"That's not his story."

Hello again, world. It's been a hot minute...(clears throat) or a couple of years...since I've swung open the doors of our existence to share a word - or 3,000 - about life.

Sometimes when you feel like you're not kicking butt and taking names, you don't really want to type out that the struggle bus has parked in your driveway. Like parked.

But then you learn how to load up three young kids on the struggle bus multiple times a day, adjust where you are going and you realize that everyone pulling up next to you has endured their own bumps and re-calculations in their rides, too.

So here we are now.

2020. The year of the pandemic. The great pause. That time it felt like the world stopped spinning for a bit and all you had was your family and faith.

And somehow...that has been enough.

This year has been rough. It's been raw and brutal and beautiful, all at once. And boy have we had time to reflect.

But to get to the crux of this post, I need to backtrack a bit.

This post is about James, our son who turns five today. Our son who has the best smile on the planet. Our son who adores his sisters. Our son who doesn't care that our skin color doesn't match his. Our son who joined our family through a foster-to-adopt placement. Our son who has been and is continuing to prove that he is an overcomer.

This is about him and a message that I feel so convicted to share that if I continue to keep it within me, I know I'm being disobedient to God.

"That Kind of Special Needs..."

Let me let you in on a little secret when you become certified to become a foster parent/foster-to-adopt: there's a "Special Needs Placement" question that you will be required to answer.

I can't remember the exact wording, but it was something like, "Would you be willing to accept the placement of a child with special needs?"

It's straight-forward and can make you feel pretty selfish when responding.

I can remember our home development worker with the Louisiana Department of Children and Family Services asking me and Matt that question in our certification back in 2014. We had already talked about the profile of a hypothetical child in our future and to be brutally honest, special needs did not fit into that profile. We were expecting our first biological child and the thought of having a child with special medical needs seemed overwhelming.

We explained to our social worker that "we just don't feel like that's our calling" and we couldn't think more highly of the special people willing to intentionally check the special needs box.

She then clarified that special needs also included the "hard-to-place" kids. This included children of any race over the age of five and non-white children over the age of two. That realization took a minute to grasp.

"So an African-American toddler is considered 'special needs' even if there's no medical issue?" I asked.

"That's correct," she responded.

I couldn't believe this label was so defined and used on forms. Matt and I already knew from the certification classes and foster care statistics that African-American children, particularly boys, were less likely to get adopted compared to their white peers, so our hearts were already open to a placement reflecting that need.

"Well, we can do that kind of special needs," Matt and I responded. Box checked, but with the parameters we naively tried to control.

The Beginning with James

Fast forward nearly two years from that day and we were the parents of a one-year-old, had just found out the surprising news we were expecting our second child, and we were on our way to meet our potential son in the foster home he had been in since birth. (Read the blog post related to that experience HERE)

Our first family picture the day we met James.
 Lila, 13 months; James, 10 months; Adeline, 6 weeks in my tummy (March 2016)

When we found out about the baby named JT, he was simply JT.

The first picture we ever saw of James. (November 2015)

He had not been labeled "special needs" by the state (yet). We knew he had some health issues because of his birth mom's drug use while pregnant, but everything had been manageable up to this point.

He had acid reflux, asthma, and positional plagiocephaly (flattened skull), which he was wearing a helmet to help correct. None of these conditions had warranted a special needs classification and his age was still too young to move him to this label based on the age/race criteria.

We connected with this precious, tiny boy and knew God was moving us to adopting him.

JT was moved to our home two weeks before his first birthday and we proudly gave him the name James, after the book of James in the Bible. James would legally be our foster son for a mandatory six-month period before his adoption could be finalized.

Lila's warm welcome to James the day he was brought to our home forever. (May 2016)

The first month was a blur. There were daily nebulizer treatments for his respiratory issues, prepping special bottles of formula for acid reflux, and then the emotional transitions of going from a family of three to four (and being quite pregnant) and for a child who's only known one home to be uprooted from that and put into a home of strangers.

We knew this time would be challenging.

We expected it and we expected it would gradually end after the initial changes.

Still, there are great memories.

James turns ONE! Two weeks after joining our family. (May 2016)

And there are ones that I'm sharing outside of our circle of family/friends and medical specialists for the first time, because I wish I could have read what I'm writing when we were in the pit of despair, emotionally and physically tapped out - and clinging to the hope that it would get better. Guess what? It does! But first...

Failure to Thrive

When we began introducing food to James, things went downhill very quickly.

