frankly my dear

My wish for you, my children, is to always give a f*ck.

That's not very profound. Maybe it's a little hostile. Mostly it's honest.

Please care. Please care when there are people hurting, bleeding, crying. Please look past your own privilege and care about those whose voices aren't able to sing as loudly and freely as yours. Never turn the other cheek. Give a damn even when people tell you there's no point, even when the peer pressure of apathy is enticing and feels somewhat contagious on particularly overwhelming days that feel futile at best. Fight only hate and injustice, and do so with love.

Care.

Even if it is not you being belittled on the playground, even if it is not you being taunted in a crowded high school hallway. Even if it is not the color of your skin or your culture or your beliefs being used against you, care. Stand up for those who are being knocked down. Help them up. Even if it feels like you're merely a crumb, a fleck of dust in the big scheme of life, stay strong. Stay true. Never stop extending your arms to embrace others who are in desperate and dire need of support. Be a crutch for those who have stumbled and know that we all falter at some point.

Shout your politics. Don't be ashamed of your brain and your conscience and your conviction. These are attributes worth sharing. Let the bigots and oppressors know that you are stronger than you look. Even when you feel weak. Even when you feel like the good guys are being swept under a current of xenophobia and fear.

Never give up. Never underestimate your potential, your kindness, your worthiness in this life.

And give a f*ck.

Always.

the p word.

This morning, I made us appointments to tour four preschools over the next four weeks. I had a lump in my throat with each call because I'm not ready now, and I think it's fair to assume I won't be ready by the fall when it's time. Time. Where does it go and how, how, how does it manage to go by so quickly?

We made the decision to redshirt Ethan -- or keep him back a year, due to his summer birthday -- and although we knew then it was the right decision, this extra year at home with him has confirmed we made the right choice. You see, there is so much in life that is out of your hands and that doesn't go right. We had planned Wylie's conception when we did to fulfill my wishes to have two children at home at the same time. This was something that I'd always felt like I missed as someone who was about to begin middle school at the time my only sibling was born. Life sort of veered off in it's own way and as things spiraled out of control, I had to also mourn the loss of having two children home together at the same time before the school years kicked in. For a while, I made peace with that. When I made those four phone calls, I felt the sad tugging at my heart.

It is my wish to use Ethan's Pre-K year as one of transition. I am not at all concerned with Ethan's academic progress, nor am I really concerned with his social progress. Over the past few months, he has blossomed into the boy who follows all of the children around the playground asking if they want to be his friend. We are considering two mornings a week, though I'm open to discussing three mornings if it's something Ethan feels he wants to do, to warm him up to what Kindergarten will eventually entail. Kindergarten. We purchased our home a year before we were married because of the zoned schools and our high hopes and aspirations for our future children and, now, here we are. Just about there. Where does the time go?

I remember reading a quote once that was something along the lines of never regretting the time you spend with your children. I feel that in every ounce of my bones these days. I always have, but now I feel it so much stronger. I know within the depths of my soul that I've appreciated every minute of having my beautiful boy by my side at every second of every day. My partner in everything I do. We're talking six hours a week total and, yet, the thought of his hands not tugging on my shirt or burying themselves in my hair when he's nervous terrifies me. It saddens me. While I know -- and, unfortunately for myself, from a perspective many others cannot comprehend -- how lucky I am to see him grow up, I am still a little sad today.

Ethan, on the other hand, is eager to tour the preschools and asked if he could wear his backpack for practice. Earlier today my husband and I noted how Ethan's days of abstract scribbling have been replaced by intricate detailed drawings -- often with written titles -- and I'm feeling like the ins and outs of the tides of life have run me a little ragged today.

How did we get here already?

bringing home baby j: the adoption saga, update 1

I was asked on Instagram if I would provide details of our adoption progress, which I haven't done. (I haven't posted much of anything lately, which I need to rectify!)

I haven't provided details because I felt like there was nothing to report, but I guess that those small and seemingly insignificant details? Well, they count, too. While the physical progress has felt slow, especially to us impatient people desperate to bring our baby home, adoption has consumed our family. All Ethan talks about is his future "little baby brother or sister" and, admittedly, it's all that my husband and I think about, too. If I had to describe the mood around here, it would be that we all know there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and now we're just on the long, meandering path -- but the right path -- to reach it.

So far, we have selected an agency. We have decided on a domestic adoption agency based just an hour south from where we live. We received the abundance of paperwork and are chugging through it while simultaneously getting our house baby-proofed all over again and preparing for the arrival of a little one. Today in particular, we picked paint samples for the baby's room and picked up a good conduct report from our local police department, which is part of the required documentation we need to submit with the rest of the paperwork. (I also had to send away for copies of our marriage license and my birth certificate because, well, organization isn't my strongest quality. However, this entire process sure has been a lesson in organization and I'm getting there.) Our next step will be to submit the paperwork and necessary documents with payment to begin our home study (which takes around two to three months to complete) and officially become active with the agency.

Unfortunately, adoption is expensive, and this has been our biggest hang up. We are feverishly saving and have thrown pride to the wind to create a GoFundMe page that many of our loved ones have generously contributed to. I'm trying to organize whatever fundraisers I can while my husband looks into our different loan options.

Most recently, we began our online adoption certification courses, which are required prior to becoming active with the agency. We began things with a transracial adoption course which was pretty enlightening. I especially loved the tips on how to deal with rude questions and comments from strangers and the various approaches that you can take. We just received our certificate for the class yesterday that stated we passed, which seems silly but is really exciting. One more milestone to check off the long list!

