This morning, over breakfast at our little table, BigBrother asked a question.

“Do you think Munchkin will ever come to camp with us?”

Mind you, I had consumed some coffee before he woke up but not enough to deal with in-your-face grief and loss. I took another sip of coffee.

“Well, probably not, buddy.”

He took another bite of cereal, staring out the window.

“But why not?”

I stared out the window too. No one was out and about yet; the morning “up-and-at-em” bell hadn’t even sounded yet. I stared at a cottage across the sidewalk. I watched a hummingbird make its way to my mom’s flowers that she has planted along that side of our cottage. I looked up at the sky and wondered when this heat will break. I looked at anything but my inquisitive five-and-a-half year old.

“Well, different families have different things that they do in the summer. Munchkin is going to Canada soon to visit The Squatch’s parents with her family.”

Another bite of cereal.

“But isn’t the Munchkin part of our family too?”

I told you that I hadn’t had enough coffee for this conversation.

I looked at him. Big brown eyes looked back at me: my eyes, her eyes, his eyes. Another sip of coffee.

“Of course. She’s your sister and she always will be. But they’re busy in the summer like we are. You know, like we haven’t been home much at all this summer? With vacation and trips to YiaYia and Papau’s house and Nina’s house? And camping trips? And now we’re here at camp for ten days. It’s good to be busy in the summer.”

More cereal. More crunching.

“I just think she’d have fun at camp with us.”

More coffee. More inner breaking.

“I know, buddy. Me too”

A good friend came over today — because I kind of made her. I won’t share her story, but I’m sure that all of you recognize there are problems within the foster care system. She said goodbye to a beautiful little girl yesterday for reasons that I won’t delve into; it’s not my story. But she came here because she knew I would understand.

Unlike the people that have been trying to comfort her.

“It’s for the best.”
“I’m sure the new family is so happy.”
“You’re so good for doing this.”

My heart broke, of course, even more than it had with the difficult situation. It wasn’t long after she showed up in my living room before she said, “I don’t know how you do it. It’s been 24 hours and I want to kill people. You’re verging on eight. I don’t know how you do it.”

Me either.

Okay, okay, not true. Some people still make comments that feel like a punch to the gut. But I’m far enough removed from the immediacy of the relinquishment to recognize good intentions for what they are. I’m still not quite sure why people flub up loss with stupid words so frequently as loss is such a part of life, but it is probably the most flubbed topic of discussion on the planet. People can’t even get “what to say when people die” right, so how on Earth are they going to get adoption loss issues right. They’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I am immune to dumb words. They hurt sometimes, more so on those days that I’m struggling (birthdays, holidays). So, yes, I understood where my friend was coming from… and I wished, so deeply, to take that pain from her. The pain of others words, the pain of loss, the pain in general. It’s not something I would wish on the most obnoxious people in the world.

I comforted her as best I could and left my house open to her for the rest of the week. I can’t take the pain from her. But like those who have opened their arms to me in my darkest days, I hope she knows I’m here for her.

So, if you can, whether you’re touched by adoption or not, whether you’re a birth mom or an adoptive mom or an adoptee or an adoption worker… please think of and/or say a little prayer for my friend tonight. Loss is hard. She could use some strength to get through the muck of it.

Whenever I thought I had mastered one emotional issue, another would need to be figured out and/or something new would come up forcing me back to the beginning of the line. It got frustrating. Tedious. In fact, it even got boring. Doing the same healing work over and over again. And over again. But I kept at it. And I’m glad.

I came across this quote which seems to fit the situation well.

Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you already did.
-Newt Gingrich

I’m not quoting him because of who he is, trust me. I’m using the quote because I have found it to be true. At any point last year, I could have given up. I could have thrown my hands in the air and declared the work impossible. I was absolutely tired of getting to a point where I thought I had found some inner peace and just being thrust into another issue that was so out of my realm of experience that I had no clue with how to proceed. Last year was big and scary in so many ways, only further clouded by PPD.