Involuntary muscle contractions when eating. (June 2016)

What started as twitching and muscle stiffening reactions when eating turned into what looked like mini seizures. Vomit almost always followed. And lots of it.

At the worst, James would see me or Matt simply open the utensil drawer and he would projectile vomit. He would throw up 10-20 times a day.

The darkest day for me was on our kitchen floor with James resting his head against my eight-month pregnant belly as I fed him high-calorie Pediasure through a medicine dropper. It took close to an hour to get four ounces of the liquid in him and I had him propped up to help it go down as easily as possible. When I went to stand up after the feeding, James threw it all up. He was soaked. I was soaked - in vomit and tears.

James was tiny when he came to us, but all of the vomiting had led to even more weight loss. We began seeing a nutrition counselor as James fell deeper and deeper into the "failure to thrive" category.

We knew a feeding tube was next if something didn't change...and fast.

Nothing seemed to be working and every call for help landed us on long waiting lists to see a specialist. It is extremely defeating to hear responses like, "We are no longer accepting new patients," after being on hold for way too long.

Or "It sounds like he could benefit from therapy at our clinic. Would you like to get on our waiting list? He would be in position 30..." as in 29 kids before him.

Average length of time to just get seen for an initial consultation: at least six months.

James couldn't wait that long.

Actual hold time with Medicaid representative: over an hour, then the call disconnected in the transfer. 

With the help of our pediatrician, who recognized this as an emergent situation, James was finally able to start getting pushed up the emergency list to see specialists.

Oh, The Specialists You'll See

Over the next several months (that would turn into years), we wore out I-10 from Lake Charles to Lafayette, Baton Rouge, and repeated visits to Children's Hospital in New Orleans. We saw a pediatric gastroenterologist, pulmonologist, otolaryngologist (ENT), neurologist, geneticist, neurosurgeon, cardiologist, urologist, numerous occupational therapists, physical therapists, and speech language pathologists.

We did barium swallow studies.

Swallow study checking how James's throat/esophagus handles liquid and food. 

James had an MRI and CT scan checking for abnormal brain activity after concerns of the seizure-like episodes and an endoscopic procedure checking for any blockages in his GI tract.

At Children's Hospital after the endoscopic procedure.

Our first glimmer of an answer as to what the heck was going on came from the endoscopic procedure when he was diagnosed with eosinophilic esophagitis, a chronic inflammatory disease of the esophagus.

Checking James's heart rhythms with Dr. Rubee Gugol and "nurse" Lila Rose.

The next light bulb moment came through Early Steps evaluations where it was determined James had sensory processing disorder. This made sense with so many of the texture issues James struggled with while eating, his reaction to basic daily routines like getting dressed and brushing teeth, and why he would sometimes bang his head while sleeping or rock back and forth while sitting.

Short-Term Special Needs

Answers were coming, James was starting to get specific interventions and small improvements were keeping us from losing our minds.

He was in a daycare for children with medical needs, which allowed me and Matt to continue working. He was doing an intense feeding therapy program, occupational therapy, and all signs pointed to these needs being temporary.

We were encouraged through evaluations and follow-ups that involved conversations about James eventually growing out of these challenges or learning to manage them in a way that his life would not be impacted by them.

Feeding therapy session at PediaTrust. (Fall 2016)

By the time James's adoption date rolled around, he was doing much better. Still, his case manager pushed for his adoption to fall under the "special needs" umbrella based off of the health challenges of the previous six months. A special needs classification would mean we had access to more resources/services to help James thrive. We wanted that.

Making James an official member of the family. (December 2017)

We accepted short-term special needs. We couldn't let our minds go to the possibility of all of this continuing long-term.

James would be okay.

We would be okay.

This would be a chapter we could close one day.

Graduating from medical daycare at PediaTrust. (August 2017)

Switching Gears

James moved from medical daycare to our church's Mother's Day Out program, but it quickly became evident that he was not ready - physically, emotionally or cognitively - for this type of care setting.

He started a full-time ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) program - then mastered it in six months. We were thrilled!

James was able to start Pre-K 3 with his sister.

First day of Pre-K 3 for Lila Rose and James. (August 2018)

And then, the sweet boy we know at home who derived so much joy from our praise and affection began to drift.

At home he was still the same James, but at school - it was as if another child would take over his body. There was screaming, aggression, running away, destruction - you name it. Matt and I truly did not believe it until we hid at the front door to his classroom and watched it ourselves. 

