Dear Sugar: A Letter to My Boobs During Breast Cancer Awareness Month

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Today I'm sharing my very recent journey.

Dear Boobs:

Ali Cummins Photography

I used to want you so bad.  It started in the third grade.  I heard a few girls on the playground gushing over a girl named Jessica.  Why?  They caught a glimpse of, wait for it....a bra strap.  Jessica was one of the cool girls with naturally gorgeous blonde hair (long and flowy, like a Disney princess), an on-trend wardrobe, and now, developing breasts. 

Around this same time, Judy Blume’s book Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret was becoming increasingly popular among girls my age, especially the section where the protagonist did a pectoral exercise while chanting, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.”   

Boobs were it. If a girl possessed breasts (no matter how small), she possessed prestige, admiration, and maturity:  three things I desperately strived for. 

The next year at my January birthday party, my mom was creative.  Though it was frigid outside, we had a beach-themed party.   My friends and I wore our swimsuits, we had a cake that looked like an island, we made seashell necklaces, and we listened to my dad’s Beach Boys records.   

Before I headed down the carpeted steps to greet my first guest, I folded the swimsuit's shelf-bra liner up a few times to create (I thought) the appearance of curves.  Of course instead it just looked like wadded-up fabric (which was exactly what it was). 

Despite my efforts, even insisting that my mom buy me a lacy, pearl embellished training bra at JCPenney, long before I needed one, you refused to make your debut until I was well into the eighth grade.  Even then, you were nothing impressive.  I was long, lean, and awkward with zero athletic ability.  And you started to emerge (and it took all of high school for this cycle to be complete), my desire for you was replaced with the next milestone:  starting my period.   I didn’t appreciate you as I should have, even when I went from an A cup to a (pushing it) B cup.  

You managed to look OK enough through college and even in my Maggie Sottero two-piece wedding dress.  The corset top still required sewed-in push up pads, but you showed up well enough.   For four years, I enjoyed married life with confidence in my body, eventually joining a gym and relishing in building muscle while gossiping with girlfriends and half-assing it in step class. 

During this season, I found a breast lump, and persisted on having it examined and later extracted.  It was nothing but a non-cancerous mass.  At the time I was terrified, but I managed to handle it and move on.  

Then 2004 happened.  I was in graduate school, teaching writing to college freshman (who were just four years younger than me), and ended up getting a weird stomach virus.  That's a long story, but a year-and-half later, after over twenty medical appointments with five medical professionals, I wound up in the ER in Diabetic Ketoacidosis.  I finally had a diagnoses:  type 1 diabetes.   I was very fortunate to be alive.

I then began gaining back all the weight (and then some) that I had lost when my body went toxic.   Gaining weight meant gaining something I never really had before:  breasts!  Like real ones that looked ah-mazing in V-neck tops and swimsuit tops.  Diabetes sucked, but at least I got a few perks, including C-cup breasts.  

After the diabetes diagnosis, that's when I knew we would adopt.  My body had been through hell.  I wasn't willing to risk going down that path again, nor was I going to put a baby through that.   Adoption was the right choice for us.  

We had two children through adoption by 2011 when another knot appeared.  Another surgery, biopsy, and declaration that though it was a mass, it wasn’t cancerous.   In the clear.     

Breast ultrasounds and examinations by doctors became my norm.   I came to not only expect extra steps to be taken, but for the news to be good.   I almost felt like a professional.   Here I had experienced not only two breast lumps but a traumatic diagnosis and incredible survival story.   Surely I had enough things go wrong that from then on, everything would go right.   How could it not?

Six more years, two more children.  One of whom I had a nursing relationship with.   

Then this April...I figured my "extremely dense breasts" were throwing me another curve ball.  I figured the new lump was normal.  It wasn't.  

Breast cancer does not discriminate.  It does not care what color someone's skin is, how old she is, or even her history.  It does not care if someone has all or none of the "risk factors" we women hear so much about.  

It chose me.  It appeared, swiftly and angerly.  I do not know why.  I have been over it a thousand times.  Was it something I did?  Is it just because my body is whacked out?  Is it just the fact that one in eight women get breast cancer, and I was that "one"?  Why?  Why me?   Why after one disease did a second one arrive?

I could have preserved you, I was told.  I could have chosen a lumpectomy and six weeks of radiation.  But there was a possibility that I'd need to later do a mastectomy anyway.  That the cancer would come back, sneakily, in the opposite breast.  

I had a choice, certainly, but my goal was to give myself the best chance of not only survival, but for a life with less anxiety and doubt.  I needed peace, reassurance, and odds in my favor.  

So I chose to let you go. 

I gave you some good, hard looks.  I committed you to memory.   I hugged my kids and my husband a little tighter against you.   I realized you were JUST boobs but you were still boobs:  your importance and status instilled in me since childhood.  

On the day of my surgery, I was both nervous and confident.  I could do this.  I could do anything in Christ who gives me strength.  This wasn't an ending, but a second-chance, a powerful beginning.  

It's been a long month-and-a-half since the surgery.  I look down at you.  You are new and foreign, different and present, artificial and yet MINE.  You were purchased and chosen.  You are strange.

I do not regret my decision to bid the original you farewell.  It was the right and best choice.  Recovery has been tumultuous, a never-ending roller coaster of physical and emotional and mental and spiritual ups and downs.  And I have a feeling that recovery isn't just a season of physical healing, but a forever-state of remembering and considering.  Losing you left me scarred, physically and emotionally.  

But losing you also meant potentially saving my life.

