting Dept., 6723 Whittier Ave., Suite 202, McLean, VA 22101, along with a form that can be found here. Checks must be designated for the Eternal Family Fund. Or, you can donate to our GoFundMe page.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Story of Madison

On July 4, we spent some time at a park near our house in the afternoon, with a nice-sized playground. Reagan slid down the slide several times, played on the swing set, went back to the slides, and then we went for a hike around the lake.

Afterward, we were all hot and tired, and ready to go get some ice cream, but we had promised Reagan, who rode in his stroller for the hike, that he could go back to the playground after our walk. So his father and I dragged our weary selves back to the playground for a few more minutes, wishing all the while we were sitting in air-conditioning.

I'm so glad we went back.

The playground was packed, and getting busier. Families were enjoying picnics, boat rides, fishing -- all the things that families do on a national holiday. Everyone clustered together. Siblings, parents, cousins, friends all wrapped around each other, playing together, listening to music, enjoying life.

As Reagan ran toward the slides, there was a little girl, maybe eight years old, by herself. She climbed up to the top of the slides, slid down, and climbed up again. While sliding down a slide is a solitary activity, something about her struck me. Reagan, being two, jumped in front of her, and I had to pull him back and remind him that she was first. She smiled shyly and said that it was ok.

After a little while, we went over to the swing set. There was a swing designed for small children, complete with an over-the-shoulder harness and extra safety measures. We put Reagan in. and he squealed with delight while his father pushed him higher and higher, faster and faster.

As he was swinging, the little girl came and stood by the swing next to him, which was a bucket-style seat, made for a toddler. She stood right beside us and pretended not to watch out of the corner of her eye, gently pushing the empty swing back and forth.

I found myself watching her, wondering what her story was. She just seemed so ... alone. Not alone as in someone had abandoned her at the park, but alone nonetheless. No one was checking on her. No one was playing with her. No one was making sure she was having a good time.

After Reagan was done, he wanted to swing in the toddler swing. The swing she was standing by. Again, being two and largely unaware of social graces, he asked to be placed in that swing, oblivious that someone else was already using it.

I reminded him that he needed to say "please," first, but she had already moved away, saying quietly, "It's ok. He can have it." So we pushed him in the swing, faster and faster, higher and higher, him giggling with the sheer joy of riding in a swing, and us laughing at the sheer joy of being his parents.

And then, my heart ripped just a bit.

As we were getting ready to leave the park, the sweet girl was still hanging beside us, just watching. My husband addressed her -- I think he smiled and said hello -- and she said, so quietly we could have just as easily missed it:

"Would you please push me on the swing too?"

Anyone who knows my husband knows that, of course, he did. Our sore muscles and fatigue by the sun vanished.

Her name, she said, was Madison. She climbed into the baby swing, really not meant for someone her age, and off they went. He pushed her faster and faster, higher and higher, her corn rows flying in the wind.

I stood to the side and watched, grateful that my sunglasses hid the tears pooling in my eyes. The look on her face was pure, childlike ecstasy. Something in the way she smiled and laughed told me she didn't get these moments often.

I don't know her story. But I had a feeling, watching her, that maybe she didn't have a Daddy. Or at least a Daddy that would push her on a swing. And maybe there weren't a lot of people paying attention to her. And maybe, just maybe, she needed someone, if only for a few moments, to remind her she mattered.

After a little while, she politely said she was finished. Maybe she was, and maybe she just felt like she had taken enough of our time. I don't know. But I know I walked away from the park different than I walked in. I felt a mixture of gratitude that I married a man who draws children to him, and who loves children fiercely and passionately, in a way that only he can. But I also felt sad. Sad that there are so many Madisons in the world. Sad for a little girl who had to ask a stranger to push her on a swing set, because no one else was around to make sure she was enjoying her holiday. And sad because a simple thing like a ride in a swing made for someone smaller than her might have been the best thing that happened to her in a long, long time.

I'm so glad Reagan insisted on going back to the playground.

Madison, wherever you are, you are a precious, precious girl. I hope someone tells you that often.