You're Invited To My Clink Party

Thank you so much for coming! Here, let me take your coat. Feel free to warm up by the fire. Help yourself to some coffee and hot cocoa in the kitchen. Do grab a plate of yummy cake and cookies on your way by. 

Now that your body is warm and your belly is happy, let's get this party started!

Let's raise our mugs of deliciousness, and toast to the interwebs!

Clink*

Hey! Speaking of interwebs and clinks, I'm starting a trend. Instead of wasting valuable time and energy saying "Click the link", I'm coining the phrase "Clink". So, welcome to my very first Clink Party! I'm so glad you came. Refill anyone?

This Clink Party is held in honor of National Orphan Awareness Month, which just so happens to be going on right now. Last November, I wrote several posts on this topic, and instead of reinventing the wheel, I'm linking my posts below (along with a few other posts dedicated to adoption).

So...

Clink.

Our Journey to Sophia (Part One and Part Two)
Two Year Ruminations
Good Arms Are Still Wrong Arms

Grab a warmer from the coffee pot.

Perspective Shift
The Day My Heart Broke

Those ones are tough. Stop for now. The links aren't going anywhere. Digest. Pray. Weep. Seek.

Loving Whales and Orphans
A World Without Orphans: A Picture of Hope

We are the hope. May it spur us to action beyond ourselves.

Obstacles
What Can You Do?

And for a little silliness: Oh The Things People Say and Oh The Things I Want To Say**

I'm so glad you stayed! Before I walk you to the door, will you please accept a small party favor?

Blessings,

Cynthia




*Although...I have a feeling that filled mugs make more of a clank sound when used for a toast. 
**Alright, fine! I've said some of them. Most of them. 

Write Over The Wrong

I may or may not have just hugged my oldest a smidge too tightly and a moment longer than usual as I fought back tears. What the heck?!?

It's November.

And I'm a wee bit wrecked.

I can see you're a teensy bit lost.

Last November, I chalked it up to her and my Adoption Awareness Month blogging series. I'm nothing if not consistent. Apparently. November, 2013 rolled around and I am, yet again, blindsided by nostalgia. I've not written in a while and my brain is bursting at the seams with words needing a place to call "home". I'm at risk of emotionally vomiting all over you. I'll choke it down, but you might want to grab a bucket, just in case.

A year has flown by. An. Entire. Year.

Our oldest is a determined soul. This month the CEO set her sights upon turning ten. And she did it. The nerve. To the mother of a 20-something, 40, 50, 70-something, "ten" is merely a cute lil' drop in the bucket. But to this mama...oh for the love. Must she? We celebrated her entry into double digits by giving her a weapon. Aren't we such saps? 

Our youngest is much like the CEO. Eerily similar. As in, a thick slab of déjà vu wrapped in "been there, done that" paper. Ergo, it stands to reason that she would also possess a lot of nerve. Enough nerve to turn one year old in another week. Goodbye baby, hello toddler! Allow me a tiny pity party, m'kay? Could you please pass the cheese to go with my whine.*

The other night all of this collided in my tired brain (Stick with me. I promise this is going somewhere). Jubilee was a basket-case, and couldn't fall asleep (hello shades of Mikayla). As I sat there rocking her, I watched her cycle through the I-want-to-sleep, relax, no-I-don't, stiffen, sit-up-and-scream routine. Charming. However, every time she relaxed, she melted into my arms and we connected. Because she's mine. I considered each of my children, and despite the one in my lap screaming (and the memories of a certain sister doing the same), my heart was held fast by a different daughter; One whose story is the broken story of millions of others. 

Months old, and unable to fall asleep. There are no mother's arms; Just the chilled bars of a crib. Cries may eventually be met with arms, but they are all wrong. Overnight, so much became wrong, and it only got more wrong from there. Wrong arms, wrong sounds, wrong words, wrong faces. Then, more wrongs until nothing was right anymore. Wrong scents, wrong tastes, more wrong faces, wrong world. And even though these faces smile with tears coursing down pale cheeks, and hug me tenderly, they're...wrong. 