   

I am sorry we couldn't be together forever, or at least longer. I miss you, though I'll be honest that most days I don't think too much about you.   My personality of "go big or go home" helped me decide to tell you goodbye and move forward.

I know I'll never be completely over you.  Cancer changes a person, inevitably and irrevocably.   Not having you is a constant reminder of what was, but I refuse to live steeped in regret and shame.  

My journey has been one of learning and listening.  Every time bad news arrived, I felt a new wave of spiritual warfare come over me.  But this time when I was told that having cancer meant possibly saying goodbye to you, I thought to myself, this isn't my first rodeo.  I've faced hard and scary times before, and every time I emerged victorious, stronger, and more confident.  

Cancer disrupted my life.  But it didn't defeat me.  My story, my journey, it continues.  And I have you to both blame and thank.   I have memories and a future.  I have hope.

Dear Sugar: The Day I Quit Working Out

Dear Sugar:

For fifteen years, I worked out consistently.  Working out helped me get through the stress of college (most of the time I was also working 2-3 jobs to pay my tuition bill).  Working out helped me manage the pressures of planning my wedding.   It aided me in managing my anxiety, my blood sugars, and keeping my weight steady.

When we were matched with our fourth child, I began to stop working out as much.  First, it was summer, and I had three children.   Second, I was a nervous wreck, slowly falling in love with the daughter who wasn't mine.  

When our daughter was born in September, I ceased working out.  And I noticed that some things happened.  Perhaps they sound familiar to you?

-I wasn't sleeping as well.
-My anxiety increased, in steady waves.  
-I had way less energy.  
-I was less coordinated and less strong.  
-I got hurt more easily (probably due to the aforementioned lack of coordination and strength).
-I was less motivated.  
-I dreaded the first two hours of every morning, because I was so slow to fully wake up.  
-My blood sugars crept higher more easily and quickly.  

Looking back, it was really a domino effect.   One thing leading to the next.  That feeling of helplessness and giving up, plus an awareness of spiraling "out of control."  I found a new normal, eventually, a normal of accepting that working out had succumbed to LIFE.  

Now, there's a natural break in routine with a newborn.  Feedings every two-three hours through the night, plus dealing with one child's restless leg syndrome, another child's sensory issues, and another one's asthma.   Then sick season where we got hit with strep and the flu (two solid weeks out of school).   

But for me, a type 1 diabetic, working out is essential.  Exercise lowers my blood sugar, gives me energy (which is needed since my energy-sucking disease needs a boost!), and decreases my anxiety (about everything, including my disease).

I hit rock bottom when a month ago, my hip was in excruciating pain.  I couldn't sit on the floor and play with my kids. Certain movement rendered me breathless.  The pain radiated down my thigh, around my knee, and down to my ankle.  I went to my chiropractor, then my general practitioner, and then to physical therapy.   I felt like I was 85 years old.  I mean really, hip pain?

Since doing the assigned exercises to increase flexibility, mobility, and strength, I'm slowly reintegrating working out back into my schedule.   It used to be non-negotiable.  I was THAT girl in the hotel gym on Christmas Eve, huffing and puffing on the treadmill.  

I'm trying to give myself a lot of grace.  And I'm trying to remember the WHY to working out.   

I share all this with you for a reason.   As a person who has been all over the proverbial map in terms of health, I want to offer a few "been there, done that" thoughts, hopefully so you do not end up in physical therapy:

1:  A lack of self-care is selfish, not selfless.
We are prompted to put our families first.  That's what good moms do, right?  WRONG!  Accept a temporary situation (a new baby) for what it is, but don't remain stagnant.  As my baby began sleeping through the night (and we did, too), I should have reintroduced exercise into my daily routine.  By not taking care of ME, I was not only hurting myself, but I ended up hurting my family with my limited ability to lift, play, and go! 

2:  Exercise isn't (just) about weight. 
Yes, you can lose weight or maintain your weight by exercising. Of course a healthy weight is important.  However, weight control is far more about what you put IN your body than exercise.  That said, there are SO many benefits to working out that go far beyond weight.  It's different for every person, but a few perks for me, when I work out, include:  I fall asleep easily and wake up energized, my anxiety decreases, and I feel empowered.  

3:  Exercise doesn't have to be what others like.
I.  Hate.  Running.   I hate it.   But I do like dancing, walking, and lifting weights.  I do what I love and reap the benefits!  Choose something you enjoy and do it.  

4:  Technology is great, but...
I'll be honest:  I think the whole FitBit, routing your run on your cell, tracking your diet in an app---I find these to be distractions.  I think some people find them helpful, and perhaps increase accountability, but fitness can be really, really simple.   

5:  Get the kids involved.
I've come to realize that my kids need to be included in my fitness routine since they are home all summer. They have their own set of free weights.  They have their own bikes and helmets (so they can pedal around the trail at the park while I walk, pushing the stroller). We love doing XBOX Just Dance! games together.  Again, these are not super strenuous things.  Because if it's not sort-of fun and occupies the kids, I'm not doing it.  Plus, it's really important to me to raise active, healthy children!  

What do you do for exercise?  What has gotten in the way of exercising in past, or what is getting in the way now?  What practical steps can you take to make a positive change?  

Dear Sugar: 10 Year Diaversary

Dear Sugar,

Last week, I celebrated ten years with my disease.  

Many of you already know that my disease was what gave me the gift of motherhood (via adoption).

Read my story on Huff Post.

Have a blessed week, Sugars!  

Summer Reading: Most Popular Articles

I write.  A lot.