We began alternating going to his school every day to help out at the most problematic transitional times. Then, after months of begging our insurance company, he was able to get approval for an ABA therapist to shadow him at school each day.

Things would improve, then they would fall apart. It was an exhausting see-saw of ups and downs, filled with questions that turned from the short-term to the great unknown.

An Unexpected Diagnosis

In a desperate push for more help, James finally got an appointment with a developmental pediatrician. After hours of watching him play, interact and answering what felt like 1,000 questions, the specialist left me and James alone in the patient room. 

When she returned nearly an hour later, we had a diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder. 

The doctor could have told me I was pregnant with twins that day and I would have been less surprised.

It was a massive punch in the gut. A big label to add to the other labels I felt this young child was unfairly carrying - and we didn't want to accept it.

I tried to hide my tears from James as I sat in the patient room chair. The doctor assured me that this diagnosis would be the best thing to connect James with more services that insurance would otherwise deny. 

She was right, but that didn't stop the wave of grief that washed over me in an instant. Grief over the reality that this would not be a short-term thing. Grief over the thousands of hours your child has spent in therapy, while other kids play. Grief over what his future might look like.

But, if you're a special needs parent or have a loved one who has faced health obstacles - you learn to push that grief to a part of your heart that can't emerge often, because there's work to do. And you do it.

"That's Not His Story."

For James, that work has meant 30+ hours a week of continued therapies over the past year to help make day-to-day life easier and prepare him for mainstream kindergarten.

It's a lot of work for him and our entire family. The challenging days are challenging for all of us.

There was a particularly rough patch a few months back where day after day, there were problematic behaviors in his school setting that just seemed to compound with no end in sight. We felt defeated and drained.

After I unloaded all three kids from my car at home, I retreated to the bathroom to cry - and cry out to God again.

As the tears poured from my eyes, I pleaded with God to change this situation. Take away these challenges James faces. Make it easier for him. Change him.

Then, God spoke these words to me as clearly as I've ever heard his voice, "That's not his story."

That's not his story.

We can try to change the narrative to fit what we think it should be, but guess what...God is the author, editor and publisher. God is sovereign. We are not.

Talk about freedom to let God do His thing.

All of these years of pushing James to fit into what society sees as a "typical" kid mold, but that's not what God wanted or wants for this masterpiece made in His image.

James is still the hardest working kid I know. There are struggles to overcome, but each victory is that much sweeter, because we know it's all part of a richer, deeper story than what we could have written.

One of the famous miracles of Jesus is when he heals a man born blind. I often read this passage in the book of John, because it makes me think of James and how God is already using him.

As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Teacher, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"

"Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him." John 9:1-3

Y'all watch this kid now and in the coming years and I know you'll also be watching God at work.

"You, Lord are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand." Isaiah 64:8

-Britney

The Letter: One Year Later

"Let's make sure we have someone escort Britney into the newsroom the next couple of mornings.."

That's an excerpt from an e-mail one of our station managers sent out one year ago, that followed my decision to "go public" about a deeply hurtful viewer letter I received.

I knew sharing it could go three very different ways:
1) No one would care
2) People would care
3) People would disagree with me and be angry

If there were ever any threats, I didn't see or hear them.

But some nasty comments did follow.

It had also only been a few months since I met with the Lake Charles Police Department after my vehicle had been egged, over who knows what.

I didn't know if I could expect something like that again or worse.

But you know what, I truly didn't care.

Someone had crossed the line with indefensible words about my son, words that still create a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Give back the little black boy while you have a chance."

I felt anger. 

Hurt.

Sadness.

This "concerned viewer" had sent a card to the station to encourage me to "give back the little black boy," my one-year-old son, while I still had a chance.

The handwritten card went on to detail the concerns, such as him being a "breed" because of his skin color - and ultimately that in keeping him, my white daughters would be at risk of being raped by him one day.

Even all these months later, it's hard to type out those words.

I let them sink in for a couple of days.

I let them bother me - and honestly, I felt them start to sour me.

There were insecurities I had buried that suddenly rose to the surface about whether or not Matt and I truly were the best parents James could have.

What many people might not know is that we were still in a "placement period" with James. We were three months away from his adoption through foster care being finalized and there was a chance he could be removed from our home - or we could tell our caseworkers that he would thrive more with someone else.

Would he be better in a home with parents and siblings of the same race? 

Is he going to have an invisible target on his back in today's society because of our family dynamics?

