This Old House

We said goodbye to our old house this week. Well, truthfully, it was a long, drawn out goodbye, which started when we put it on the market, unexpectedly sold it only ten days later, closed on it in April, rented it back from the new owners for a month, and then finally moved into the new house last weekend. But earlier this week, we went back, cleaned out the few remaining remnants, fixed a couple of things, vacuumed it one more time, and turned over the keys to the new owners.

It was a good house for us. It was the first house we owned together as a married couple. We bought it a few months after we married, more for the financial sense of it than anything else. We knew we would eventually need more space, but it was a great price in the right part of town, so we bought it anyway.

We had big plans for that house. We had rooms we were going to paint, things we were going to buy, upgrades we were going to do to make it feel more like us.

And then, four days after we moved in, I found out I was pregnant. Almost as soon as we moved in, I felt the clock ticking towards the end of our time in that home. When out-of-town guests visited, for the first few months, they slept in Reagan's room, while Reagan slept in a bassinet by our bed. As he got bigger, it became more and more tricky to accommodate everyone. Within six months, I was thinking about our next house, already feeling the restrictions of a two-bedroom home.

We had been in the house a little over a year when we started talking about adoption, and then the clock ticked a little louder. Walls went unpainted. The gallery of photos we planned on hanging on the stairwell remained unhung. I stopped looking for things to add to our home, and started thinking about how much we were going to have to pack up, eventually.

By the time we found our current home, I had spent weeks looking at homes with our realtor. I think the official count was 37 homes I walked in and out of, not counting ones we drove to and didn't bother going in because it was the wrong neighborhood or looked too rundown or any other reason. As soon as I walked into our new house, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was meant to be ours. It just felt like home.

Suddenly, the old house was just that ... the old house. We had a shiny new house, with newly-painted walls before we even moved in. We bought new furniture, and other items to make it feel more like us. We made plans for upgrades and minor renovations, like expanding our deck. Before we spent a night in the house, it was ours. I imagined Reagan running around in the backyard, I planned the bedroom for the daughter we haven't met yet, and I looked for furnishings that would add our own personal touch.

I didn't think much about the old house, even while we were still living in it while packing up boxes, and throwing out bags and bags (and bags) of items we were discarding. By the time the movers came, I barely gave a thought to what we were leaving behind.

It wasn't until a couple days later, when I dropped Reagan off with a friend and drove to the old house to do a few last-minute things, that it hit me.

This was the house where I'd lay on our old couch at night, very pregnant, because some smell made me so nauseous during my pregnancy. It's where my husband fed me apples and milk shakes at night to get me through until the next morning (when I'd sometimes have more apples and milkshakes).

This was the house where we brought Reagan home for the first time, all six lbs. of him, afraid we might break him because he was so small.

This was the house we took turns rocking and rocking and rocking him through his colic phase, when all three of us were in tears because nothing was working.

This was the house where he took his first bath, laying in his tiny little blue plastic bathtub with his arms up like he was ready to box anyone who came too close to him.

This was the house where he started to crawl, took his first steps, said his first words, said his first sentence.

This was the house where he had his first big boo-boo, when he tripped over his toddler feet and landed head-first on the concrete.

This was the house where he splashed in his kiddy pool on our patio, and ran up and down the hill behind our house until we were both worn out.

This was the house where he went from being the worst sleeping baby to the best, seemingly overnight, and would sleep for 11 hours straight, sometimes more, before waking up and saying, 'Up, please. Up, please. Up, please.'

Reagan turned one in that house, and then he turned two.

And then we moved.

He probably won't even remember the old house, except through pictures. But we will. We'll remember the great memories, and the not so great ones. We'll remember the sleepless nights, the baby giggles, the explosive diapers, and a thousand other things.

I'm glad we moved. Reagan has a yard, and trees to play in. We have more space, more room to grow, and a place to bring our little girl home.

But it was a good house for us. It was good to us. It holds some of our best, and maybe a few of our worst, memories. The walls could tell countless stories.

Goodbye, old house. You will be missed.

A Letter to My Mother

Today (May 4) marks the 10-year anniversary of when my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor and passed away. But 'lost' really isn't the right word. For my mother, a woman of great, great faith, who seemed to have a direct line to God, she would say she won. She believed, as I do, that our last breath on Earth is immediately followed by our first breath in Heaven. In fact, in a letter she wrote to her family, ironically written one full year before her diagnosis, to be read after she passed away, she said "Do not weep for me. I am more alive now than I have ever been."

I have no doubt that she is.

But, the peace of where she is does not ease the loss of her not being here. Not one day has gone by in the past 10 years where I haven't mourned her loss again. Not one. Sometimes it's more like a dull ache, and sometimes it feels much deeper.

While there is much that I miss about her, my biggest heartache is that she didn't get to meet my amazing husband, and she didn't get to see my sweet son, who would undoubtedly have captured her heart. She loved my nephew Hunter with such a fierce passion and intensity, and it pains me that Reagan will never experience that.

Still, I believe the veil between here and there is very, very thin, and I believe -- I choose to believe -- that she gets glimpses of our lives. While I know our richest moments here are pale in comparison to any moments on the other side, deep in my heart I know she sees at least some of what we experience.