Here are some of my most popular articles from 2015, not necessarily adoption-related.  But you'll be more well-rounded if you read about a variety of subjects, right?

To The Lady Who Called My Toddler a Thug  (this was syndicated on Fatherly, The Good Men Project, and My Brown Baby)

Dear Fellow Mom:  Stop Whining and Get in the Damn Pool

The One Thing You Should Say to an Adoptive Family

Happy reading, Sugars!

Message for All The Mamas Out There About This Summer

Ya'll!

(I'm wrapping up a vaca in the South.  Ya'll is BIG here.)

I wrote this article for Scary Mommy, and it's become wildly and quickly popular.   Like 135,000-people-have-liked-it popular.

It's a message super close to my heart, because as a type 1 diabetic, I know a thing or two about body image.

I hope you'll hop over and read it.  Let me know what you think!

Happy summer, Sugars!  

Let's Talk About Superheroes, Diabetes, and Mother's Day

Hi, Sugars!

I hope you all are enjoying spring!

Here's some spring reading:

To The Women Who Birthed My Children: Mother's Day Is For You, Too

10 Perks to Having Type 1 Diabetes

What's So Super About Minimizing Black Girls?

Have a great week, Sugars!

Reminders of Promise

God once spoke the clearest word to me.  It was a defining moment.  It was permission.  It was direction.  It was promise of hope, of better days.

That word was ADOPTION.

When I was told I had type 1 diabetes nine years ago, I was elated and crushed, simultaneously.  I had been sick for a year and a half.  Diabetes stole.  It mocked.  It taunted.  It confused.  It teased.

I was emaciated, depressed, and hopeless.

While curled up on a hospital bed, barely listening to a diabetes nurse educator talk to me about counting carbohydrates and injecting insulin, I was just me:  broken and sick.  My tiny frame was covered by an oversized hospital gown.  I was covered in wires and tubes and bruises and anger.

But when the conversation turned to family-building, when the nurse asked me if I planned on being a mom, everything changed.

As she went on to talk about diabetes and pregnancy, a word popped into my mind.  A word that changed the trajectory of my life.

God spoke.

I listened.

As I spend this month thinking about my disease and its mysteries and intricacies and tricks, as I think about how far I've come, as I think about the surprising gifts my disease has given me, I notice glimpses of color.  Quiet reminders of how God has used my diagnosis to bless me, change me, teach me.

It's the veggies left on a highchair tray.

It's the ballerina twin-size sheets on top of the laundry heap.

It's the beads in my girls' hair.

It's the scraps of construction paper strewn about, a project half-completed, and abandoned, all in the name of creativity and childhood adventures.  

Reminders of how God sent a rainbow after the rain.  A promise.  The flood was bad.  Devastating. Seemingly endless.  But the rainbow came---gloriously, brightly.

Where is your rainbow today, Sugars?  Where has God placed color to remind you that He's there?

Prisms: How God is Coloring My Gray World

March.

The month that throws dread, disease, and hope into my face: daily.

The month that drags on and on....each day is passing doom.

The month that cannot choose between gray winter and green spring, between taking away and building up.

The month that isn't easily defined; it's unpredictable.

Each March, I surrender to the waves of emotions and memories.  Tears fall more freely.  I readily admit to my agitation and unrest.  I simultaneously reach for hope and grasp at fear, because fear is familiar and hope makes me vulnerable.  I'm most aware of my need for God's grace and strength.

This month, I've decided to do something a little different.  Not to mask the pain.  Not to regress. Rather, to relish in me, for exactly who I am---diseased and victorious and fighting and surrendering.

Coping with personal hardships, past trauma (that revisits), and anxiety is certainly not easy.  There is no prescription that fits us all.  But I know there are things that bring me sprinkles of joy and dashes of peace.

There are prisms:  glimpses of His grace, His peace, His restoration.  They stream in.  Quietly. Gently. Unpretentiously.

Matthew 11:28

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

Granting Myself Permission

March, as shared in my previous post, isn't my favorite month.  At the end of the month, I will "celebrate" nine years of living with my forever-disease.

Yuck.

My diaversary strikes fear in my heart.  Regret.  Anger.  And tears.  A lot of tears.  Resentment.  Spiritual storms.  A lack of peace.  Joy-stealing.

I was browsing Facebook the other day, and I came across this graphic.   A powerful reminder of what I want for my life.  A powerful reminder of what I can create and live, if I so choose.

I'm choosing.  Today.  Day by day.

March will inevitably arrive each year.

What will I do with it?

March Madness: Why I Despise This Month

Nine years ago this month, I was told the best and worst news of my life.

Nine years ago this month, I spent five days in the hospital, two of which were in the ICU.

Nine years ago this month, I was told my disease had no cure.

Nine years ago this month, I hit rock bottom.

Nine years ago this month, my life changed forever.

Type 1 diabetes isn't the "end of the world," though it very well could have been the end of my life.

I was sick for 1.5 years without a diagnosis.  I saw five medical professionals who failed to diagnose me properly.  I was guessed to have anorexia.   I was depressed, emaciated, fatigued, numb, hungry, thirsty, scared, and angry, particularly angry at God.

The day my husband took me to the ER, I was on my death bed.  I was in a state called Diabetic Ketoacidosis (DKA) where the body is essentially being eaten alive by itself:  toxic and deadly.  I was shaking from being cold, I was 97 lbs (I'm almost 5'8" tall), I couldn't drink enough fluids, I could barely breathe.

