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Tuesday, September 15, 2009

First post on this new blog

Have you ever woken up in the morning and wondered how you became a grown up? I think I'm a grown up now. I mean, there are 5 rug rats running around here. I cook food, wipe bums, kiss ow-ees, fasten seat belts, unfasten seat belts...fasten seat belts, unfasten seat belts...I brush hair, brush teeth, brush the toilet (with a toilet brush, of course!), and brush off minor complaints from small ones tugging on my shirt. I think that makes me a grown up. Right?

I remember one starry night when I was 6 or 7 years old, sitting on the porch of the house I grew up in. I didn't like the way my life was going...not one bit. I wanted someone to swoop down, rescue me from what I thought was a pitiful existence, and plant me in that perfect family. You know--the one that had two loving parents that would dote on me, opportunities laid out before me, hugs and kisses abounding, and more money than we would know what to do with so we could travel to exotic places walking hand-in-hand along white sandy beaches. That family. Alas, I knew it was not going to happen. So, I promised myself that I would one day rescue someone else. I don't think I planned on giving them white sandy beaches, but the love and kisses I thought I could do.

Fast forward about 20 years. My husband, my soul mate, the man I truly call my best friend, and I decide we're ready to change our lives. We have a kid...Mr. C. You know, the "old fashioned" way. We're happy. We're content. We are filled with awe and wonder at this little creature the Lord has planted in our home. But soon we know we are meant for more. We know there is someone out there waiting for us to find him.

When Mr. C is just 6 months old, we start the process of foster-adoption. We do classes, fill out paperwork, jump through hoops and whine about how much red tape is involved in helping a child who is waiting for a home. Right before Mr. C's first birthday, we get matched with a chubby (and I mean CHUBBY) little black boy (that's right--I did say "black." I realize that "African-American" is politically correct, but this boy is darn proud of being called a Godly Black Man!) He was almost 6 months old at the time. His name starts with a J, and will thus be called "J-Man" on this blog. We're happy. We're content. We're done having kids (ha! so we think...) and are ready to start our life as a family of four.

A few years go by, we move a couple times, and finally settle in a cute little house in a cute little town. 1300 square feet is plenty of room for our {complete} family. We're enjoying life as our kids get a little older and more self-sufficient. But, alas, once again the Lord has other plans for us, and before we know it, we're re-doing the classes, the paperwork and all the red tape that we did before so we can add to our family yet again. After about 7 months, we're matched with a boy and a girl, M and N, ages 3 and 1. And soon, our calm, collected lives become more chaotic and enriching. Soon after the kids are placed with us, we find out birth mom is pregnant...surprise! #5 is on the way! Seven months later, little G graces us with her presence at just 6 weeks old.

And we are, almost 9 months later. Mr. C is now 6, J-Man is 5, M is 4, N is 2 and G is 10 months old. Silence is not a regular attender of our household activities. However, I wouldn't trade in the craziness of it all for anything.

So, such is the story of how we got where we are. I've been feeling as of late that it's time to start chronicling life as an adoptive mom...the joys, the trials, and the humor. So, dust off that seat, get those old french fries out of the cracks, and strap on your seat belt (if you can get it in past the sticky mess that's in the belt buckle)! You're in for a wild ride...


Anonymous said...

Shanti--what wonderful words you write about your precious family. You express yourself well and it's a joy to read about how you and C-man:) have rescued these children. I'm proud of how you have raised yourself above some of your childhood sorrow! Love ya, Karen R.

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