Monday, May 27, 2013

4 Years

My baby is 4 years old. It's hard to believe 4 years have gone by.

4 years since I got a phone call at work, telling us we were matched. A baby due next week, a boy. He's Nigerian.

4 years since I went back to my office and Google image searched Nigerians. Oh, the marathon runners. That sounds good. We can do that.

4 years since Jason and I worried about so many things. Was this our son? Could we afford it? Could we be gone for the at least 2 weeks to go get him?

4 years since the answer was of course, yes.

4 years since the agency says come now, he will be born tomorrow. Our friends and families came together, cleaning our house, folding clothes, helping us pack, and taking care of Gabe and Dexter.

4 years since we were off. We drove all night with no clue where we were going, following the GPS to Maryland, to the suburbs of our nation's capitol.

4 years since we held hands walking quietly into the hospital to meet the brave, brave girl who had carried this baby for 9 months and would soon make the decision to let him go.


4 years since Jason and I sat nervously in the waiting room. I was not the nurse. I was not the girl in labor.  The role reversal was really, really tough.


4 years since we saw him for the first time. Screaming at the nurse giving him his bath. Head full of black curls. It was love at first sight, but in a guard your heart sort of way. Hoping for the best, trying to prepare yourself for the possibility of the worst.

 
But to hold back isn't really possible. Because look at this face. He may not look like what a Fulton had ever looked like before, but we couldn't imagine anyone ever having looked more like our son.

4 years since we got to call Mam & Bamp, Nanny & PaPa, YaYa, Bubba, Jon & Meredith, and Todd. Telling them we have a son.
Quincy Todd Oluwatise Fulton.

4 years since Nanny bravely flew with Gabe and Dexter to meet her newest grandson and to let Gabe and Dex meet their baby brother.



4 years since Jason and I had lots of time on our hands, so we took Quincy to The Smithsonian.

4 years since we could breathe easy, the courts had approved what our hearts already knew. Quincy was our son.



4 years since Mam flew across the county to meet him. She stayed with me the rest of the time. 






 4 years since we hung out at our hotel, shopped, toured botanical gardens, and waited for Maryland to say we could legally leave and Illinois to say we could legally enter. Those were the longest 19 days of my life.

4 years since since we started ours lives again with this amazing boy. We thank God every day for Quincy.

Happy 4th Birthday Quincy! 



Thursday, May 16, 2013

Dear Moms of Adopted Kids

Credit goes to author Kathy Lynn Harris who really, really gets it.
~Michelle

Dear Mom of an Adopted Child,
I met you in adoption education class. I met you at the agency. I met you at my son’s school. I met you online. I met you on purpose. I met you by accident.

It doesn’t matter. The thing is, I knew you right away. I recognize the fierce determination. The grit. The fight. Because everything about what you have was a decision, and nothing about what you have was easy. You are the kind of woman who Makes.Things.Happen. After all, you made this happen, this family you have.

Maybe you prayed for it. Maybe you had to convince a partner it was the right thing. Maybe you did it alone. Maybe people told you to just be happy with what you had before. Maybe someone told you it simply wasn’t in God’s plans for you to have a child, this child whose hair you now brush lightly from his face. Maybe someone warned you about what happened to their cousin’s neighbor’s friend. Maybe you ignored them.
Maybe you planned for it for years. Maybe an opportunity dropped into your lap. Maybe you depleted your life-savings for it. Maybe it was not your first choice. But maybe it was.

Regardless, I know you. And I see how you hold on so tight. Sometimes too tight. Because that’s what we do, isn’t it?

I know about all those books you read back then. The ones everyone reads about sleep patterns and cloth versus disposable, yes, but the extra ones, too. About dealing with attachment disorders, breast milk banks, babies born addicted to alcohol, cocaine, meth. About cognitive delays, language deficiencies. About counseling support services, tax and insurance issues, open adoption pros and cons, legal rights.

I know about the fingerprinting, the background checks, the credit reports, the interviews, the references. I know about the classes, so many classes. I know the frustration of the never-ending paperwork. The hours of going over finances, of having garage sales and bake sales and whatever-it-takes sales to raise money to afford it all.

I know how you never lost sight of what you wanted.

I know about the match call, the soaring of everything inside you to cloud-height, even higher. And then the tucking of that away because, well, these things fall through, you know.
Maybe you told your mother, a few close friends. Maybe you shouted it to the world. Maybe you allowed yourself to decorate a baby’s room, buy a car seat. Maybe you bought a soft blanket, just that one blanket, and held it to your cheek every night.

I know about your home visits. I know about your knuckles, cracked and bleeding, from cleaning every square inch of your home the night before. I know about you burning the coffee cake and trying to fix your mascara before the social worker rang the doorbell.

And I know about the followup visits, when you hadn’t slept in three weeks because the baby had colic. I know how you wanted so badly to show that you had it all together, even though you were back to working more-than-full-time, maybe without maternity leave, without the family and casseroles and welcome-home balloons and plants.

And I’ve seen you in foreign countries, strange lands, staying in dirty hotels, taking weeks away from work, struggling to understand what’s being promised and what’s not. Struggling to offer your love to a little one who is unsettled and afraid. Waiting, wishing, greeting, loving, flying, nesting, coming home.

