Sometimes when I write, I share the marital funny with you.
Sometimes when I write, I share the pee-laced mess.
Sometimes when I write, I ponder the thick, humid exhaustion we mamas breathe.
And sometimes when I write, I confess my guilt for not being at my mama best when we adopted our toddlers.
You and I just never know what’s gonna show up in a life full of kids, do we?
The truth is, when I write about the reality of parenting, there are times I accidentally break open my chest and my heart falls out, and I remember those stories the most because they come from the deepest place of mama fear and mama love. Kids, you guys; they make us lose our minds and find our hearts and consider it a worthy trade.
Once upon a time, I wrote a post about adoption and the Real Mom, and I exposed my soul in all its brokenness and tiny bit of beauty. Today, Jamie Lynne of I Am Not The Babysitter blog fame is rerunning that post, “On Being Made Real,” in its entirety. Jamie’s on a trip to Ethiopia to visit her son’s birthmom. I have no doubt both moms’ hearts will fall out. Would you join me in wishing them peace as they join in the grand adventure of longing and loss and love?
And thank YOU for being part of my grand adventure, too. And for joining your lives to mine here.
On Being Made Real
“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day.
When you’re 9 years old and a girl, I suppose being an emotional wreck is to be expected.
When you’re 37 years old and girl, I suppose being an emotional wreck is to be expected.
But sometimes, it’s hard to know which 9-year-old wrecks are I Stubbed My Toe And That’s A Great Excuse To Let Go Of The Emotional Mess Smouldering Inside Me,
and which wrecks are Real.
Yeah, yeah. I know they’re all real. But the Real real ones are those that will haunt my daughter into adulthood. The ones that have Serious Potential for me the mama to Screw Up.
The other night, my Aden missed her birthmom. Aden and Ian share a birthmom, so it was a natural conversation for the three of us to have together, and soon Ian was snuggled up, all ears. There I sat, on the ground in the hallway next to the piles and piles of dirty laundry, with two kids missing their birthmom and asking questions.