And yet, I kept putting in the work. I went to therapy. I did my therapy homework. I journaled. I wrote. I went for walks. I yelled at God. I cried with God. I talked to my Husband and not just at my Husband. (What? You’ve never talked at your Husband? Surely you jest.) I worked on counting to ten when I received news that threw me for a loop. I learned not to just look at the shoes someone else was wearing but to really try them on for size. I started really working on thinking before I spoke and really asking myself how my words would affect me if they were being spoken at/to me.

And I ended 2008 on a positive note.

That felt good. I felt pretty darn proud of myself. I am not saying that I am completely free of adoption grief and loss issues. I don’t believe I’ll ever reach that point. I will always miss my daughter. But I’m in a good place. Right?

Then I realized that all the work I did last year was absolutely pointless if I don’t keep up the work this year. I got discouraged for a few hours. It is tiring to always be working toward a good place, a healthy place, a place of peace. It’s especially tiring when you realize that even when and if you find that peace, you’re still going to be without something special to you. In this case, of course, it is the Munchkin. I got kind of down for a little while.

And then I remembered that the negative outlook never achieved anything worth keeping. And I lifted my chin and went back to work.

I’m not saying I won’t occasionally be angry this year. I’m sure that I will. And I’ll be sad on some days. And overwhelmed. And grief-stricken. And caught off guard. But I’ll do so with the realization that I’m doing these things not just for me but for my children, all of them. To be the best birth mother and mother possible, I have to keep working on myself. Ignoring the issues didn’t solve them. Being negative about the issues didn’t solve them. Being positive, even, doesn’t solve them. But the attitude makes all the difference.

That’s how I’m continuing to work through all of this. And it feels good to say so.

And, once again, I have no idea what to get my daughter.

I hate this helpless, clueless feeling. Shouldn’t I know more about what she likes? And I have the advantage! I do know things that she likes. But as I walk down aisles, or, more realistically, click through the internet, I am both overwhelmed and uninspired by the choices available. Would she like what I think she would like? Will she think it is stupid and, therefore by association, think I am stupid? Will I ever choose the right thing?

All of this self-doubt tied into the process of gift-giving gives me a headache. And ticks me off. I love to give gifts! I delight in searching for the right present. And watching their eyes light up when I’ve hit the jackpot. And maybe that’s the problem. I know, again, that I won’t be seeing her eyes light up when she opens these presents. And while I still hope her eyes light up, it hurts. Having that taken away from me, that visual confirmation of receipt of gift, well, in a word, sucks. It’s one of my least favorite parts of adoption, I do think.

I should feel grateful, of course, that I even get to send my daughter gifts. I’m sure people are reading these words and shrugging them off. But still. I know you know that look in your child’s eyes. I know you’ve seen the glee on their face and felt proud that you put it there, that you were involved in that process.

I just miss it.

Anyway, I’m still clueless. If you were a five year old girl who was the most awesome five year old girl in the world, what would you want for your birthday?

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I first stopped at the store and picked up some presents. Why didn’t I already have them purchased? My best friend is a goofus face and didn’t find out the gender! So, I just started throwing things in my buggy. I wanted to buy one of everything for the new arrival. (And a few matching things for my youngest! Cute clothes for boys this season!)

Then I left the store for the Hospital.

And it hit me.

This was the hospital where I delivered the Munchkin. This was the hospital where said best friend stood by my side. And suddenly, I was awash with memories I haven’t had need nor desire to remember in almost five years. As I drove up the last hill to the hospital, I could barely breathe. And there it was. Nothing had changed but the name.

I parked. I realized as I walked into the hospital that I parked at the same angle from the front door as my Dad had the day that I let go of the Munchkin and walked, blinded by tears, out to his truck. As I began the walk down the very, very long hallway (as maternity is the farthest possible destination from the front door), I could see myself being wheeled in the opposite direction holding on to the Munchkin in her little white outfit. The nurse was talking. I felt numb but I kept walking towards the elevator.