Are we enough for him?

As a therapy of sorts, I sat at this very keyboard and started typing...

When I typed out this post last year, I didn't really think anyone would take the time to read it.

Still, it was healing to me to put my words out there in the universe, to shine light in the dark shadows of the painful words that had been sent my way.

Then, something happened, yall...

Something big and incredible - and I can't think about it without my eyes filling with tears.

People cared.

They reached out.

They sent kind cards.

Entire schools wrote notes and even drew pictures of my family.

They talked down racism and talked up acceptance, diversity, and love.

They did this by the thousands.

Within just a couple of days of publishing my blog post last year, it was read, shared, or clicked on over one million times.

The attention one little piece of my heart garnered was overwhelming, but it was the outpouring of support that taught me so much - and ultimately changed my life:

We are more similar than we are different.

Our backgrounds might be different.

Our skin color might be different.

Our interests probably span around this globe and back again.

But our similarities win.

We are human.

We have feelings.

We love fiercely.

We ultimately want to leave our world a better place.

We need each other.

There are things I cannot offer my son, that other people can.

One example: I am still learning how to style James's beautiful, tight curls.

The first time I showed up at an African-American barbershop, I stepped into a world I couldn't believe I was just experiencing for the first time!

It was a party! There was a table with older men playing card games. There was food for the taking. Football was on the TV.

And, the barber said something that made me feel so encouraged about James's experiences in the years to come:

"I want this young man to learn to play spades here with us," he told me.

I want that, too.

I want men of color to be willing to invest their lives in my son, because it will make him better. 

And I want women of color who will love on my white daughters as I love on their kids, too.

We need to live out the fact that racism is not natural. It is learned. We must stop it.

We can share so much across racial lines if we just take a moment to give a bit of ourselves to others.

We must talk about improving race relations.

The Letter  opened up the door for dialogue with strangers that I now call friends.

It brought hugs in grocery store aisles and unexpected tears from people who have lived out a similar scenario.

I even got a second letter that I can only guess was from the original sender. It was short, but the words "I'm sorry" were part of it.

I imagine the sender was an older woman - someone who grew up in a very different time and with very different values.

Maybe she is someone's grandma.

Nothing makes my heart soar more these days than images like this: seeing my grandma embrace her great-grandson who became part of our family in such an unexpected way.

Every time she holds him, she rubs his arms and says, "Your skin is just so beautiful."

It is - and so is the picture of love across generations.

Still, this year has also caused me to look at our world a little differently.

I realize just how "white" our family experiences can be at times.

Sometimes it's not until I look back through photos that I realize James is the only black child at a big event.

Or we're tearing up the dance floor at one of our favorite restaurants and I notice he's the only black person in the entire building.

At two years old, he is too young to notice something like that now.

My family will have to be more intentional about diversifying where we eat, where we shop, and the events we attend.

We need to make sure that we are supporting places that will welcome a 22-year-old James today just as they would welcome a two-year-old James.

My hope is that one day soon, we have a better reflection of  community.  That it is a true place of fellowship and connection - where our lives are richer because of the differences we can celebrate - and the commonalities that weave us together.

I love this quote from author, L.R. Knost:

"It's not our job to toughen our children up to face a cruel and heartless world. It's our job to raise children who will make the world a little less cruel and heartless."

That's a task we are committed to seeing through.

-Britney

More Than We Can Handle

This was the weekend, exactly one year ago, when Matt, one-year-old Lila Rose, and I made the four hour drive to meet our son for the first time.

I cannot explain to you the range of emotions I felt that day, with fear overshadowing the excitement that had been building until just two days before...

I felt different.  I knew something was off.

I sent Matt to the store for a box of pregnancy tests, just in case, because I knew if that was the source of my churning stomach and nausea, that everything would be different.

The little boy called "JT" that we had grown attached to over the past several months through pictures and videos would likely not join our family if the pregnancy test was positive, because it would be more than we could handle.

I took the first test and saw the faintest line.

It can't be, I thought, my heart racing and my legs turning into jello as I sat alone in the bathroom with the door locked.

One more test - a digital one - will show me the words, "not pregnant," and we can move on with life as we had planned at that time.

I took the test, praying that it would not be positive.

Time seemed to stand still - then the words popped up: Pregnant: 1-2 weeks.

I couldn't breathe.

How was I going to tell Matt?

This was more than we could handle.

I sat the test down next to him, not even able to say the words, as tears streamed down my cheeks.