I can't pick up the phone and call her anymore, like I used to do multiple times a day. I can't send her an e-mail or a card or sit at her kitchen table or take her out to lunch (where she'd insist on picking up the tab anyway). But I can write to her. And so, to commemorate the day that was at once my worst and her best, I offer a letter that I hope in some way finds itself to her.

Dear Mom,

Happy 10th anniversary! I know time doesn't exist in Heaven, at least not like it does here, but for us, it feels like a big day.

I miss you. That is an understatement, but suffice it to say, I miss you. A lot. But I have no doubt that you are in a much, much better place, and I know our separation, while excruciating for me at times, is temporary.

You would love my husband, Johnny, and my son, Reagan. You'd love both of them, so much. Johnny because he takes care of me so well. He does a lot of the housework, he makes my coffee and breakfast every morning, and he supports my dreams and passions. We share a love of a lot of things, including road trips, good desserts and cooking. His culinary skills are pretty impressive. We have many things from your kitchen, and I always smile when I see him using something that your hands once touched. Those pots and pans could tell a lot of stories.

You would be completely enamored by Reagan, without question. He's two now, and such a joy. Even when he's fussy (which is very, very rare), he's cute. And when he knows he has done something wrong, he is quick to say "sorry," often without any prompting from me. He has a very tender heart, and likes to pray to Jesus -- sometimes multiple times while we're eating. For a long time, he looked almost exactly like my baby pictures, but now he's starting to look more like a mix of both of his parents.

I'm so proud to be his Mommy, but it is frustrating to me that I have to do it without you. I always imagined you would help guide me through the process, from his frustrating colic soon after he was born (I remember you telling me I was very colicky, so maybe it's payback), to teething and potty-training, and on and on. When he does something cute, like tries to 'hide' while saying 'Hi Mom! Hi Mom!' when I pretend to be looking for him, or when he talks to himself in his crib when he's supposed to be sleeping (and then makes himself giggle), I wish every single time that I could pick up the phone and call you to tell you about it.

I have no doubt you already also love our new daughter, even though we haven't met her yet. We are, of course, very anxious to bring her into our home, but I keep reminding myself that God's timing isn't ours.

You already have two grandchildren in Heaven -- children we weren't given the privilege of meeting here on Earth. I'm sure you're loving on them, and it comforts me to envision all of you playing together.

I have to confess that we didn't listen to a couple of the requests you wrote in your letter for your funeral. We did use the music you requested, and Pastor Alvin talked about the topics you wanted covered in his message, but we did have a public viewing, and while you wanted it to be a celebration of life -- and in many ways it was -- there were a lot of sad people there that day. Sad because you left such a mark on so many people, and they grieved that they wouldn't have the chance again to sit with you, talk with you, spend time with you. People came from all over to pay their final respects. You would have been embarrassed by all of the attention. Everyone from childhood friends to recent friends, plus so many people who were friends of Dawn and I and knew how much our hearts were hurting, showed up to pay tribute to your extraordinary life.

Per your wishes, we did not purchase an expensive casket that, as you said in your letter, "would just rot in the ground." But I did not sing at your funeral. Dawn and I both spoke, but the idea that I could actually sing at your funeral was, well, a bit beyond my abilities that day. All in all, though, I think you would have been pleased with how your life was honored.

We buried you the day before Mother's Day. For many years, that day was the worst day of the year for me. Now that I have a son, it is a bit better, but truth be told, I'm always glad when the day ends. While it's a reminder of what I have, it's also a reminder of what I've lost.

No one will ever replace you. No one. But regardless of how old you are in life, you still need a mother, and a few woman have stepped in, in some form or capacity, to try to fill that hole in my life. Of course, your sister Millie is at the top of the list. She has endured so much sorrow, including losing her own son Dwayne to cancer only 17 months after your passing, but she is always willing to talk when I need to, and she dotes on Reagan whenever we are home in PA.

So many other women, too many to mention, have stepped in on your behalf. And they've done a great job. But while I'm so very, very grateful for each of them, they will never replace you. They could never replace you.

The day before you passed away, you couldn't talk because of the tube down your throat, but you could nod and shake your head. I asked you if I would be ok without you. You smiled, nodded, and squeezed my hand.

The truth is, you were right, and you were wrong. Life goes on, and I'm truly happier than I've ever been. Life feels so sweet and rich, and I marvel sometimes at how well my life has turned out.

But I'm never going to be really ok without you. I will always miss you. I will always wish for one more day with you. I will always wish things had turned out differently. I will always miss your cards, your phone calls, those long talks at the kitchen table, your amazing food and a thousand other things. There's an ache in my heart that never completely goes away. Sometimes I can think about you and smile, and even laugh as I recount things that seem funny now -- like how you always took the smallest piece of pie so there would be more for other people, or reusing something over and over again to not waste money -- but sometimes, unexpectedly, I still feel a wave of sadness over your absence.

I try, and I will always try, to honor your life by living life well. If I can become even half of the woman, wife and mother that you were, I will count my life a success.

I love you, Mom. See you on the other side.

P.S. Say hi to my babies for me.