Upon having my blood tested, we learned my a1c (an average of one's blood sugars for three months) was 16.9 (a normal a1c should be below 5.7).   My a1c was so high, it's not found on any a1c charts. My average blood sugar over the three months before D-day was around 400.  A normal blood sugar is between 70-120.   According to the Mayo Clinic, I was gravely ill.

It was on day four of my hospital stay when I caught a glimmer of hope.  As a nurse talked to me about my new life of counting carbohydrates, dosing insulin, and checking my blood sugar 8-10x a day, she asked us if we planned to have children.  We said yes, and she went on to talk about diabetes and pregnancy.

I stopped listening.  Because a word popped into my mind, so powerfully clear.  Which, after having 1.5 years of blurred memory and serious illness, was a bit of a surprise.  That word was ADOPTION.

You'd think after nine years with this disease, I wouldn't let March take me back there to that dark place of fear, anger, confusion, and hatred for the disease that haunts me daily.   But every March, I find myself feeling anxious, emotional, gray.  I can't shake the seriousness of knocking on deaths door, of the blessing of a second chance to live, and of the reality that diabetes is here to stay.

Ironically, as I was leaving the hospital, Daniel Powter's song Bad Day was playing on the radio:

"You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost/They tell me your blue skies fade to grey/They tell me your passion's gone away."  

Then a few years later, Her Diamonds by Rob Thomas came out.  I cannot listen to this song without bawling.  Thomas wrote the song about his wife who copes with a chronic illness (lupus).    He sings,

 "And she says, oh/I can't take no more/Her tears like diamonds on the floor/And her diamonds bring me down/'Cause I can't help her now/She's down in it/She tried her best and now she can't win/It's hard to see them falling on the grounds/Her diamonds falling down."

There are so many songs that have brought me hope in dark times, these two in particular:

Need You Now by Plumb

Cry Out to Jesus by Third Day

This March, as with every March, I'm fragile.  I'm shaky.  I'm off.  But I remind myself that this disease gave me three incredible miracles, my babies, and God's not finished with me.  Every single hardship has presented me with a springboard to greatness.

And spring is coming.  It's almost here.  I've got this.   

"I'm trying to hear above the noise" 

(Need You Now, by Plumb)

Noah and Hard Things

Last week, Steve and I were tag-teaming bedtime.  It was my turn with Baby Z, so I scooped up a few board books and settled into my grandfather's rocking chair, the baby on my lap.

The last book I read him was Noah's Ark. 

I've been in church my entire life.  I grew up going to a good ol' Southern Illinois Baptist-ish church that had Sunday School, complete with felt boards to illustrate Bible stories and songs like "The B-I-B-L-E" and "Father Abraham."  Following Sunday School was church in which we sang all the old hymns, listened to old people shout out prayer requests, and then the sermons about God's love, the sins of this world, and, number one, gettin' saved to avoid eternal damnation and to instead walk the streets of gold alongside Jesus.   Everyone dressed up for church.  There were "alter calls" and revivals and baptisms in ponds and swimming pools.  We used the King James Bible, ONLY.  The picture of Jesus that was housed behind the pulpit was that of a white, somber Jesus.  Our communion table was engraved with "This Do Ye In Remembrance of Me."  There were oak pews and red carpet and at Easter, lilies.   If a "brother" or "sister" passed away, there was always a fried chicken dinner after the funeral, put together by the ladies of the church. 

It didn't end there.  We had VBS (that's Vacation Bible School) every summer, church camp (every summer), Wednesday evening church, Sunday night church.  There were special weeks set aside for revivals, homecomings, and special services for Christmas and Easter.

I think I've heard just about every classic Bible story at least twenty times. 

So it's interesting to now be the parent, sharing these stories with my kiddos, sometimes revealing a piece of the Bible to them for the first time. 

Noah and his ark is a rather magical story for kids.  There's a storm (the drama!), animals, a really big boat, and, Miss E's favorite, a rainbow.  

Honestly, Bible stories don't really excite me all that much.  (Truth.)   I'm more interested in applicable concepts, not history, genealogy, Jewish law, or parables.  I just want to get down to the heart of the matter, the bare-bones message, quickly, because I have three kids and very little spare time and an impatient personality.   I know, this doesn't sound very Christian of me...but it's the truth.

But as I cuddled my son and read him each line from the book, I realized something that I'd long forgotten.

God asked Noah to do some crazy stuff.  Some hard things.  Some not-very-popular, socially unacceptable actions.

Noah did it.

I'm sure he had doubts. Fears. Anxiety. Strain in his relationships. Maybe even anger at God for asking so much of him. Confusion. Resistance.

And I'm sure with each board nailed, with each animal gathered, with each whisper of humiliation uttered, Noah was feeling overwhelmed.

It would have been far easier to throw in the towel, chalk up his actions to a midlife crisis of sorts, and go have a beer with his buddies (or whatever they drank back then)...but he didn't.

God has asked many people to do hard things.

I've had to surrender control to Him not once, not twice, but three times when we waited to adopt.  And when we embraced transracial adoption and open adoption.  And now there is the aftermath of adoption and adoptive parenting:  with all it's joys and challenges. 

I've had to trust Him when the doctor told me my diagnosis was forever.  When my blood sugar would skyrocket to 500 and then plummet to 30.  When I had to poke my fingers with needles fifteen times a day, or inject insulin into my stomach.   When I had to sit in waiting rooms full of people three times my age, slumped in wheelchairs and holding baggies full of prescription bottles.

I've had to believe that He knew what He was doing when He told me to write a book and then (gulp) share that book with the world, even when it meant facing judgment.  Even if it meant putting a piece of my heart on the line and hoping others would be gentle with it.

