The Adoption = Pregnancy fallacy

I'm guilty.

I said it.

I maybe even blogged about it,

but I'm too lazy to go back and check now.

In adoption circles a lot of times

people compare stages of the adoption to pregnancy.

Finishing the homestudy = positive pregnancy test...

getting your referral = finding out the sex of your baby...

etc,

etc, 

etc.

But it could not be more inaccurate.

I've been pregnant.

I've adopted.

(Almost) twice.

I know what it's like to go past your due date.

I know what it's like to be big and uncomfortable and

unable to sleep and have false labor and worry about taking an advil...

But here's the major difference:

During my pregnancies,

I never wondered where my baby was.

I never wondered if he/she was being fed.

I never wondered if he or she could have access to medical care if needed.

I knew they were safe with me.

I knew at the VERY MOST from my first positive pregnancy test

to the latest possible point for my child to be in my arms

was a maximum of 38 weeks (from test, not conception).

If you were pregnant and suddenly found out you had 5 more months 

when you thought you had 2 months to go...

it would be quite a shock.

In adoption... it's a given.

Timelines change.

Rugs get pulled out from under your feet.

Emails come that tell you to be patient.

Waiting is part of this process.

Sudden whiplash-inducing changes are part of the process.

Dare to complain about the wait...

get pounced upon by other moms in the process

or who have their kids home

who tell you all about Sovereign timing

and patience.

So, NO.

Adoption is NOT like pregnancy.

Adoption is like...

being in a taxi in a foreign country with no way to communicate with the driver and only

a vague sketch of the place you are trying to go.

Adoption is like...

trying to go up the down escalator

but no one will move so you can get by.

Adoption is like...

being in love with children

on the other side of the world

and not being able to bring them home

until some government employee at a desk

decides to approve your paperwork.

It's expensive and hard and

frustrating and infuriating and depressing...

but we signed up for this because

these kids - 

well, they are worth it all.

Every moment I spend praying,

every email I send begging for better news,

every government fee, 

airline ticket, legal charges,

and

every time I start to cry

thinking of how much I miss them...

it's still worth it all.

They are worth it.

But, no...

it's nothing like pregnancy.

Light and Breezy...DIY laundry soap.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled 

posts that make people cry

to bring you

Chrissy's Version of Homemade Laundry Soap!

Okay...

So. There are like a million websites and blogs out there with 

variations on this same stuff. Humor me. I'm proud of myself on this.

FIRST.

I bought some stuff:

I spent $16. I had some of it already - like the baking soda and essential oil.

Then... I did this:

Smells nice...

Next I thought I'd go the traditional route and stick it in the food processor.

That. Did. NOT. Work.

It made a huge mess, made a loud noise, and did not reduce the soap to small crumbs.

So... I did this:

Love my Vitamix. You  need one. Yes you do.

It's my all-time favorite appliance.

THIS worked.

*Tip - adding some of the baking soda to the soap helped keep it from turning into a mushy ball and kept it all crumbly like I had hoped for!

See?

So then  I started adding it all together.

Soapy goodness...

Mix, mix, mix, stir, stir, stir...

Then I added some of this...

about 1/5 of the bottle.

It's orange. It could be any scent, but I figured orange was safe for the whole family.

Then I mixed it all with a wisk, then my hands, then a spoon... just to be sure.

When I was happy with the blendedness of the whole thing...

I put it into cute jars!

Aren't they adorable?!!?

Then I took them to my new laundry area...

(Where I labeled them all cute and stuff.)

Ooohhh.... aahhhhh.... pretty!!

Another view....

Two extra bottles on the left - one is plain Borax (toilets and stuff),

the other is some extra laundry detergent.

Okay... so THEN...

I ran a load of clothes with it.

I used cold water, just to be sure it dissolved well.

I put it inside the drum of the front-loading washer -

 not sure how it would work in the dispenser -

I'll try that next time.

I like it!! Everything is clean, I even washed the nasty kitchen towels and they came out smelling fresh and looking clean!

OH...

and I only used like 1/4 cup of detergent for the whole load!

At that rate I estimate that this will last me about 4 months

even with the amount of laundry I do in this house!!

4 months in a house of 9 people, for $16!

NICE!

{Ingredients}

1 box Borax

1 box Arm & Hammer Washing Soda

1 box Color Safe Bleach additive

1 largeish tub of store-brand oxycleaner

2 bars Fels-Naptha

2 boxes baking soda

Essential Oil (optional)

Separation.

Separation.

I miss my kids.

I don't understand why it takes so many months to get from court to embassy to home.

I don't understand why paperwork can't get done more quickly,
why the lists of paperwork can't just be standardized so everyone knows what's required
to get our kids home.
I miss their hugs,
I miss their laughter.
I miss the horrible faces the boys made when I gave them Peanut M&M's
and the girls begging for more gum ("Mommy! Masteca! Masteca!").
I loved hearing them talk to each other with their adorable accents,
and laugh at me when I would copy their words.
I miss a sweet boy who would boot any nearby child from their chair
just so he could offer it to me and demand that I sit down.
I love how they fed me injera and held my hands.

And it just takes longer every day it seems. It takes time.

Time that is stolen from us as a family.

Time that is stolen from them as they sit in an orphanage.
It's all about the time lost...
time spent separated.


My grandfather went to heaven on Sunday.
I'm blessed to have had time in my life with all four grandparents
and even time with great-grandparents.
I know lots of people don't ever get that time.
Lots of you probably don't remember your grandparents.
I know I'm blessed to have been gifted this many years with them.
He was a writer.
He was a painter.
He was funny,
and kind,
and loving.
He taught me to type on his typewriter -
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
He loved me.
I was the first grandchild.
On both sides.
I was special.