The Blog I Didn't Want to Write

When I was pregnant with Reagan, I was adamant that I would nurse, at least for the first six months of his life, preferably a year. Partly for health reasons, and partly because formula is so ridiculously expensive, it never occurred to me not to nurse. Plus, I wanted that bonding time with my son. I envisioned me gently caressing his sweet little face while he happily nursed, content in his Mommy's arms. I even remember telling my husband that of course Reagan would bond with me more in the beginning, since I would be nursing, which is why he should try to do other things with Reagan to balance it out.

Unfortunately, Reagan never got that memo. We spent two painful days in the hospital, with the 'lactation consultants' assuring me that my milk would eventually come in, and Reagan would naturally figure it out. They (wrongly) advised us to just give him enough formula so he wasn't starving, and that way he would want to nurse more when my milk came in because he would be so hungry. (The ludicrousness of that advice, and the fact that I actually followed it, still makes me shudder).

By day 6, when it still hadn't come in, I felt like a complete failure, as a mother, a woman and a human being. Ultimately, after one very expensive pump, multiple phone calls to various health professionals, and a visit with his pediatrician where I confessed through many tears that I felt like the worst mother ever, we realized I was never, ever going to make enough milk to feed my child. We stumbled through the first five months, using mostly formula and a little bit of my milk, until one day it dawned on me that I was making everyone in the house miserable, including myself, and I just gave up.

It took me several months to tell anyone about it, because I felt like I had already failed my first, most basic role. But as I started talking about it, it seemed everyone had either had the same problem, or knew someone who had the same problem with nursing as I did. Who knew I wasn't the only one?

Since then, I've talked about it -- a lot. Especially to pregnant and new moms. And I realized that by not talking about it, I had harmed both myself by keeping it inside, and had not offered a supportive ear to others who may have been struggling with the exact same thing.

You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. Sometimes I'm a slow learner.

Our family went through something else last year. Something I haven't wanted to talk about. Something I try to avoid talking about, let alone blog about. Something some of the people closest to me don't even know about. But it dawned on me a few weeks ago that if I can bring myself to talk about it, I may be able to help someone else going through the same thing.

So.

Here goes.

Deep breath.

We had two miscarriages last year.

Two.

Ok. That wasn't so hard.

I really can't take all the credit for suddenly being willing to share this dark, dark chapter. Two of my sweet friends, Jolina Petersheim and Amanda Sims, who also happen to be fantastic writers, wrote about their own experiences (find their blogs here and here), and reading their stories helped me heal. A lot. Yet, I held on to this shadowed corner of my heart, not wanting to reveal it. To anyone.

We found out in January of 2013 I was pregnant. It wasn't planned, but it wasn't unplanned either. We knew we wanted another child, so it felt like a welcome gift. We were in PA for a belated Christmas celebration, and I spent the day with my very, very best childhood friend, Twila Ramirez. We had breakfast and a spa day, and then stopped by the drugstore to get a test. I was so sure I was pregnant -- that ALWAYS sleepy feeling, getting a wave of nausea by certain foods, yet feeling hungry 24/7 -- that I also bought a card for my husband for the big reveal. I took the test as soon as I got to my sister's and my hunch was right. I was pregnant.

Truth be told, though, something didn't feel right from the beginning. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I just had this uneasiness the entire time. When I went for my ultrasound, I remember feeling this sense of dread walking into my OB's office. I was right. The baby wasn't big enough as she (I knew right away it was a girl) should have been. We made another appointment for the following week, but only a few days later, I miscarried.

I was devastated. Heartbroken. An emotional mess. But, not very surprised.

My OB encouraged me to try again. She said I was healthy, everything looked good, and there was no reason to believe I couldn't have a successful pregnancy.

Only a couple months later, we found out I was pregnant again. This time, I was excited. Elated. I felt great, other than that pesky nausea. I had to go in for a lot more tests and -- horror of horrors -- almost daily blood work.

With much fear and trepidation, I went for an ultrasound, and there it was. A beautiful, beating heartbeat. I wept tears of relief. Finally. The ultrasound tech said once there's a heartbeat, the chance of miscarriage drops to 5%, so we should be ok.

Whew.

One week later, I went for a follow-up ultrasound, this time with my doctor. Because she hadn't done the original one, she just wanted to see for herself, she said, although she added there was absolutely no reason to think there was anything wrong.

Except, there was.

There was no longer a heartbeat. I was between week 11 and 12, and there was no heartbeat.

For all the weeks I knew I was pregnant, I loved her (I also knew this one was a girl) with a fierceness that surprised even me. I was determined to do everything in my power to give her as comfortable a home as possible while in the womb. I felt more protective of this pregnancy than my other two. This child, I determined, would live.

The next few days and weeks are a blur. I had to have surgery, since I was so far along. My options were to have it the next day, or to wait a week, since my doctor was going out of town. I opted for the next day. I wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

I told so few people. We went to PA the week after my surgery, and I didn't talk about it. I felt ... embarrassed. Embarrassed that my body betrayed me, twice. Embarrassed that, like nursing, I couldn't do the one thing I was supposed to do.