What were we going to do? Were we going to make the trip to meet JT that weekend?  Could we allow our hearts to stay open to his adoptive placement with this unexpected news?

We decided to not make a sudden decision - giving ourselves time to talk it out, pray over it, and beg the Lord for direction.

Our four hour drive felt like it would never end.  I stared out the window through each passing town, looking at minivans and family-hauling SUVs passing by and wondering if those moms ever felt the panic I was feeling about motherhood in that moment.

When we walked in the door of JT's foster home, his foster mom handed him to us and said, "Here's new mommy and new daddy, JT."

The weight of what those words meant was more than we could handle.

Two more months would pass before the legal hoops had been cleared to move JT into a permanent home.

We were at the top of the list and still had the option of telling his social worker we had changed our minds.  But we knew our hearts were committed to being the forever parents this little boy needed, even though it felt overwhelming.

On the day James was brought to our home, we got a crash course in his daily care regimen.

There was acid reflux medicine, an inhaler, a nebulizer, cans of special formula, and James was wearing a helmet to help correct a problem with his skull.

Two hours after arriving with our 11-month-old son, a suitcase, box of his favorite toys, and box of medicine, James's foster mom he had been with since birth, and his social worker, were gone.

"God never gives you more than you can handle!"

That's the message we heard from countless well-wishers in those first weeks and months to follow the addition of James to our family, along with my obvious growing belly.

Three children under the age of two, and two full-time working parents felt like too much.

At the grocery store, "God never gives you more than you can handle!"

At the doctor's office, "God never gives you more than you can handle."

At daycare, "God never gives you more than you can handle."

Even at church, "God never gives you more than you can handle."

But we did - and do - have more than we can handle, and I believe that's exactly how God planned it.

It's when we are weakest that God's strength is even more evident.

It's through our shortcomings that God's power takes over.

It's through our fear that we run to God for peace.

It's when we are weak that He is strong.

It's when we can't handle the weight of life that God promises his yoke is easy and his burden is light.

Y'all...the past year has been TOUGH.

We've had dozens of specialist appointments and therapies for James that have taken us back and forth between New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and Lafayette.

We've gone through the roller coaster of getting to know a child who came to us as a stranger and the work that goes into creating a trusting bond between parent and child.

We've done our best to let Lila Rose know how special she is and that she is the best big sister a kid could have.

And we've added Adeline to our family, a precious, cherished baby I truly cannot imagine not having in our lives today.

There's a framed Bible verse in Adeline's room that I stop and read every day.

"He has made everything beautiful in its time." Ecclesiastes 3:11

Everything includes the messy, the unexpected, the challenges, the tears, the "more than you can handle."

Take heart if you are feeling like God has given you more than you can handle.

He is right there with you and promises he will draw near to you when you draw near to him.

The narrative being written is one of beauty that might not be seen today, but it will emerge.

Our hands our full, but our hearts are overflowing.

What a blessing to have more than we can handle.

-Britney

"Give back the little black boy"

We were in a commercial break during our morning newscast.  It was 6:40 and my co-anchor, John, made a quick trip to the KPLC mail room to pick up the mail of the day.

Sometimes it's an encouraging card from a viewer, a news release about an upcoming event, there are the random letters from inmates, and sometimes it is a "concerned citizen."

You don't know what you are getting until you open it up.

John handed me a piece of mail addressed to "B. Glaser" with no return address.

I knew that was a red flag.

But, I could feel there was a card inside of the envelope, which made me think it could be a kind note.  Who would want to waste a piece of stationary on criticism?

So I opened it...

"Give back the little black boy while you have a chance."

I stopped there, feeling my heart racing and the tears starting to rise to the surface.

I couldn't cry.  I was about to be back on camera to read the next news story.

I handed the letter to John, who read it, and whose face could not hide the disgust I knew must mean every word was hate-filled.

In the next commercial break, I picked up the card again:

Brittany,

Give back the little black boy while you have a chance.

They grow up to be out of control and rapists.  It's a breed you cannot deny.

I work with black teens 2-3 times a week.  They talk about having sex.

Don't let your daughter get raped when he is a teenager.

I'm older, but have seen what happens when blacks get to be of age.

Maybe you are trying to make a point with adoption.  You don't need to do that.  You are already well liked.

A Concerned Citizen.

I'm not racist.

I think I forgot to breathe.

Rapist.

Breed.

My daughter being attacked by my son - all because she's white and he's black?

Making a point with adoption?