I’ve seen you down the street at the hospital when a baby was born, trying to figure out where you belong in the scene that’s emerging. I’ve seen your face as you hear a nurse whisper to the birthmother that she doesn’t have to go through with this. I’ve seen you trying so hard to give this birthmother all of your respect and patience and compassion in those moments—while you bite your lip and close your eyes, not knowing if she will change her mind, if this has all been a dream coming to an abrupt end in a sterile environment. Not knowing if this is your time. Not knowing so much.

I’ve seen you look down into a newborn infant’s eyes, wondering if he’s really yours, wondering if you can quiet your mind and good sense long enough to give yourself over completely.
And then, to have the child in your arms, at home, that first night. His little fingers curled around yours. His warm heart beating against yours.

I know that bliss. The perfect, guarded, hopeful bliss.

I also know about you on adoption day. The nerves that morning, the judge, the formality, the relief, the joy. The letting out of a breath maybe you didn’t even know you were holding for months. Months.
I’ve seen you meet your child’s birthparents and grandparents weeks or years down the road. I’ve seen you share your child with strangers who have his nose, his smile … people who love him because he’s one of them. I’ve seen you hold him in the evenings after those visits, when he’s shaken and confused and really just wants a stuffed animal and to rest his head on your shoulder.

I’ve seen you worry when your child brings home a family tree project from school. Or a request to bring in photos of him and his dad, so that the class can compare traits that are passed down, like blue eyes or square chins. I know you worry, because you can protect your child from a lot of things — but you can’t protect him from being different in a world so intent on celebrating sameness.

I’ve seen you at the doctor’s office, filling out medical histories, leaving blanks, question marks, hoping the little blanks don’t turn into big problems later on.

I’ve seen you answer all of the tough questions, the questions that have to do with why, and love, and how much, and where, and who, and how come, mama? How come?

I’ve seen you wonder how you’ll react the first time you hear the dreaded, “You’re not my real mom.” And I’ve seen you smile softly in the face of that question, remaining calm and loving, until you lock yourself in the bathroom and muffle your soft cries with the sound of the shower.

I’ve seen you cringe just a little when someone says your child is lucky to have you. Because you know with all your being it is the other way around.

But most of all, I want you to know that I’ve seen you look into your child’s eyes. And while you will never see a reflection of your own eyes there, you see something that’s just as powerful: A reflection of your complete and unstoppable love for this person who grew in the midst of your tears and laughter, and who, if torn from you, would be like losing yourself.


Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Mother's Day

One may expect that I might have a fabulous Mother's Day post. I do in fact, have so much to be thankful for. I have 3 amazing boys and am on the road to add a little girl to the mix. I am truly Blessed.

I could post about how much fun it was to go to Dex and Quinn's school on their last day of Pre-K, how I loved getting to come to their class and make a picture frame with them.


I could definitely post about how proud I was of Gabe for getting an attitude award-Way Proud!!



I could talk about how it was fun for Dex and I to get to sneak away to Effingham by ourselves. We ate Chinese, got a copy of my birth certificate, and Dexter pretended to shoot the canon on the courthouse lawn.

But the most memorable thing about Mother's Day 2013 definitely has to be my tragic lip injury. Total freak accident, I was pushing Dexter on the swing when he flung his head back at exactly the wrong moment. I seriously felt my lip pop.

This was immediately after, the pic I sent to one of the docs I work with to ask him what to do (you don't want to know the answer).
 This was how it looked by the end of the evening.

 Basically at this point I am resigned to the fact that I will be sporting a bruise mustache for the next week or more.
Happy Freakin Mother's Day. I love you boys. And to our future daughter, I promise I won't look like this forever.


To cleanse the palate-here's a better picture of me with my favorite niece in the whole world.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

It's Official...

We're adopting again! This time from China.

This is a whole different ballgame than when we adopted the boys, much more complicated. The paper chase has begun. Jason and I have both applied for passports. We've completed the first round of paperwork.
We have two agencies, one with a social worker in Illinois who will do our homestudy, the other is the China agency in Colorado. They are the ones who will match us with our daughter after all our paperwork is complete.

So... how did the boys take the news???
 I don't know that any of them were completely shocked. This is something we've talked about for a long time, though more wishful thinking until recently. I've referred to the Chinese girl of my dreams as "Mei Ling" forever (no, we won't really name her Mei Ling).

Do these not look like they'll be the best big brothers ever???


Gabe-let's just say he's warming up to the idea. He's 13, I think anything we do is embarrassing. 
Dexter immediately got mad and said he wanted a baby brother. Quinn says "No Dexter, we have to get a baby sister because sisters are nicer" Quinn can't say his R's, so read the whole thing again with no Rs, sounds even cuter. Then Quinn suggested we get two sisters so they can fight, which led to Gabe suggesting we ask for the karate kid. Basically, they're all excited in their own Fulton Boy way.

Jason and I during the construction. It was about this time that Jason gave me the best news ever. We were in the spot where the spare bedroom was going to be when he told me he was ready and he knew we were supposed to put a child in this room. He is the BEST!



Monday, May 6, 2013

An Announcement


 
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