Ultimately, after a few tests and one very, very expensive visit with a geneticist obstetrician, we learned that the miscarriage actually had nothing to do with me. At all. Since they had to do surgery, they tested the fetus for abnormalities, and learned that it (and most likely the baby in the first pregnancy), had a very, very rare disorder called unbalanced reciprocal translocation. It affects chromosomes 1 and 5, and makes carrying past week 12 impossible. And, I wasn't the carrier of it. My bloodwork came back clear, so that meant my sweet husband was the carrier. (He gave permission to share this part of the story).

It wasn't my fault. It most definitely wasn't his fault. It was just a teeny tiny mix-up in the DNA.

The same week I found out I was pregnant, not one, not two, but THREE of my friends found out they were pregnant. I'm not going to lie -- seeing them with their babies still pangs me sometimes. I still picture what our daughter would look like, I think about how old she would be by now, and I grieve as I pack up the tiny baby clothes that once held so much hope.

Right after we found out about the unbalanced reciprocal translocation, which gave us about a 50-50 chance of having a healthy pregnancy, someone innocently said, 'It's about time Reagan gets a brother or sister, isn't it?' I cringed, smiled, and said nothing. Until we announced our adoption, I stumbled over words when someone asked when we were going for Baby #2. One woman, who I barely knew, asked why we were waiting so long to give Reagan a sibling. I blurted out, 'I just had a miscarriage.' She replied, 'Well, you can always try again.'

Ok. Thanks for that.

But, as I've slowly shared my story with people, much like the whole nursing saga, someone inevitably reveals they dealt with the same thing. Or their sister/best friend/co-worker/niece just had one.

I don't have many words of wisdom or pearls of knowledge I've gained from the experience. But, much like I experienced with the passing of my mother, I have learned that time doesn't take the pain away, but it does make it shift. I imagine I'll always feel a bit of sadness when I think about the experience. I definitely am much more sensitive with women who are battling infertility or struggling with a healthy pregnancy, and I never, ever, ever ask when someone is planning on expanding their family. We don't know what the reasons are behind their family size, but there's a strong likelihood that there may be some hurt behind their lack of pregnancy.

Meanwhile, we are adopting. That doesn't take away the pain of the lost pregnancies, but it does give us something to look forward to. However, the adoption was in no way a decision because we couldn't stay pregnant. The adoption was decided months before my first miscarriage. But now that we're in the middle of the adoption, we have chosen not to get pregnant, as that would stall the adoption (per agency requirements).

For anyone who has had a miscarriage, or is battling infertility. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. And I'm sorry that people have unintentionally said insensitive things and made you feel bad for a situation that is not at all your fault. I'm sorry that your life isn't turning out the way you envisioned, and I'm sorry that your arms feel empty and your heart hurts.

And if you need someone to have a cup of coffee with ....

The Rich and The Poor

Any decent writer knows that every article needs to have an introduction, a body, and a conclusion.

I'm going for two out of three with this one. It's regarding an issue I've been wrestling with, and still don't have an answer to, in spite of too many sleepless nights (thanks, insomnia), and reading too many people's thoughts and opinions.

Here's the dilemma: How much money can we spend on ourselves before it becomes self-indulgent? Where is that line between reaping the rewards of our hard work, and becoming selfish with our resources?

I don't have the answer. I don't think I'm even close to an answer. But I sure do have a lot of questions.

My husband and I just sold our really pretty townhome, and bought a bigger house on a pretty lot that has the additional bedroom we need for our adoption. It's a really, really nice house. We didn't go over budget with the house. It has a nice big kitchen, a nice yard for Reagan to play in, and a large (I mean, really large) master bedroom, with a big bathroom. The neighborhood is pretty. Financially, it makes sense for us, and is a good investment for our money.

We had a difficult 2013. I'm not gonna lie. We had to reprioritize a lot. But, now that we are heading in the right direction again, I look forward to nice dinners out, maybe a few day trips with Reagan, and, fingers crossed, a trip to Destin this fall. (Please, God, please ....)

Or do I? I've seen poverty. I've seen a lot of poverty. I've seen entire families living in a dump, with children who will never, ever smell fresh air, or drink clean water. I've seen generations living under a blue tarp, with one stick holding it up. I've seen children begging for food, their fragile skeletons proving they probably hadn't eaten in a long time. I've seen that desperate look in a mother's eyes, when she knows her babies will soon starve to death.

I have friends -- smart, good, hard-working friends -- who lost their house in the turbulent economy. I have more friends than I would like to count, who, despite their best intentions, are living paycheck to paycheck. Either they became unemployed and had to take a big pay cut in their new position, or they had excessive medical bills, or a thousand other ways people have found themselves struggling. Compared to a lot of our friends, we've made it through relatively unscathed.

But their struggles hit really close to home for me. I think of them often. I think of the tiny faces of poverty I've seen, and the anguish on a mother's face. I think of my friends, people I am personally very close with, who have to choose between paying the electric bill or the phone bill. I've seen it.

And I wonder, what is my responsibility in all of this?

I'm not talking about people who drove themselves into credit card debt because their desires exceeded their reality. I'm not talking about people who complain about not having enough money, while they eat out every week and go on expensive vacations. I'm not talking about people who go on a shopping spree while their mortgage is two months behind.