Bible stories aren't just stories. 

They aren't in the Bible to be either adored or rejected.

There is something in each one of them. 

Maybe I've seen Frozen a few too many times lately, so I'm feeling the word "magical."  But I think there is something magical.  Something wonderful.  Something awe-inspiring, in the Biblical stories I've heard dozens of times.

Not every act of obedience ends in a rainbow. 

But it does generate and result in a peace which surpasses all understanding. 

I think God knew, when He inspired the Bible, that it would stand the test of time. That no matter what translation a person read, God would whisper hope, grace, forgiveness, conviction, and freedom into souls. 

That even a tired mom could get something out of a Bible-based board book. 

Around the Web: Good Reading!

On Come Rain or Come Shine: A White Parent's Guide to Adopting and Parenting Black Children...

First, I'm so honored!  I happened to stumble upon an interview on Jezebel with MSNBC's Melissa Harris-Perry where I saw this response Melissa gave to a fan asking about transracial adoption:

"But I've learned from talking with transracial adoption families that love is critical and important, but not enough. There are complicated issues of identity, culture, and belonging that sensitive parents must deal with, not ignore. It sounds to me like you are a sensitive and proactive parent.

 

We had an amazing guest on the MHP show about a year ago who is white and raising black adopted children, Rachel Garlinghouse. I love her book Come Rain or Come Shine: A White Parent's Guide to Adopting and Parenting Black Children. You can also visit her website and follow her on Twitter. Rachel is lovely and insightful and may be of help as you navigate this process."

'

You can follow my book on Facebook or find me on Twitter for updates!

 

On adoptive nursing...

 

Last week I participated in a Huffington Post Live segment on adoptive nursing along with two breastfeeding professionals (both adoptive mothers).  This is a topic dear to my heart and one that is increasingly intriguing to adoptive mothers.

 

On type 2 diabetes and minority kids...

 

Did you know that minority children are at an increased risk of developing type 2 diabetes?  The disease can lead to major health complications, including early death.  Read more on adoption.net, learning how to be proactive to protect your child.    

 

On coping with emotions while waiting to adopt a child...

 

"Waiting for the news that you have been referred or chosen can be incredibly frustrating, confusing, disheartening, and anxiety-inducing."  Here's how to cope, from adoption.net.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diaversary: How the Worst Day of My Life Handed Me Hope

Today is my eight-year diabetes diagnosis anniversary.

D-Day, 3/24/06, was the day that brought me, simultaneously, the most relief and the most anger I've ever experienced.

I had been sick for 1.5 years.  Unquenchable thirst.  Dire hunger.  Extreme weight loss.  Chronic fatigue.  Continuous sinus infections.  Depression.  Tingling in my feet and hands.    I had every single classic symptom of type I diabetes.

I saw five medical professionals (some of them multiple times), all of whom failed to do a simple blood sugar test that would have given us the answer. 

On 3/24/06, I came home from my annual gynecologist appointment.  I was exhausted, as usual, and very, very thirsty.  I had just guzzled down some sort of orange shake-thing I purchased at a drive-thru window.  Then I took my shoes off, laid down for a nap and slept for hours.   I woke up to more thirst.  I gulped down two large glasses of juice.  And, as it always did, my stomach grew bloated in a matter of seconds from consuming so much liquid so quickly.

I was having an increasingly hard time breathing.  It felt like my lungs refused to fill with air.  

I called Steve (or did he call me?---I cannot remember many details and events from that 1.5 year time period)...and he wanted to call 911.  I refused.  I told him it was probably just my childhood asthma flaring up from the inconsistent weather conditions, winter giving way to spring.

He said he was coming home.  (I'm pretty sure God told him it was time.  Something was going down.)   We hung up, and I fell right back to sleep.  

Steve arrived home and insisted we head to the ER. I told him I would go after he got me more juice.  He did.  I gulped.  We left.

I was admitted to a private ER room very quickly.  Nurses took multiple, large blood samples from both of my arms.  I begged them for something to drink and a blanket, and another, and another, until they ran out of blankets.  I was pissed.  Where was my drink?  And why didn't I have an oxygen mask on to help me breathe?

Finally, a doctor burst into my room, papers on a clipboard in hand, and reported the words that would change my life.

Diabetes.

Insulin.

Ketoacidosis.

ICU.

In the following days, I was told by multiple hospital staff members that I should be comatose or most-likely dead. 

I was experiencing a miracle.

But I sure didn't feel very heavenly.

The following days involved a lot of horrible moments and interactions.

Blood draws every hour.

Heart monitor.

Fluids running through my veins that felt like ice mixed with glass.

Sympathetic looks.

Pathetic looks.

Bruises.

Horse pills. 

Injections.

Injections.

Injections.

Automatic blood pressure cuffs that squeezed my tiny arm.

Two roommates.  One who tried to sleep-walk and cried out to her dead husband.  Another, an obese woman, who puked non-stop and then left because her insurance wouldn't pay for another night.

People sending me "get well" cards (ha...as if you get well from a forever-disease) and flowers (I'm allergic).  People asking to visit.   I said no.  No. No.  Leave me the hell alone, in my hell. 

Oh, except a few family members and a friend who came and rubbed my feet.  Makes me tear up just thinking of that humble act.  My feet, they felt like they were asleep for two weeks straight...and that foot rub brought so much temporary relief.  Feeling a non-medically guided hand on my skin was one small victory. 