At the funeral today, my uncle was talking about my grandfather's deafness and how he never allowed it to be a handicap. He read lips exclusively and he was excellent at carrying on conversations in this way.
My uncle said that when my grandpa closed his eyes and fell asleep for the last time - it was the first time he truly felt like he couldn't talk to his dad.
Separation.
There it is again.
And oh, it hurts.

This has me thinking about our separation from God.
I think about how in each of these circumstances...
my kids on the other side of the world,
so many loved ones in Heaven
and how many of us would do ANYTHING
to bridge that separation.
There's this great, desperate NEED
to close the gap between us.
That NEED to be together again.

But we have Jesus.

He bridges that gap - allows us to be with God someday.
He gives me the hope that HE planted these children in our hearts,
and HE will bring them home to our family.
He lived in the hearts of my grandparents and assures me
that since I put my hope and trust in Him... I will see them again.
He wraps me in his arms when I am sad,
strengthens me when I am weary,
and loves me when I don't deserve it.

He eliminates ALL separation.

Photos and Words.

Ethiopia.

Words don't really do it justice.

Photos don't convey the precise emotion.

A child on the street wearing rags, tugging on your shirt and asking for food... 

how do you write about that and do it justice? What photo could put your heart into that moment?

A man, dying of AIDS, desperate for someone to take his twin 8-year-old daughters so that he can die knowing they are going to be okay. There aren't photos for that. There aren't words to describe the injustice of finding out, sorry - in this area, nothing can be done for children with one living parent - no matter how broad of a definition you use for "living". 

My 33 pound 8-year-old son who is still in the "critical" range for his weight....

his big brown eyes looking at me and asking to go to America. Tomorrow.

Unexplained scars,

unexplained fears,

unexplained behaviors.

I can't write about it and allow you to "be there" like I was.

There just aren't the right words.

Three "big" boys who act like parents 

to two little girls who have their own guarded hearts and fears.

And oh, I love them.

I love their scars,

their big brown eyes,

their quirks,

their tests of my allegiance,

their smiles,

and their temper tantrums too.

I can't write about fears I had

that were relieved. Fears and "what-if's" that turned to dust.

I can't show you a photo of my heart when I thought we didn't pass court, then we did!

There aren't pictures  of the praises in my heart for a great big God who loves me and loves my kids WAY more than I can ever know.

There aren't words to describe leaving Ethiopia without my children.

Leaving a malnourished little boy who desperately wanted to come home with me...

saying goodbye- for now, 

peeling a 3-year-old little girl's tiny arms from around my neck, 

sobbing in the back seat of the van and announcing "It just isn't FAIR."

You could never truly understand those moments,
the pain and the helplessness, unless you've done it.

There aren't pictures that convey the sadness of sitting in the terminal in the airport 

surrounded by happy people,
laughing and smiling and looking forward to getting on a plane,

and wanting to slap their silly, goofy smiles
 right off their faces
because each one feels like a punch in the stomach you didn't see coming. 

I wish I could describe the happiness of being home again,
seeing 8 faces who you've missed incredibly,
being glad to sleep in your bed and drink water from the tap,
 but feeling like only part of your body came home with you. 

Half of my heart stayed in Ethiopia and every.single.day that passes,
while it brings us closer to having them home,
 it also causes a greater line between the dots on the timeline of meeting them and seeing them again. 

The space between the dots...
 that's the line where the prayers abound and the pain endures.

Laundry by the dozen

When you live in a house that was built for the average American family size, including 2 adults and 2.5 children… there are bound to be some serious renovations necessary in order to transform that house into something do-able for a family of 14!

One of those areas in the house I have always hated the most is 
my laundry “room”.

It’s a closet. With bi-fold doors. 
Right next to the bedrooms on the upper level of the house. 
While I first thought that having the laundry upstairs would be awesome since that’s where the clothes live, I have since decided that I need more space for the clothes that the 9 of us (soon to be 14) accumulate in a day or two. 
And the folding situation… it’s horrible.

My typical laundry routine goes something like this:

1. Grumble about pile of clothes.

2. Announce implementation of naked-day if people don’t stop putting doll clothes and folded clothes they just didn’t want to put away back into the dirty clothes pile.

3. Decide empty threats don’t work, but throwing clothes into the goodwill bag does.

4. Cram as much stuff into the front-loading washer as possible, add soap and softener, press start and plan to outsource the moving to the dryer to a child in an hour.

5. Grumble because said child didn’t move the clothes to the dryer, or they set it on “touch up” instead of “high” and everything is still damp.

6. Move dry clothes into baskets for “curing” until folding can take place.

7. Threaten to kill dog when she knocks over clean basket of clothing to make her nightly “nest” to sleep in.

8. Repeat.

Clearly – not working out for me.

Insert, hubby to the rescue!!

He borrowed some tools, used some Christmas gift cards to Home Depot, and solved my horrible laundry problem!! Here are the pictures!

Before… but not really. I removed the boxes of stuff from the shelves, all of the piles off of the washer and dryer and the doors came off months ago… THEN I decided to take a photo for this little before and after story!

Then… I painted the walls inside the closet with the leftover kitchen paint, and hubby started making boxes! Once the cubbies were up, I said… “gosh, it sure would be nice to have a counter top type thing for folding clothes…” and VOILA!

Folding table!

He added some trim, we put a few coats of white paint on everything… and POOF!

Isn’t it BEAUTIFUL!!?

Thank you, honey!