I'm talking about people who work really, really hard and still come up short. I'm talking about the children who can't afford to go to school in Kenya, the parents who can't afford to feed their children in Mumbai, or the 10-year-old orphan who works in the fields in Cambodia every day to feed his younger siblings.

I'm talking about the family who had to move into an apartment when the bank seized their house, the single mother who has to work two jobs to put food on the table, and the former CEO who now delivers pizza making $8 an hour because it's the only job he could find.

What is my responsibility in their struggle?

I have no idea.

The house we bought, to our friends, looks like everybody else's house. It doesn't have a big kidney-shaped swimming pool in the backyard. It doesn't sit on acres and acres of land. It doesn't have a marble staircase or a movie theater in the basement or anything luxurious (not that there's anything wrong with any of those things). It's your typical, average, middle American home.

But to someone living in poverty, in the United States or anywhere else in the world, it's lavish. I get that. It's much nicer than the projects. It's much nicer than the tiny shacks families live in. It's much, much nicer than the dump.

No one would argue, least of all me, that it's wrong to buy a nice house for your family to live in. Nor would anyone argue, I don't think, that it's wrong to drive a reliable car or buy your child a toy or go out to eat every now and then.

But where does it stop? To people in other parts of the world (and truthfully, in plenty of places in our own country), the idea of spending $100 for a nice dinner out is ludicrous. As is the idea that each child would have their own room, as big as some other people's houses. The average yearly income in India is $1500, and there's 42 countries that rank lower than them. The average yearly income is in Malawi (currently one of the poorest countries in the world) is around $270. What they make in a year, we could spend in a day. An hour, really. Our children have toys that cost more than that. We wear shoes that cost more than that. One nice dinner out costs more than that.

It's easy for me to say -- maybe too easy -- that that's them and this is us, and we're not meant to live like that, and we can't fix everyone and I should appreciate the blessings I have and on and on and on.

But here's where it is a slippery slope for me. I love that when Reagan asks me for an apple, or a banana, or yogurt, I can give it to him. I love when he is eating and he says, 'More, please,' I don't have to tell him there isn't more. I love that my child will never ever ever ever ever leave the dinner table hungry.

For some families, that's something they will never experience. All they know, and all they will ever know, is poverty.

No, I can't change the world. We could literally give every single penny we make this year to an impoverished country, and it wouldn't even put a  dent in their economic crisis.

But I can change one person's life. I can send money every month to feed a family. I can help a family here buy clothes for their children, buy their groceries, pay for a child's music lesson, or help in thousands of other ways.

Before I was a mother, these things didn't strike me quite as much. Sure, I felt compassion, and I gave when I could, sometimes even when it hurt, but it didn't affect me the way it does now. But now, I look at my little boy, and I imagine I am that mother whose child is starving, and someone telling me they are going to spend $2000 to go to the beach for a week, or $500 on new clothes, or $30,000 on a car because it has a sunroof and heated seats, instead of buying food for my child, and my head starts spinning.

In the Bible, Jesus told a man who wanted to know how to inherit eternal life to, "Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." (Mark 10:21). But, he also chastised the people who criticized the woman who poured out the expensive perfume on him, saying, "The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have Me." (Matthew 26:11) In other words, there's a time and a place for lavish, even sometimes impractical, gifts.

For our honeymoon, my husband and I went to an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. For one week, we lived a life of complete indulgence. While we waited to book for our honeymoon until there was a big sale, what we spent on that one week is more than people in a lot of countries make in a year. We could have fed an entire village for the cost our honeymoon, or sponsored a child through an agency like Compassion International for a YEAR.

We could have paid several month's of our friends rent, or bought them groceries for several months. We could have done a lot with that money. But we went on our honeymoon, and I have never regretted that decision.

It's a sticky issue for me. I don't have an answer. I'm not even close to an answer. I have a lot of questions, and not any sort of resolution. But it's something I wrestle with, and I imagine I will continue to wrestle with for a long, long time.

I'd love to hear other people's thoughts ....

A Letter To My Favorite Boy

Dear Reagan,

You're TWO years old today! Two!! Every day I look at you and wonder where the time has gone. It seems like last week -- really -- that I was holding you as a tiny little newborn, and now you're TWO!

You are such a delight to your father and I. It's really hard to remember what life was like before you came into the world. You definitely make every day, every moment better in every single way.

You are an incredibly sweet-natured little boy. People tell your dad and I all the time what a good child you are, and what a kind and pleasant personality you have. It makes us so proud, although to be honest, I don't think we can take the credit for it. God just made you extra special, and I'm so honored that I get a front-row view into watching your life unfold.

A few things you love: you love to go 'bye bye' in the truck, you love to play with your friends at church, you love Thomas the Tank Engine, the Wiggles, and Elmo (but don't really care for any of the rest of the Sesame Street episode, so we have to fast-forward a lot). You love when Oma or Poppy come over to play with you, and you love to visit with Gran Jan and Aunt Tracy and cousin Daniel. You love to talk on the phone, especially if it's a real one, instead of your play one, with a live person on the other end. And, even if it's 40 degrees, you LOVE to play outside.