Turning ten, turning one. Both of those daughters have never known the wrong arms.** Some days they resist them, but they have always been right. For Sophia, my arms are good. They are reliable, trustworthy, safe, satisfactory. But they may never be right. Much like the scream-relax-scream-relax bedtime routine, there are stretches of time where stiffening the heart feels so much safer. And then there are the precious moments of connectedness, where a little chocolate girl rests in my arms. Trusting me with her heart, secure in the knowledge that she is, indeed, mine. I will store up those moments to replay on the days of depletion, where wrongness fights for center stage. 

Dear friends, I love my family. I love how adoption is woven in the tapestry of our lives. However, it is crucial that we acknowledge a very real part of adoption; That every, every, every adoption story is wrought with sorrow and wrongness. The prologue is often painful and fearful. Chapter One begins with grief and deep wounds. For many families, the chapters of mourning drag on and the plot weighs heavily on their shoulders. For others, sunny prose is just around the corner. 

For 147 million children, the story has yet to be written; There is only a dreadful prologue, and no one pressing pen to paper. No one embracing them to witness a mighty story unfurl. Don't skip to the ending of someone else's book. Pick up a blank volume and write over the wrong. 

What will your story be?

Cynthia



*Did somebody mention wine? I'll take a glass of Riesling, thanks.
**Just for the record, neither has the seven year old.

Ta-Tas and The Pink Ribbon

I don't support the pink ribbon.

There. I said it. 

Here's what I support: I support the women who get the dreaded disease. I support their families. I'll bring meals. I'll make blankets for when the chemotherapy treatment makes a woman cold to the bone. I'll run kids to school. I'll do your laundry or clean your toilets. I'll hold the bucket while you hurl. I'll wear holes in the knees of my best jeans praying for you. I'll weep when you weep and rejoice when you rejoice. 

But I will not buy a pink box of cereal just because ten cents of the proceeds go to an ambiguous "research and awareness" campaign. 

I also support cancer research and awareness. I truly do. As ridiculous as it sounds, I can actually send a check straight to research centers. No pink tea towel necessary. Crazy, right? The awareness has now been raised. Everyone knows October is Pink Month. But are more women checking the ta-tas every month because of it? I'm not so sure. True awareness looks messier. It's clinics having hard talks with women. It's doctors donating their time to educate low-income women. It's girls' P.E. and Health teachers talking with their classes about it. It's moms giving laughably awkward demonstrations for their daughters before they even have anything to examine. It's dads yelling at their girls to not carry cell phones in their unmentionables unless they want their phone taken away. 

That is awareness. 

Buy the Pink if it floats your boat. Let's just remember that bracelets don't result in early detection unless the wearer actually takes the steps. 

Off To Chat With My Daughters,
Cynthia

The Great Pumpkin And Other Tribulations

Is it just me, or are things getting more complicated? I'm not talking about the "Life is hard now that I'm a responsible adult" kind of complications. I'm talking about trapping the simple in a web of expectations. Every major holiday reeks of it. 

And the "biggies" are upon us. Dun-dun-DUUUUUUUUUUUN!

Remember when carving pumpkins meant grabbing a sharpie marker, the biggest butcher knife in the drawer and praying to 7 lb. baby Jesus you wouldn't hit an artery? Now even the laid back carvers have a carving kit. Meanwhile, the die-hards are whipping up pumpkins with crackle finishes, bedazzling that baby, and dipping it in a homemade concoction to preserve it for a millennium. Never mind that it's sitting outside for days, slowly stewing to an unattractive, moldy, shrivel from the heat of whatever candle I can find in the junk closet drawer.  

As a kid, my parents didn't do the Elf on the Shelf, but I would bet my last dollar that if we had, that sucker would have stayed put. On. The. Shelf. But now that imp is expected to be all over the place, wasting toothpaste, leaving chocolate chip bowel movements on the kitchen counter, eating miniature doughnuts made out of Cheerioscoveredinicingwithsprinklesontop, what?!? Thank you Pinterest. There is a reason I can't be trusted to manage an Elf on the Shelf. By approximately December 3rd, I would resent his very presence and daily demand to be posed somewhere new and witty that no other kids' parents have thought of yet. I. Just. Can't. By Christmas it would escalate to the "death therapy" scene straight out of What About Bob. Maniacal laughter and all.*

We tout the virtues of simplicity, all the while piling more fancy-ness onto our paint-it-yourself pottery plate. And when I'm finished gorging on that course, I'm going to embellish my toilet paper with biodegradable embroidery floss.** Now (cleansing breath, folks), repeat after me: Pinterest is not the Devil. I promise my beef is not with a website. Scout's honor. Lots of magical ideas abound on the interwebs. However, along with genius crafts, there are unrealistic expectations lurking behind elaborate centerpieces and warm, fuzzy Advent activities (which, let's be honest, most kids would equate with torture worse than dentists or extra math homework, or dentists who prescribe extra math homework).