And suddenly I was on the maternity floor. I could hear my heart beating. I walked past the nurses desk and remembered shuffling down the hall with my Mom on the one occasion that we walked to the nursery. I remember their pity-laden glances. I remember shooting daggers with my eyes at the one nurse who had been unkind. My slippers were pink and fuzzy. My slippers are always pink and fuzzy even though my new favorite color is green.

I had been hoping, the whole way down, that my best friend: a) wasn’t in the maternity room that I had been in and b) wasn’t on the same side of the hallway. I scored one point as she was two doors down from the room I had spent two days as someone’s mother but I lost in the end. Her room was on the same side of the hallway, and, to boot, it was set up in the same way. Bed on the left side of the room, chairs on the right side. The wallpaper was the same. The clock hung on the wall in the same place. The rocking chair was in the same place next to the bed. It was all so very, very strange.

Thankfully, I was able to concentrate on my best friend for awhile as she struggled with the help of the nurse to get the new baby to latch properly. I gave some helpful tips and helped adjust things as needed. I cleaned out some bottles after she pumped. I held the baby. We talked. She vented about some things as all mothers need to do after labor, delivery, hospital and family experiences. I oohed and ahhed over this new beautiful creature.

But, throughout the process, I kept making the mistake of sitting in the rocking chair next to the bed. Every time I did, all I could see was TheHusbandMan sitting in the same chair. I remember what he was wearing, head freshly shaven for an Army weekend which he had driven away from and had to return by morning. I can see him. So clearly. His heart just as broken as mine. The chair was like ice and fire at the same time. Every time I sat down, I felt physical pain. So very strange.

I didn’t stay too long. Anyone who has ever delivered a baby and then had to live in a small space for three days while people invade it and touch your child with grimy hands and ask uber-personal questions about your crotch and other parts knows when the welcome has worn out. As other family members showed up to visit the newly formed family, I hugged my best friend. I fought back tears for so many reasons.

I am so very happy for both her and her husband. They will be outstanding parents. She was born to be a mother. And watching her husband handle the baby like it was old hat was heart-warming; he’ll be a dad like my own husband, hands-on and loving with a touch of humor to boot. And tears for other reasons. It was so very strange to have roles reversed at that bed-side and situations totally changed and different. This was a joyous occasion as opposed to the one five years ago. My best friend was a mother and she got to keep her title but so very different was the hug goodbye five years ago. So very different.

As I left and walked down the hallway, instead of being wheeled out, I tried to leave the memories behind again. I tried to hang them on the coat rack near the front door. I tried to trap them in the front door. But as I headed towards my own truck, at the same angle from the front door as that walk years ago, they followed me. They’re haunting me today. And I don’t want to or need to deal with them right now. I need to be a mother to my children, a wife to my husband and a friend to my friend(s). I don’t need this. I don’t want this.

Who thinks that I can convince her to have future children at a different hospital? Or my sister-in-law-to-be to deliver future babies in Pittsburgh as opposed to that hospital? Or maybe I should just stay home.

I had no idea this would be such a challenge. I never have any idea what will smack me in the face, what will trigger me. I fly by the seat of my pants with this healing thing and sometimes I crash land in the trees, never fully making it to the ground, caught like a kite that got away from its owner’s hand on a windy day. I’m just trying to make my way through this messy journey of healing. Pardon me while I try to climb out of this tree. I didn’t know this would happen.

Everything over here is blue. There are wisps of pink as Easter is associated with the Spring color palette. But everything is predominately blue. I like blue. (Though I’m wondering why I don’t go with green because it’s my favorite color!)

But there are two pink little gift bags sitting on the steps so we remember to take them to church for BigBrother and LittleBrother’s little girlfriends. They each have pink bunnies, a pink egg and a pink card that BigBrother colored. It’s just a reminder… in my face… a visual representation of what is not present this morning. Or, not what but who.

I’m sure she will have a splendid day. And I’m glad Easter is here so it can be over. Because if I have to walk past one more Easter dress, I am 100% certain my heart will 100% break into a million pieces.

It’s been a hard couple of weeks. I miss my daughter. I pray that her day is as fun as BigBrother’s is seeming thus far.