You would rather run than walk, anywhere. When we go out our front door to play, the sidewalk goes a bit downhill, and it's easy to lose your footing. You love to take off running, and I am always chasing you, telling you to slow down. What I mean is, slow down, or you're going to fall. But I also mean, slow down, because you are growing up way too fast, and soon I might not be able to catch you.

You are seriously the world's BEST traveler. When we drive to Pennsylvania to see Mommy's family, you take it all in stride. 800 miles one way to sleep a bunch of nights in a different bed in a different house, and you act like it's the most natural thing in the world. (Of course, it doesn't hurt that Aunt Dawn and Uncle Mike and your cousin Hunter give you all kinds of special attention, does it?)

You also love to EAT, and you're not picky at all. Thai food, Persian food, Mexican food, vegetables -- you'll eat all of it, and then say 'more, please.' Sometimes I wonder where you put all that food! You also love fruit and cookies, and you know exactly where the dish of candy is. (And sometimes, even if it's too early in the day, when you fold your hands behind your back and look at the candy dish and then say, 'Please, Mom,' I give in any way because you are just too cute).

You are so polite. You say 'please,' whenever you want anything, without any prompting anymore from your dad or I. That's quite impressive for a two-year-old, I think! You also say thank you when you are given something. But, what touches me the most, is you've started to say 'sorry' when you know you've done something wrong, all on your own, without anyone reminding you. You have such a tender, tender heart. I hope it always stays that way.

Just a few weeks ago, you realized that if you stand up on the bench outside, you can reach Mommy's flower pots that have dirt in them. When I found you, you were covered head to toe with dirt. I got you down, washed you off, and told you to NOT do that again. Of course, a few minutes later, there you were again, feasting on dirt (I bet it didn't taste very good, either). But I had to laugh when I scolded you and you gave me the sweetest face, patted my hand, and said, 'Silly Mommy.' You are QUITE the charmer, even if your face is covered in dirt.

When we go out in public, like to the store or out to eat, you wave and say 'Hi!' to everyone. Almost everyone waves and returns your greeting, but occasionally someone ignores you. I secretly want to go up to them and smack them on the forehead and make them acknowledge you, but I don't. You seem undeterred by their lack of attention, so I try to follow your lead. I have a feeling I'll be doing a lot of that over the years.

You still believe Mommy's kisses can fix anything. When you get a boo-boo, you come up to me and say, 'Boo boo, Mom,' and then put it right up to my mouth. Sometimes you hit your hand on the table just so you can have me kiss it. I'm so glad you still think Mommy's kisses can fix your hurts. It won't always be that way, try as I might, but for now, I'm happy to kiss all your hurts away.

You are also quite the talker! You say so many words now, and have started talking in sentences. I love listening to you talk, even if I don't always know exactly what you're saying. You still say 'mo' for 'no,' and while I suppose I should be correcting you, 'mo' is just so much cuter! One of the things you do that cracks me up every time, is sometimes you'll drop something on purpose, and then say, 'Oh mo!' really loud and animated. You also like to say 'oh wow,' 'oh boy,' 'oh yeah' and 'oh my.'

You love dogs, and love petting the dogs in our neighborhood. We had to say goodbye to our dog earlier this year, because he was old and in pain and didn't quite appreciate your loving, but not necessarily gentle, touches. But someday, when you're a bit older, we'll get you another dog. I promise. (Daddy says we have to wait until you're old enough to walk it yourself, but I have a feeling if, in a couple years, you ask, he'll give in. He's pretty sweet like that).

You are a great sleeper. You still take two naps a day, and sleep about 11 to 12 hours a night. The great thing about you, and your laid-back nature, is you go to bed every time still awake, and just play in your crib until you fall asleep. Sometimes we hear you through the monitor practicing your animal noises. You're a funny kid.

Last week, you got to play at the Y with your friends for a little while. When I came back to get you, I stood at the door and watched you for a minute. You just looked so ... so big, and so happy. You were sitting in a chair, watching a video, clutching two Thomas trains. Every now and then you'd turn to a friend and wave and say 'Hi!,' and then go back to the video. When I walked up to you, you said, 'Hi Mom!' and gave me a big hug. You seemed so happy, so content, so in love with life.  I wish I could bottle up those sweet moments.

Right now, you view the world as a safe place. I dread the day when you realize that, while the good far outweighs the bad, there are people who will be unkind to you, people who hurt you, intentionally or not, people who don't have your best interest at heart. I wish I could keep you in Mommy and Daddy's cocoon forever.

 I'm trying to find a way to describe to you how much I love you, and I can't. My tears have started to flow as I realize, yet again, that my love for you is so much bigger than me. There are not enough words in all of the English language -- or in all of the languages combined -- to express to you how deep my love flows for you, my sweet blond-haired boy. Even when you're fussy (which doesn't happen very often), I still love you to the moon and back times 10 million.

I'm going to let you down, sweet boy. I've already let you down. I'm going to fail you. I'm going to disappoint you. I'm going to lose my patience with you and be too busy to spend time with you and snap at you for something that was really my fault. I'm going to be exasperated by you and your seemingly endless vat of energy. I'm going to show you the worst of me, and not my best.