And all of this was written inside a patriotic-themed card with the American flag on the front.  The flag that represents liberty and justice for all.

The wheels in my head were spinning.  I kept telling myself, "This is one person.  One person's opinion.  One person's perception.  One person's ignorance."

But the harsh reality is that where there is one, there are more - who claim "I'm not racist," yet identify certain people as a "breed," or intrinsically criminalistic.

I do not have concerns about our son - the person being referred to as "the little black boy" -  morphing into a rapist as he "gets to be of age."

I would be lying to say I don't have concerns, though, about raising a black child in today's society.

All I have to do is read the news of the day to have some of those concerns in my face: two more deadly officer-involved shootings of black men in one week.  Regardless of where you fall on the "were they armed," "were they reaching for weapons," or "what's their rap sheet" spectrum - the fact is my heart aches watching another video of a black man shot to death.

Adding even more pain is the audio recording of an officer who states one victim "looks like a bad dude" based solely on his appearance as he walked to his stalled SUV with his hands in the air.

Our son will be taught by us that there is never, ever, in any circumstance, a reason to resist an officer.  Don't move unless you are told to move.  Do not reach for your license, your insurance card, or step out of the car if you have a question.  Don't adjust your pants if they seem off center.  Submit.  Period.

Will our two white daughters have to worry about taking such a cautious approach?  Probably not.

We recognize our son will encounter obstacles and prejudices that we never experienced.

It's pretty easy to accept and love on an adorable one-year-old, but what about when he's a little older?

Will he be invited to a classmate's birthday party?

Will he be watched more closely on the toy aisle as he tests out the wheels of a race car?

Will he be followed at the store as he tries on a pair of shoes?

Will he be able to ask a girl to the homecoming dance, regardless of the color of her skin?

Will he be accused of "trying to be white" or "not being black enough" because his family dynamics look different than the norm?

Will he know how much it matters to us, his parents, to respect and honor his racial heritage?

We do not need to be color blind.  Color is beautiful.  Differences can be celebrated.

It's okay if the first thing you notice about my son when you see him is the color of his skin.  But it's not okay if the next thing you do is make judgments based on that color.

I promise you that if you take a second to see him for more than his color, you will see his beautiful amber-brown eyes that smile when he smiles.  Then you will notice his dimply cheeks.  And that gap-toothed smile...oh my gosh.

He just started giving fall-into-you-with-all-of-my-weight hugs.  He will blow you a kiss when you say "goodbye."

And his newest word he can sign is "pretty," a word that he does not use discriminately - because we are all made in the image of God.

To the "concerned citizen" who wrote me that card: thank you for reminding me of just how lucky we are to be the parents of "the little black boy." He's a special guy and we know God has big plans for him.

-Britney

Fear, Faith, and a Family of Five

There has been a long drought in this blogosphere...

It's because if I had shared what had been going on since the last post almost four months ago, it would have just looked something like this for several weeks:

WHITE NOISE

Followed by...WHITE NOISE.

That is the best way to describe my thoughts, emotions, sleeplessness, etc. while deep into pursuing an adoptive placement Matt and I had been efforting since November - and then this news in February:

Hello, life!

So, here we were a few months ago, set to meet our potential son at his foster home for the first time and digesting the reality that by November, we could have three children under two. 

The logistics of it all felt overwhelming and we still had time to stop the adoptive move from happening.

I didn't know how I was going to get three little ones in and out of the house - into the car (that I will grow out of when three car seats are installed) - into daycare - and back to work in a one hour window of time.

I didn't know how Matt would handle the early morning hours alone with two, then three, when I had to leave the house at 3:15 A.M. for work.

I didn't know how I would possibly be able to nurse an infant while having two one-year-olds running around.  Heck, I just exited pumping/nursing land and am not ready to re-enter!

I didn't know if we would sleep again for the next few years.

I didn't know if Matt and I would have an uninterrupted conversation at home or go on a date again before the posse enters school.

I didn't know if we had the time, patience, and unconditional love that the little boy we wanted to adopt so desperately needs.

I didn't know if we had enough love to spread around for Lila, little brother, and the next addition.

We didn't know A LOT.

And guess what?!  We still don't.

Yet, all of that not knowing brought us to a place of knowing that this big, crazy life is exactly what God wants for us. 

"As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts." Isaiah 55:9 

I assure you that the "plan" Matt and I had for our family didn't involve growing quite so quickly.