Perhaps soon I’ll form some more coherent thoughts on this and write a stellar post. But for now, this is my train of thought:

1. Subsequent pregnancies were emotionally triggering for me. I was constantly awash in memories and flashbacks with both pregnancies after placement.

2. I’m very, very hard on myself with relation to my mothering and parenting abilities and I attribute this to the guilt and anger I have with myself regarding placement. This lack of wiggle room for mistakes really leads to a generally depressed state of being.

3. That said, I’m also a pretty awesome mother and that realization often makes me kick myself in the butt.

4. Cuddling little babies, mine or someone else’s, inevitably brings up emotions. And not always warm fuzzy ones.

5. I’m always on super-alert-aware-mode that she’s not here. It’s really never been “this” bad. It could be other stuff going on in my life as well. I don’t know.

All this said, yeah, I’ve got some bummed out feelings that I’m dealing with in private. (Read: with my therapist!) I don’t know if one has caused the other or if they’re just semi-related or not at all. I don’t really have any answers. All I know is that this adjustment has been really, really hard on me. I’ve been left feeling like a failure and I can’t shake that feeling. It has negatively affected my entire life, even things that you wouldn’t think would be touched by either PPD or adoption issues.

I’m thankful for my Husband though. He has been so patient, so encouraging and so loving through all of this muck. Without him… well… let’s not go there today.

I should really form coherent thoughts on the subject. But I think I need to get through it first. And then. Maybe.

A GIRL.

I put off shopping until Saturday morning. I kept making excuses. Some valid. Some not. But finally I couldn’t put it off anymore. It was for the older daughter of the best friend I’ve made in Ohio. We have kids the same age and she’s been wonderful. I couldn’t “NOT” go. And so I got my Mother-in-law to watch the boys and headed to the store.

I’m not good at shopping for girls. Don’t misinterpret that. I can usually pick out something nice for the Munchkin because I know what she likes. But other girls? I know little about what’s cool and what’s not right now. My home is filled with trains and fire trucks. While some girls play with those things, other girls play with dolls and things that are overly Pepto-y pink. And I just don’t know anything about the stuff in those pink aisles other than BigBrother really digs him a kitchen set.

And so, I’m standing in front of the baby dolls, trying to make a decision. And my breathing gets short. And suddenly there is an elephant sitting on my chest. I’m looking at all of these dolls, momentarily peeved that they only have three dolls of any color in the entire aisle, and I’m just overwhelmed with anxiety, fear and emotion. My logical mind knew to calm down, that I was lucky to be in my daughter’s life. The not-so-logical part of my brain freaked out.

I was overwhelmed with pink. And doll babies. And girliness that I could have had a chance to have in my life on a daily basis but now don’t. I got mad. I got sad. I got all kinds of weirded out. Right there in front of the baby dolls. I ended up picking out one appropriate for a two year old but still somewhat fun and made my way out of the store. I had other things to buy but I forgot. I was too caught up in the emotion.

The party, however, went decently. It was too busy for me to really think about much more than keeping BigBrother’s hands out of the cupcakes and how to feed LittleBrother without showing the whole family my entire breast.

From now on, I’m sending TheHusbandMan to shop for girls’ birthdays. Either that or I’m just buying them all trains.

The “Angel Choir,” which is your typical little kids choir, presented their Christmas program this morning during service. And I sobbed. To be honest, Christmas music never fails to make me kind of weepy in the first place. But this year it was more than that.

Because she should have been up there, too.  She’s finally the age where she could have participated. She would have been singing. And dancing. And wearing an angel costume. And loving the heck out of it. And I would have been so proud. I would have been up with the other Mamas, clutching my camera and just beaming back at her. I would have given her a big hug afterwards and told her how proud I was of her.

But it didn’t happen like that. And it won’t happen like that.

The kids’ program didn’t make me weepy like this last year because, at our church, she would have been too young to participate. But this year, her first “of age” year, it just smacked me in the face.

She would have been the cutest one up there, of course. And most talented.

Alas.