We are at risk of white-washing the beauty of true simplicity. 

If you want to throw your pumpkin in fishnet stockings or decoupage leaves on the thing, go for it. If you want to go at it with a hatchet, by all means, don't let me stop you.*** If we carve intricate details, let us simply enjoy the process of trying something new together. If it brings great delight to you and yours to create Elf on the Shelf mishaps, knock yourself out. If that rascally imp is misplaced by December 9th, just whatever. He needs a time-out anyway. 

Whatever your druthers, let the simple joy of the season be enough. This month, let the simple beauty of changing seasons be enough. Next month, let simple thankfulness be enough. In December, let a simple manger be Enough. Everything else is just the cherry on top; Enjoyable, but forgettable. After all, we don't order a hot fudge sundae just to score a maraschino cherry.****  


Blessings,
Cynthia

*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPpJ37LsYtI For anyone who cares.
**First person to actually accomplish this and send me a picture gets a dollar. And bathroom cred. And bragging...rights...?
***You are, after all, the one holding a hatchet.
****If you do, yer doin' it wrong. And also, I'll be sitting next to you at all future all ice-cream socials.

Sacred Intersections

Our lives are always intersecting with others. Sometimes these intersections are insignificant. I take my receipt and we both offer a shallow "Have a nice day." Other intersections leave us hot under the collar or walking with a lighter step. Still others leave an indelible mark, for which we are grateful. 

This is one such intersection. 

The difference of one week and we never would have met. Our eyes would never have connected along the bumpy roads of Addis Ababa as we took in the tragic beauty surrounding our crowded van. We would never have shared stories over bottled Cokes, or stifled tears outside the depressing walls of an orphanage. 

We brought our children home and began the journey of attaching and bonding, comparing notes along the way. We struggled apart in a together kind of way. There is something tenacious in the adoption community that cannot be diminished by the miles separating us. We are drawn to one another and to living a weird life. 

You stepped out in trembling faith to adopt a special needs boy. As if that were not enough, a street boy had approached us, begging us to be his mom and dad. You did what I (and countless others) had deemed "impossible" in order to assuage our guilt. You now call him "Son", and he truly is.  The handwriting was on the wall; You were destined for the extraordinary, despite yourselves. You, again, find your family on the precipice of something altogether faith-filled and utterly gut-wrenching. And I stand with you, linking arms, humbled to call you "friend", and burdened as you fight the anxiousness of the unknown. 

My dear readers, the words I write here are quickly forgotten, but the work of Tiffany and her family is of eternal significance. Please, please, PLEASE go see what they're about. Then decide how you can encourage them. 

Blessings,

Cynthia

Dear Homeschooling Dropout

There are homeschoolers and then there are homeshoolers. 

Homeschoolers may only do this gig for a season. They dive into this adventure knowing there are scenarios in which their children may, at some point, resurface and tread the halls of public schools. They are cut from the same cloth as the Virtual Academy type, who, for one reason or another, access public school from their living room computer. 
They keep a loose grip on homeschooling.

Homeschoolers are in this for the long haul and would never, I repeat NEVER, place their children in public school. Private or charter schools, maybe. If it became absolutely necessary. 
They are the die-hards.

I'm here to condemn neither one. 

In recent history I've known several homeschooling families who have made the decision to place one or more of their children in public school. The conversations I've had with these friends have been guarded. Cautious. As though they are accustomed to donning a veil of defensiveness. There is weariness in their voice and wariness in their eyes as they explain themselves to yet another well-meaning (albeit nosy) friend. 