But know this, John Reagan Patterson Thompson. Your mother loves you with a love that overwhelms me. It consumes every single part of my being. It is bigger than anything I could possibly ever articulate or explain. I'm a writer, yet words will always fail to express the depth of my love for you..

Happy birthday, sweet angel boy. I love you.

The Thompson's Big News

 We have big, big, big news.

After spending the past 16 months, talking, praying, and signing our name over and over and over again, we can finally announce that WE ARE ADOPTING A GIRL FROM INDIA!!!!

I know.

That's pretty big news.

First, the back story: In 2010, I spent a life-changing 11 days in India. I left there wanting to return to the States, sell all of my things, and spend my life with the beautiful people who captured my heart. Life happened instead, including falling in love with my sweet husband, getting married, buying a house and having a child. But India stayed on my mind and in my heart. Before my husband and I really started even talking about forever, I told him marrying me meant agreeing to live in India for at least a season of our life. (He, surprisingly or not, agreed).

In October of 2012, while sitting in church, I felt this overwhelming, undeniable, irrepressible urge to adopt a girl from India. Just like that. I went to my husband after the service, and said, "I think we have a little girl waiting for us in India."

Let me assure you, if he had said those words to me, I would have said something along the lines of, "Are you crazy?" or "Do you know how much international adoption costs?" But anyone who knows my husband will not be shocked by his response.

"Well then, we need to go get her," he said.

That's it.

"We need to go get her."

I married well.

Recounting those words brings tears to my eyes every time.

I remember driving home from church that Sunday, thinking that our lives were just completely turned upside down in the best way possible.

We began researching agencies that did adoption to India, found American World, and started the process. Unfortunately, 2013 didn't go at all as we had planned. Job loss and unexpected hefty bills made up most of the year. Instead of watching our savings account increase, we watched it decrease every single month -- sometimes by a little, and sometimes by a lot. So, we waited. Every night before dinner, when we said our prayers with Reagan, we prayed for our little girl in India, but we waited.

Until we felt like we just couldn't wait any more.

So at the very beginning of the year, we began the application process, paid our deposit, and waited again. Surprisingly, in only a short amount of time, we got the word that we were accepted into the program.

Wow.

While there are many, many, many hurdles to jump through, getting that phone call felt almost exactly how I felt when my pregnancy test with Reagan came back positive -- minus the weird queasy feeling I had been having for a few days. It was that instant rush of excitement, fear and elation all mixed up in one sudden emotion.

I'll admit - when I look at the lovely fee schedule they sent us, I have to take a few deep breaths. When we wrote our first really big check a couple weeks ago, I thought I might hyperventilate just a bit. I hadn't written a check that big in a long, long time. I even thought about maybe waiting just a few more months. Part of me said we needed to build up our savings account again, before we pursued this any further.

Sometimes I can be so First World.

I was debating whether or not we should take money out of our savings account to bring home a child from India who is living in an orphanage.

There are an estimated 31 million orphans living in India. 31 million. That's 1/10 of the population of the entire United States. That's roughly the number of people living Florida and Pennsylvania combined.

It's a lot of children to live alone.

These are children whose parents can no longer afford to take care of them. Children whose parents died from HIV. Children whose parents died for a thousand other reasons. Children who have been abandoned on the street because they are the wrong gender, or have a disability or are too expensive or are just unwanted.

While there are, without question, many, many wonderful orphanages in India, the glaring fact remains that there are 31 million orphans in India. 31 million children who are right now not getting tucked into bed. 31 million children who wonder if they will get ONE meal today. Forget three. That hasn't happened since ... well, forever. 31 million children who have never had anyone comb their hair, remind them to eat their vegetables, or found a present with a big bow under the Christmas tree with their name on it. 31 million children who are at severe risk of being trafficked for sex -- with India considered by many to have the highest population of children who are sold into slavery.

It's kind of hard to wrap your mind around, isn't it?

Mine too.

So while I was debating whether or not we should decrease our savings account to adopt a child, on the other side of the world a big brother is debating whether to share his one bowl of food with his little sister. An orphanage is trying to decide which child from their long waiting list they should take off the streets. A mother is deciding which child to give up because she certainly can't take care of them all.

Again. Sometimes I can be so First World, it's embarrassing.

So, we are adopting a little girl from India. That means we're selling our house, and buying another one, with a third bedroom (anyone want a two-bedroom, 2 1/2 bath townhome in great condition?) That means we're selling our truck and getting a vehicle we can pay cash for, that's better on gas and will give us a few thousand extra in the bank. That means that those Groupon/Living Social/Buy 1, Get 1 Free restaurant meals we used to enjoy every now and then are a thing of the past, for now. That means more coupons, less spending, more work, less time off. 

But, in the bigger picture, does any of that really matter? I read a great blog about adoption (read it here), and while their story is different than ours, this stood out to me:

"I was further challenged when I was conversing with two other ladies about adoption. One just couldn't fathom bringing a stranger into her home to live with her other children. And the cost? Well, that meant that they would possibly have to go into debt or take away from their other children. Once she was done, all I could say is, 'For the price of your car, a child could be brought out of poverty and given a family forever.'"