The lab nurse with the super-long, stringy hair---the hair the drifted across my tender, bruised arms at 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m., all while I listened to roommate #1 cry out to her dead husband while I paged the nurses to warn them that she was threatening to walk out and how bad that catheter was going to hurt when she managed to propel herself over the side of the bed.

There was day #3 (or #4?) when my first diabetes nurse educator came into my room.  A woman I instantly trusted because she wasn't too skinny, nor was she overweight.  She had a kind face, gentle eyes, hair just a little bit wild enough to make me like her.  She talked about insulin, and needles, and carbohydrates (and counting them---dammit, I hate math!)... And then she realized I wasn't listening.  I was curled up in the fetal position, covered in sticky plastic things that would alert the hospital if I tried to die on them, wearing a ugly, stiff hospital gown made for Goliath.  I was angry.

Stupid diabetes.

Stupid long-haired lab lady.

Stupid GP who failed to diagnose me despite seeing him 16x in 1.5 years.

Stupid faux diagnosis claims. 

Stupid needles.

Stupid roommates, torturing me with their sleeplessness and hauntings.

Stupid flowers that smelled like a funeral.

Stupid hospital décor.  Salmon and mauve and sea-foam green:  What the hell kind of color palate is that?

Stupid food trays with fruit cocktail in syrup, and stiff, luke-warm ham (I hate ham!), and DIET soda and DIET Jello.  Sugar-free anything tastes like Windex.

Stupid insulin that smelled like nail polish remover.

Stupid nurses who talked to me like I was five years old and wrote their names in red marker (the color of blood) with bubbly letters on my room's dry erase board.

Stupid doctors placing glossy type 2 diabetes brochures on my bedside table.  Those brochures with their stupid smiling models who looked nothing like type 2 diabetics---slim, tan, mountain in the background.   (Hey, docs.  I have type I.  But thanks for noticing).

Stupid.

The CDNE smiles just enough that I don't want to punch her in the face.   Then she says, "Do you two plan on having children?"

And all the sudden, I'm listening. 

"Yes," Steve and I say simultaneously.  

I prop myself up in my bed.  All 97 pounds of bones and skin.   Talk to me. 

"You still can, you know."  She smiles encouragingly and proceeds, happy she finally said something that got my attention.

But I'm done listening.

Because a single word pops into my mind.  

And I know, immediately, without an ounce of doubt or fear.  

"Adoption."  

 

 

"Peace and Quiet"

Peace and Quiet.

It's a tall order for any mother.

When I was younger and living at home with my siblings and parents, we'd ask my mom what she would want for her birthday, Mother's Day, or Christmas, and her response was always (jokingly) the same:  "Peace and quiet."

Serenity is hard to come by when you are a mother.  Even when you schedule opportunities for yourself, at least 50% of the time, the plans have to be cancelled.  A child gets sick.  You get sick.   You forget about a prior engagement, usually something the opposite of relaxing, like a yearly gyno appointment or a dental checkup.   Or there's that project you forgot you agreed to help with.  

This has been a weird past few months for me, adoption-wise.   A lot has been going on, and it's been confusing and frustrating and emotional.  I feel pretty isolated at times in these struggles, since I always honor the privacy of our children and their birth families and there are very few who truly get (and whom we trust) these struggles.  And I just am a bit burnt out on all-things-adoption.    I spend a lot of time filling the cups of others:  recommending articles, discussing agency options, writing articles about ethics, reading books, talking to prospective adoptive parents.   I do enjoy these things---but I'm feeling the need to take a step back and find my "peace and quiet" for the sake of my own sanity.

Even though I'm a strong advocate of the oxygen-mask mentality (you know, putting the mask on yourself first in order to best serve the person next to you on the plane)---I haven't been practicing it as much as I should.   I've been giving a bit too much, which, to my detriment, hinders my own growth and understanding of adoption and adoptive parenting.

There's been some major changes this year for our family.   Baby Z was born in January.   We have three kids under age five.  That's a game-changer:  three kids.   (Granted, I feel like the fuller my house, the fuller my heart).  Then in March, my book was published, and I've spent a lot of my "spare" time promoting my book through guest blog posts and tv and radio show appearances.    Then I just decided last week that I'm done teaching at the university for awhile.  I cannot fathom teaching a few classes, keeping up with my house and my three kids, continuing to write for Adoption.net and promoting my book and writing freelance articles, and being a decent human being who has friends.   Plus, November, December, and January are VERY busy months for our family between four birthdays, Thanksgiving, and Christmas (plus two birth family visits and a huge adoptive family Christmas party we host).  Oh yes, and then there's the ever-present chronic disease...   Something has got to give.   And I've decided it's teaching.  

So, how do any of us, who need and desire "peace and quiet" gain those things when our plates are so full?  

I'm going to choose peace.  

Yep, it's a choice.  

Circumstances come and go.  There are always challenges and confusion and unpredicted rain showers.  There are always moments, if not seasons, of discomfort and guilt and discord.   There are always "haters" (whomever or whatever yours are) attempting to steal your joy.   Tamper with your soul.   Distract you from what matters most.    Sometimes, you are your own hater. 

It's a choice to let garbage in.  And you know the saying:  garbage in, garbage out.  Once garbage takes hold of your life, it can't help but come out:  in your emotions, in your words, in your actions, in your thoughts, in your relationships, in your parenting, in your job.  

That garbage could be a particular person or group. That garbage could be foods that don't nourish and energize your body for the tasks you have to handle that day. That garbage could be media (tv show, social media, magazines that tell you to hate how you look). That garbage could be too much clutter in your home that hinders you from being thankful for what you have and enjoying your favorite things. That garbage could be saying "yes" to commitments you aren't truly passionate about. That garbage could be a bad habit: gossiping, overspending, overcommitting, self-depreciating.