We figured we would continue in the adoptive process this year - and maybe, just maybe, add another biological or adopted child to the family in a few years after we were nicely settled in as a family of four.

When we learned that life was moving in a very different direction, fear creeped into both of us.

Should we continue in this adoptive placement?  Should we hit pause and revisit it after the birth of the baking baby?  Is now the right time?

It did not take long before we found ourselves begging God for discernment and clarity.

I found myself asking God, "Please, will you just show me exactly what we're supposed to do? Can you just tell me?"

And then, it's as if he calmly whispered to me, "The answer is right in front of you."

So, I opened up the Bible and turned almost instinctively to the book of James.

It's only five chapters, so I was able to quickly read through it and every chapter had verses stand out which seemed to perfectly describe our situation.  Here are the highlights:

*Consider it joy when you face trials, because the testing of your faith produces perseverance.  When you ask for wisdom, believe God is giving it to you and stop doubting.  (James 1: 2-6)

*Do not just listen to the Word.  DO what it says.  (James 1:22)

*Care for the fatherless. (James 1:27)

*Faith without action is dead.  (James 2:26)

*Our lives are so temporary. (James 4:14)

All of that was in one short book.  Over the next several weeks, I found myself more eager to dive into the Word, listen to more sermons on faith, trust, caring for "the least of these," and refocusing on God's will for my (our) life.

The more I looked, the more clarity and peace I found.

"You will seek me and you will find me when you seek me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29:13

When we boiled down the source of any of our "no" answers in delaying the adoption process, it was all rooted in the same concern: fear.

I'm not talking about ignoring a protective warning or refusing to seek godly counsel.  

I'm talking about allowing crippling fear to stop us from taking a big step of faith into what God is commanding us to do - and getting out of our cozy, comfy lives that oftentimes keep us from recognizing just how much we need to lean on the Lord.

Saying "yes" to this placement meant saying yes to a tough calling, yes to a bigger faith in God, yes to a new normal, yes to more sleepless nights and even busier days, yes to LOTS of unknowns, and yes to giving a little boy who has spent his entire young life in foster care a permanent, loving home.

I can't wait for the day I can share the incredible story of how we learned about this child and how much he has already overcome.  While he is freed for adoption (parental rights have been terminated in his case), the state requires that he is our foster child for six months until we can adopt him.

Until then, we cannot share pictures of his adorable face or tell you his story.  It's one that we want to be transparent about, because we want to be part of an open dialogue about adoption, foster care, and fostering to adopt.  There are 400,000 children in U.S. foster care today and nearly 100,000 of them are eligible for adoption.  We have got to be willing to open our homes to them, even when it disrupts our comfortable lives.

We are still in the early weeks of transitioning into a family of four.  There have been some rough moments, and less than warm, fuzzy feelings at times.  We are all learning to love each other in a new way and that takes work.  Yet in the morning wake-ups or afternoon story times, there are unexpectedly joyful moments that allow us to catch a glimpse of what a day might look like when we are settled into this big, beautiful life.

And then, we will add another GIRL into our family!

Matt and I couldn't have imagined how much our lives could change since this snapshot six months ago:

There will be five stockings hanging on our mantel this Christmas.

Life can surprise us sometimes.

Don't let fear keep you from stepping into that great unknown.  It's there that God can stretch us, bend us, and reshape us into the masterpieces he designed.

"We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand." Isaiah 64:8

And that, my friends, is something we want to exemplify.

-Britney

It's my (child's) party and I'll cry if I want to

I've been in a funk this week.  Like dark cloud arrived over me and I can almost touch it.

It feels silly because I know why it's here.

Lila Rose turns one today.

I haven't shifted into celebratory mode yet.  I know it will come, but the tears definitely beat it.

I went into Lila's room twice this morning before heading to work at 3:30 to tell her I love her and Happy Birthday.

It did not phase her.  I know today, for her, is just another day.

But for me, it marks the end of babyhood.

This week has been full of more firsts, as Lila literally toddled into toddlerhood:

1) Taking several independent steps.

2) Adding the word "bye bye" to her vocabulary.

3) Intentionally putting off her bedtime bottle to give countless hugs.

4) Taking creative measures to make people laugh.

All of these additions make me smile and cherish this stage of life, but I also recognize with each new "thing" my baby is not a baby anymore.

From the day Lila was born, everyone told me, "They grow up so fast!"

And yall...it's true.  They really do.

I knew I would love becoming a mom.  But I didn't know the love I was capable of sharing with a child.  It's so deep.