Dear Homeschooling Drop-Out,

There is no condemnation here. This is a safe harbor in which to drop anchor. It’s not the first difficult decision you've made for those munchkins, and it is most assuredly not the last. Perhaps you feel the palpable weight of guilt. Perhaps you were blindsided with the newsflash that you were homeschoolers when all along you've considered yourselves homeschoolers. It stinks to eat crow, but we all find ourselves in front of that dinner plate from time to time.* Hear me, you have not failed. You've wisely dropped out somewhere in order to drop in some place better.** The decision to cease homeschooling is of no less importance than the decision to begin thus in the first place. You've arrived at this conclusion after much deliberation. So, release the “I told you so.” and the “What a shame.” crowds and embrace the “Come to the PTA meeting. We have cookies.” crowd. 



Dear Homeschoolers and Homeschoolers,

Let us deal graciously with one another as well as our friends who have chosen for their families, a different educational path than we have. We are not superior. Although we have a strong tendency to appear as such in the presence of dear friends who (coincidentally) love their children no less than we do ours.*** When a friend makes The Announcement we needn't dig out the sackcloth and ashes. No weeping and wailing necessary. Really. In lieu of facing off with our local Public School Convert (or worse yet, shaming them), may we be known to infuse grace into every syllable we utter. For, are we not all in this together?



Sincerely,
This Homeschooling Mom (who needs to practice what she preaches...)



*I have found the best method is to just start chewing and then wash it all down with wine mercy.
**Better for your student. Better for your family. Better for your sanity...
***What a concept.

How To Have A Ridiculous Vacation Part III (Seriously?!?)

And now for the completion of your ridiculous vacation, I present to you these final nuggets of wisdom. If you're just tuning in, start at the painful beginning and slog through it in its entirety like the rest of us had to do.

We last left our family massacring beloved deer, ditching children and strolling along I-25. Let's see what kind of tomfoolery they're up to now.

Step Thirteen: Now that you have a gas can (you know, for emergencies...), fill 'er up and store it in the dancing cargo carrier next to your air mattress. Because if it's going to leak on something, you definitely want it to be on something that will be near your nostrils for eight hours.

Step Fourteen: Do something novel, like go garage sale-ing. Because we all know you can't buy used crap at home. 
P.S. The bowling ball was just too much for you to resist.

Step Fifteen: Decide that (since it's your anniversary), instead of camp fare, you'll eat at a nice sit-down restaurant. A nice romantic dinner for just the two of you. And two kids next to you. Oh and two more at the table behind you, because (apparently) you're a large family and they don't know quite how to seat you all together. No matter. You're confident that your children will not choose this moment to act like ruffians. Good grief. Are they running their spoons across the vertical blinds like old jailbirds? "No you may not put sugar on your spaghetti. Stop licking the chair. Your napkin is not a parachute. You have to go to the bathroom again?"

For Act II of your impromptu dinner show, how about you pinch the baby just as your meal arrives? Because nothing is more entertaining to foreign tourists than watching you eat drippy ravioli, while trying to maintain some dignity as you feed the youngest, whose actions suggest eating under a blanket is pure torture.
And also her foot belongs on your plate.

End with a rousing encore of "Let's go out to the van while Daddy pays the check" in which you will inadvertently activate the car alarm. With horn honking, lights flashing and baby crying you signal in vain through the window to your oblivious, keeper-of-the-keys husband who (though facing you) is tuned into the French table behind him and attempting to figure out if they are still discussing the half-witted, breastfeeding woman who is now waving...at...them...? Uhhh. Bonjour...? Cette Américaine folle...

Aaaand curtain. Oh, did I mention you did this all the while looking like absolute camp ragamuffins in an establishment that uses linen napkins? Just whatever. 

Step Sixteen: Arrive at your campground and flop onto your highly flammable mattress knowing that, through it all, you have been crazy-blessed with a beautiful, messy, ridiculous life and the precious moments over the past three weeks have been balm to your soul and sweet respite for your harried mind. 

And you would do it all again.

***We were so incredibly thrilled to be able to embark on such a memorable and leisurely trip! Every start was a rally and every stop was an adventure. From the sweet fellowship with adoption friends, to shucking corn in the great state of Nebraska. From the gentle rolling hills of Kentucky to the serene wooded lakes of Michigan. From the belly laughs with family to the sorrowful "goodbyes". Each day was filled to the brim with an abiding quiet. A hearty "Thank you" to the many friends and family we were able to see along the way. You made the hours in the van all worthwhile. Much love.***


With A Heart Full of Love and Gratitude,
Cynthia, her Professor and their wacky motley crew