So the only way to keep that stuff out is to never let it in.  Don't even flirt with it.

Choose peace.

Eliminate distractions.

Nourish your priorities:  those essential relationships (God #1 trickles down into all other relationships), your health, and your life callings. 

By doing these things, you create quietness:  in your spirit.  

Be still and know that I am God

~Psalm 46:10

 



 

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

~It Is Well With My Soul (Horatio G. Spafford)

Peace and quiet is possible. 

I hope that today, you and I both have the courage to take steps towards peace and quiet.  

"Just a minute."

Welcome to one of the phrases most commonly heard in my home.  

It starts out with one of my children asking for a drink, a hug, a mediator, assurance, a potty-partner, etc.   "Mommy, _______?"

Me:  "Just a minute."

With three little ones, each just two years apart in age, I'm constantly dealing with the most-demanding/pressing child first.   

Other phrases uttered/yelled/blurted:

"Let's go.  Today."

"Hands are not for hitting."  (Feet are not for kicking, teeth are not for biting, etc.)

"That's unaccectable."  or "That's not appropriate." 

"Seriously?"

"That's one.  That's two.  That's...three.  Corner." 

"If you cannot listen and obey me, you are not going to _____, because I know you won't listen and obey your teacher there either."  (Fill in blank:  hip hop class, gymnastics, Sunday School, preschool, a friend's house.)

I used to read a great blog (that is no longer being written, because the mama is homeschooling and parenting three very young kids---and is a bit, well, busy), where the mama suggested creating a family purpose and parenting goals, because choosing not to do so means you are pretty much just winging it every day without knowing what you are creating, heading towards, or establishing in your children's hearts. 

Sounds good.

But, as with all-things-parenting, it's easier said than done.

Some days I feel like a complete failure as a parent.   Why?  It comes in many forms.   Maybe it's because someone posted a picture of their kid on Facebook doing something my kid, the same age, cannot yet do.   Or maybe it's the fact that I haven't read my children a book in three days (something I highly value doing).  Or maybe it's that I'm giving my kids scrambled eggs and an apple for dinner AGAIN.  Or maybe it's that I feel like I just cannot catch up, and I can never, never get ahead.   Or maybe it's the fact that I just cannot sit down and speak to my husband for five minutes without someone demanding a drink.  Or it could be that I let my child watch more than the one hour of recommended time of television that day. 

But I'm trying to fill my mind and heart with good stuff.   Peaceful stuff.   Affirming stuff.  Because there are a lot of things out there that are trying to tell me to do more (not better, just more), to move away from my motherly instincts and instead invest my mental energy in comparisons, and to be really good at everything (to have it all)---which, we all know is a total myth.  Impossible.   No one has it all and has all that together. 

Something has got to give.

Every day.    Every minute.

I was talking to a mom the other day about the fact that we always feel stuck, always a bit chaotic, always a little bit guilty.   But the truth is, our kids are probably doing really well.   They are blossoming in their own ways in their own seasons.   They have great parents.  They are talented and beautiful and creative and smart.  

They are ok.

I recently wrapped up a study of Sally Clarkson's book Desperate.  And in one of our study sessions, we were talking about how hard it is to be a "good Christian lady" (whatever that is) when we are so buried in the demands of motherhood.   I said that I'm not the woman who lights a candle while sitting in her cozy chair and sipping hot tea at 5 a.m. (before everyone is up) and pouring over my Bible and humming old-school hymns.     I'm not the Christian many of the books say I'm supposed to be.   And one of the mamas said, "You know.  Don't you think God cuts us some slack?  Don't you think that we might be doing the right thing right where we are?"    And I thought, whoa.  She's right!  I mean, if we are always worried about LOOKING and APPEARING right, but aren't ever really just being us and staying focused on the few things that matter the most, does it really matter what our Jesus-time looks like?    My real Jesus time is a mental prayer when my children are driving me up the wall or someone cuts me off in traffic or someone says something nasty about me or asks an annoying and intrusive adoption question...and it goes like this, "Jesus, help me right now, in this moment, to do the right thing."

My motherhood is my ministry right now.    Even when I do tell God, like I tell my kids, and my husband, and everyone else who wants just a second of my time, "Wait a minute."   Those minutes are sometimes just minutes.  But sometimes they are days.  Sometimes they are hours.    But I'm working on that.   Embracing the moment.  Listening to God's whispers throughout the day as I cuddle, discipline, encourage, guide.

As the holidays approach, routines will be upset, food will tempt me to fake-forget my diabetes, my kids will be spoiled with gifts and will likely say many wrong things and the wrong times to relatives, and my home will be turned upside-down and inside-out with planning and preparation and partying. 

I'm going to say, "Wait a minute" more times than I want to admit.

But I'm going to work hard to give those precious minutes to who matters most.   And I'm going to try my best, with the help of God, who is always with me even when I tell Him to "wait."    Thankfully, He doesn't listen.  He gives me what I need, when I need it, no matter what.

----

During the craziness of the upcoming holidays, it's easy to slip into ineffective discipline practices with your children.  Check out this post on creative ways to correct your littles.

  

Adoption Month + Diabetes Month = Sweet November

November is a particularly special month for me.  

November is hailed as Diabetes Month:   to create awareness of the disease and to prompt individuals to give to organizations that are fighting for a cure, particularly for the type of diabetes I have (type I diabetes, which is often diagnosed in children and young adults). 