You know what I'm talking about.

If you see my eyes glazed over today, you know why.

I'm thinking about what was happening at this exact time one year ago.

I'm thinking about how I couldn't wait to see Lila's face for the first time.

I'm thinking about how I pre-planned everything about delivery day, except for actually asking anything about how to deliver a child.

I'm thinking about the flood of emotions I felt when we had our first time alone that night and everything hit me.

I'm thinking about how quickly Lila transformed from a stranger to my daughter.  Just. Like. That.

Lila will be waking up any minute now and I can't wait to hear my phone buzz with the daily morning pictures from Matt.

I will push through this glass cage of emotion and put on the happiest face.

But my eyes will be seeing my little girl a little bit differently today.

I know Lila will still let me rock her to sleep for her morning nap and I will savor that precious time.  Tears might fall, but they truly aren't tears of sadness.

They're "transitional tears" full of pride, love, and raw hope for her future.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl.  We love you so.

-Britney

The Milky Way

Simple. Complex. Beautiful. Awkward. Natural. Easy. Hard. Fast. Time-consuming...

Those are my feelings on breastfeeding - a touchy topic for many moms, deeply personal decision, and for some, a source of heartache when their bodies just couldn't follow through with what their hearts desired for their newborns.

If you breastfed, formula fed, used a mix of the two, or even used donor milk: that's great!  You chose what was best for your baby and for you.  

I never knew how mixed my feelings would be about feeding Lila.  There were times when I loved the quiet moments of just the two of us in a rocking chair as I fed her - and other times when I wanted to pass that baton to someone else.

Now that Lila Rose is almost one year old, my body has decided it's slowly shutting down production.

I thought I would look forward to that day.  But oddly, it's bittersweet for me.

I certainly won't miss lugging around my pump and cooler each day.

I won't miss seeing the clock in three to four hour increments each day, figuring out when I'll hear the motor running again.

I won't miss finding places to pump when I'm out and about...

Or slumping down in the backseat of my car.

I won't miss zipping off set at work as soon as our morning show ends to "relieve myself" or the concerns I had of leaking through on live TV...which unfortunately happened.  Talk about a close head shot that day:)

But I will miss giving Lila something only I can give.

I will miss seeing her look up at me with a big, milky smile.

I will miss the way she rubbed my back while she nursed.

Feeding Lila has been an interesting journey since day one.

When the nurse put Lila on my chest on delivery day and told me to feed her, I was lost.

I didn't want Matt to look in our direction.

Everything in that moment felt foreign for me.  But not for Lila.

For her, it was natural.

In the early days and weeks, I literally logged every feeding: which breast, how long, did I pump, how many ounces, etc.  It was exhausting, and felt like a full-time job at times, but was something that I felt like I was doing successfully in the midst of my own doubts about my adjustment to motherhood.

When I returned to work and had to rely on multiple pumping sessions each day, I began feeling like I was drowning in a milky world.

My body must have thought the same thing, because I started making lots...I mean lots...of milk.

Morning pumping sessions before leaving for the office started reaching the 17-20 ounce mark.  I had much more than Lila needed.

Enter what became a beautiful new world, that I have to admit I found odd pre-baby: milk donation.

I loved being able to share with other moms in need and feeling the connection that this universal club of motherhood brings.

But now, my body has stopped making extra...

I can no longer share.  I am depending on a dwindling stash of frozen milk for Lila.

It's the end of this chapter and the clock is ticking down to retire the ole pump.

I stopped nursing a couple of months ago, when Lila decided making faces at me and giggling was far more fun than eating.  Oh...and then she got several teeth:)

I never marked a day that defined my final session.  That would have been too emotional for me.  Instead, it just sort of happened.

This milky season of life has opened my eyes to the struggles of moms who work outside of the home, moms who wrangle other children while juggling breastfeeding, moms who feel judged when choosing formula as plan A, and heartbroken moms who tried so hard to make this whole nursing/pumping thing work.

If I'm honest with myself about why this transition has been harder than I expected, the answer is pretty simple:

I don't want to be less needed.

I think we have to remind ourselves that whatever choice we make or our bodies make for us does not affect the unconditional love of our little ones.

Lila doesn't care about the source of milk in her bottle.  She cares that she's fed.  She cares that the person feeding her holds her tightly and lets her touch his/her face as she eats.

She's like every other baby, who just needs love and security - that's something I know I can give through every season of her life.

-Britney