We won't go into debt to bring our little girl home, because, well, except for a mortgage, we don't do debt. Period. We will be doing fund-raisers, so stay tuned. The estimated cost will be ... a lot. We are expecting upwards of $25,000.

We could get a girl anywhere between the ages of 6 months to 13 years. We are open to an older adoption, so it's really up in the air. To adopt from India, you have to agree to adopt a child with special needs. That, of course, doesn't mean that's what we will get, but we have said we are open to a child with challenges.

Yes, it's going to disrupt our lives. Yes, it's going to cost a lot. Yes, it's going to insert-word-here. But I can barely talk about it without crying. She -- whoever she is, however old she is, whatever story she brings with her -- already feels like a part of our family.

One more thing. Any time international adoption comes up, it seems the correlating question, at least for some people, is why we would travel halfway around the world when there are so many children who need homes right here in our own country. It's a valid concern.

We think adopting from our own country is an excellent idea. We've talked about it ourselves, especially an older child. There's certainly a big need right in our own backyard, and we applaud anyone who welcomes a child from the United States into their home. For us, it came down to a few things. One, we just felt the pull to India. That's by far the most important factor. But also, while there is an undeniable need in our country, the conditions in orphanages in other parts of the world are far less than what most children in our own country face. But, that door for us is by no means closed.

So.

WE ARE ADOPTING A GIRL FROM INDIA!!!!

P.S. Our apologies to those we wanted to tell in person but didn't get a chance to yet. We would have loved to have had the chance to sit down with every one of our friends and shared this in person, but life happened.

P.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.

Where Social Media Went Wrong

I admit it. I like Facebook. A lot. I like that friends from high school (and a few teachers), friends through work, relatives who live 800 miles away, and the person who does a fantastic job of cutting my hair are all part of my social circle. I think it's great that they get to 'meet' my husband and my son and be part of my world, and vice versa, even if real life keeps us apart.

But.

I don't necessarily like every part of social media. And by social media, I primarily mean Facebook. Yes, I have Twitter and LinkedIn, because people who know more than me say I need them to stay connected. I'm sure they are right. But for now, other than an occasional glance, Facebook is about all I can handle. I'm working on that.

Anyway. There are a few things that are starting to irk me about the endless stream of social chatter that fills up my news feed. I used to have a lot more free time. I used to have 30 minutes to troll through people's pictures and updates and mundane details of their life. But now, my Facebook time is largely limited to Reagan's post-nap ritual of watching Thomas the Tank Engine or the Wiggles. A few minutes here and there is about all I get.

And because I don't have as much time, I find myself getting increasingly annoyed at some of the downsides of  Facebook friends sharing their life in short updates. More and more, I find myself going to the upper right corner of a profile to uncheck the 'following' button, so I don't see their updates in my news feed anymore.  That little step alone has saved me a ton of sanity.

Here's why: when I only have a few minutes of nothing time (and I can already recite almost verbatim every. single. Wiggles. song), I don't want to hear about the fight you had with your spouse, how disrespectful your kids are, why you hate your job, or what political/social group of people you abhor.

I just don't want to know.

I about hit a tipping point a couple months ago, when the Duck Dynasty drama blew up all over the internet. People on both sides spewed venom. In the span of about three minutes, sitting in a hotel room on the first night of what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation, I read horrendous, almost-unspeakable things some people wanted to do to Phil Robertson, and alternately, proud, vocal support of his beliefs, complete with Old Testament scriptures stating what an 'abomination' (their words, not mine) homosexuals were.

I'm not talking one or two people. I'm talking way too many people taking up way too much space on my newsfeed.

Really? Is this what we've become? People wanting someone dead because of an admittedly really stupid comment he made? People calling someone an abomination who will rot in hell?

Really?

Call me crazy, but I think if it wouldn't be said to someone's face, it shouldn't be said at all.

The great thing about the country we live in is that we're all entitled to our own beliefs. It's a freedom that, sadly, too many people will never experience in their lifetime. But with that freedom comes a responsibility -- a responsibility to be kind to people who disagree with you.

I have a hard time believing someone would go up to somebody else and tell them that they wish they would die, or that they were going to rot in hell. Believe what you want, but that doesn't mean that belief needs to be shared with the world.

I think Facebook is great for what I started off this rambling blog with -- sharing fun stories, family photos, perhaps a cute anecdote. But, I don't think it's the place for hostile speech.

Nor do I think it's the place for airing dirty laundry. I'm sorry your 'stupid husband' came home late again, and I'm sorry that your 'dumb boss' is making you work late and that your 'annoying kid' is driving you insane with their rebellion. I really am sorry. But, in all fairness, unless you and I talk in person on a regular basis, and you consider me a close confidant, that's not really my business.

I assume most people have the same amount of free time I have, which is not very much. So if I'm going to take up a few seconds of your time with a brief update of my life, I hope it leaves you happy. I hope it leaves you inspired. I hope it leaves you with a smile. Maybe a chuckle (my kid can be pretty funny).

I hope it puts you in a better mood, not worse. I hope I have somehow brightened your day. And if I haven't, well then you have my permission to take me out of your news feed. Because, chances are, if you've told me about your abysmal day, or who you hate, or why your life is terrible, I've already taken you out of mine.