Oh, and I bought a cloth diaper.

I mean, mixtapes. Was I supposed to be able to resist?

In all seriousness, we are saturated in excitement and impatience, but in the best way. There is an aura around our family -- hope, I'm guessing -- that has begun to shine again. Right now, we are busy loving a child who we don't know yet with all of our hearts. And we're busy waiting, too. You never realize just how busy waiting can make you until you begin the adoption process.

I promise to update more, both on the adoption front and in general. Life lately has been so busy and exhausting and full and consuming and, at the end of the day, my energy has tapered off beyond the point of feeling comfortable posting. The thing is, when I'm not writing, I'm not as much myself as I could (and should) be, so I'll add that to my long list of resolutions.

somewhere over the rainbow: announcing our adoption journey

Yesterday, I took to social media to announce the secret that's been swirling around our little family. It's hard to keep your mouth shut when, for the first time in so long, your heart feels like it's about to burst -- in a good way.

When we lost Wylie in May of 2014, I begged my doctor to tie my tubes. I was finished. There was no part of pregnancy I wanted back. We decided not to tie my tubes. It was an emotional plea that didn't lend itself kindly to the fact we wanted another child, eventually. We made the momentous decision to try to conceive again in November of 2014. My body likely wasn't healed yet, and neither were our emotions, but I was numb to much else other than I wanted to fast forward through the next nine months and start breathing again once my baby was in my arms, alive and with a heart that beat so perfectly and strong. Both Ethan and Wylie were "first try babies" as I jokingly referred to them as in the days when pregnancy wasn't comparable to a knife fight. All I had to do, of course, was sneeze and find myself pregnant a couple of weeks later when I would smugly watch the second pink line pop up on the test. However, that didn't happen this time. As each month passed, I grew more convinced that something was wrong. I can tell you with great certainty that "are you going to try again?" hurts when you've lost a baby and then being asked once you're grappling with infertility, well, it's like acid being poured onto your wound. We began to seek treatment from a reproductive endocrinologist who performed every test in the book on myself and my husband. Though it could be perceived as good news, the reports that nothing was wrong with either of us felt more like bad news. We started seeking assistance from fertility drugs -- pills and shots and suppositories and supplements -- that began to make me feel like a swollen basketcase who was either doubled over in abdominal pain or crashing into bed over the sheer hopelessness of my life. With each negative test at the end of the month, I found myself questioning my ability to keep going on. And, yet, there was the disgust I carried at the mere thought of being pregnant again. I didn't want to be pregnant again and, yet, I wanted it with every fiber of my being.

When the infertility drugs failed, we were left with a lot of thinking to do. At this point, it had been a year of unsuccessfully trying to conceive with nothing whatsoever wrong with me. I was tired. I was tired of being bloated, achy, swollen, sore and miserable. I was tired of canceling plans with Ethan and his friends to rush to a doctor's appointment. I was tired of wanting to punch someone in the face when they said they were excited for me to be trying to conceive again -- as if anything is exciting about pregnancy. I didn't want to be pregnant. But I wanted my baby.

My husband and I decided immediately we were done. We wanted to adopt. We had always spoken of adoption in the past, but as a fairytale-type of wish, want, dream that didn't feel appropriate discussing just yet. The timing, however, was now. And the timing was very right. I wanted no part of invasive, painful tests. I wanted no part of forcing my body to do something that I didn't entirely want it to do (and, yet, wanted it to do more than anything). We spoke the word "adoption" and suddenly the rain cloud over our house floated away and the sun came out and I was smiling and meaning it. Adoption. We spoke the word and we already so very much loved the baby who we didn't even know yet.

We've selected a local agency to work with and we've begun dreaming again. This adoption journey is going to be a long one. It isn't going to be easy, by any means, but it's going to be worth it. There's a prize at the end of the journey now, a light at the end of the tunnel, a feeling of peace after learning to survive with uneasiness forever cramped into my stomach.

I wanted to document this journey here, too. We are eager for this adventure to unfold and to meet the baby who is the missing piece that completes our family.

We love him or her so much already.

hatched from your heart.

Ethan is sick. Croup, ear infections, nasty respiratory virus -- you name it, he seems to have contracted it (but, thankfully, after Halloween was over and gone). We've been spending most of the week laying on the couch immersed in Daniel Tiger or making Christmas ornaments to lift our spirits (and pretend it's not 100 degrees outside). Yesterday, Ethan laid his hand on my stomach, feeling the ridges of stretch marks and soft skin.

"Mommy? Why do you have wrinkles in your belly?"

"Well, buddy, those are called stretch marks. They are from you and baby Wylie being in mommy's tummy."

"Do you like having wrinkles in your belly?"

"Yes, I do. I love them. Whenever I see them, I remember carrying you in my tummy and how lucky I am to have you."

"But daddy doesn't have wrinkles in his belly and he loves me, too."

"That's true. But you were in mommy's tummy, so I have the stretch marks."

He thought about it for a few seconds, silently and intently.

"But mommy, you can still love someone even if they weren't in your belly. Sometimes babies come from your heart, not just your tummy."

I felt the tears start to sting behind my eyes. How does he always know so much of what the adult world cannot see?

"Yes, baby. That's so true. A family is who loves you, and families are made all different kinds of ways."

"Yes, mommy. I came from your tummy but sometimes other babies are hatched from someones heart. And mommy? Then maybe we all just get wrinkles on our hearts."