November is also Adoption Month.  The main goal is to shine the spotlight on the number of children in foster care who are waiting to be adopted into a forever family.   Statistics range, but on average, it's believed that there are about 130,000 children in the United States who are legally free for adoption and are waiting to be chosen by an adoptive family.  Many of these children are minorities, part of sibling groups, older children, or are kids with special needs.

For me, this month signifies two of the most major events in my life:  being diagnosed with type I diabetes and subsequently, choosing adoption instead of becoming a mom through biology. 

And, two of my three children were born in November.  I became a mother in November of 2008 when Miss E arrived. 

So, there's a lot going on in my mind this month.  A lot in my heart, too.

For certain, during this month when we celebrate Thanksgiving, I have much to be thankful for.  Yet I'm still remaining hopeful that God is going to continue to do awesome things in our family and hopefully, in my lifetime, allow my disease to be cured.   

Peace to you as this month begins.   And thank you for your readership.    

Where I've Been, Where I'm Going

I've spent some time lately thinking about how much my life has changed in the past few years and where it's headed.

First, yes, I have my "hands full" (as so many people remind me) with three little ones. 

But I've managed to "have it all."  I got my degrees, spent eight years teaching college composition (meanwhile adopting three children), wrote a book, wrote many articles, started and have maintained the role as facilitator of an ever-growing adoptive mom support group.   God has been good to me.

And I'm only 31. 

I'm at the point now where I look at people in their early twenties and realize I'm old(er).   And hopefully wiser.  More mature.  I have learned to be more gracious.  Less naive.  Less dramatic.  Less enticed by lesser things.

And I'm also at this place where I'm thinking, Now what?

I'm not teaching this fall, for the second semester in a row.  My longest break from being in a school since kindergarten.  It's strange.  Exciting.  A bit scary.

The book was published in March and has been steadily selling since.

My friend and I started a business on Etsy, which is slow, but we believe in what we're doing. 

I'm in this place where I'm wondering what I should be doing next.

Should I...
---work vigorously to promote my book and the Etsy business?
---start another book?
---go back to writing articles?
---start a new business?
---keep blogging/stop blogging?
---something else?

Or simply focus on my husband, my kids, and my diabetes/staying healthy?  

I feel change brewing.  Quietly roaring under some surface.   A mild prompting.

What is it?

I flipped open my Bible the other day, and here's the verse that is resonating with me as I move in whatever direction God would have me:

And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.

 

Hebrews 11:6

 

D-Day Anniversary

On Sunday, I will celebrate (if that's the right word to use?) my seven-year diabetes diagnosis anniversary.

I'm always very uneasy the entire month of March.    Usually I start the month off feeling overwhelmed and anxious and I can't figure out why...then I remember...

I remember during Thanksgiving of 2004.  It was my first break from my first semester of grad school:  teaching my first section of composition, working in a tutoring center, and taking my first two grad school classes.  The break offered a breath of fresh air).   Steve and I headed up north to visit family in the Chicago area.   The day after Thanksgiving, I ventured out with my mom, sister, aunt, and cousins.   We went to store after store, fighting crowds, laughing at the most outrageous items, snacking.   A headache crept up.  First mild, then severe.   I had to sit on a mannequin display in Target.  (It takes a lot for this girl to sit down during a shopping trip.)   My mom bought some Tylenol and gave me two.   It didn't help.  After we got back to my aunt and uncle's, I began to experience chills and throbbing stomach pain that intensified greatly overnight and continued through the next day as we traveled home.   My stomach spasmed so painfully I couldn't catch my breath.    I couldn't eat for a few days, dropping a few pounds, which usually is every girl's dream.

A few days later I was feeling better and jumped right back into my usual routine.  Immediately after Christmas break, I propelled into my second semester of grad school, teaching two classes this time.   All I did was grade papers, prep for class, read, study, and write.    I spent hours locked up in my home office, books and papers scattered all over the floor.

Then summer came.   Steve and I went to Disney World in May.   It was a lovely trip.   But looking back on photos, I cannot believe how sick I looked.

Gradually, I began to get sicker and sicker.  It started with chronic sinus infections, weight loss, and fatigue.   In the later months, I was going to the bathroom constantly (even not making it sometimes in the middle of the night), losing more and more weight (down to a size 0 which was too big), extreme fatigue, and consuming an extraordinary amount of food and drink every day.  

It was a very desperate time for me.  I had seen five medical professionals over the 1.5 years I was sick.   I was diagnosed with anorexia, sinus issues, vision problems.   No one could help me.

I was drowning in my own body.   And no one was helping me.

March 24, 2006 was the day that changed the course of my life.

After arriving home from a medical appointment and having guzzled an orange drink, at ten-ish in the morning, I curled up on the couch for another one of my naps.  

I didn't hear my phone ring and ring and ring.

Finally, somehow, I woke up out of my fog and picked up my phone.  It was my husband.   He knew something was wrong.

I remember him asking me if I wanted him to call an ambulance.  I said no.  He said, "I'm coming home."

I awoke to him at my side, handing me my gym shoes.  We got in the car.  I didn't fight him as we drove to the ER.  I was panicked.  I couldn't catch my breath.   Must be my childhood asthma flaring up.  

Nurses in and out in and out.   I begged for drinks.   They invaded my veins again and again.  I was so cold.  I had every warm blanket available covering me.  The fluorescent lights were shining down upon me, angry and harsh.

Finally.  Finally.

A doctor burst into my room and said, "We know why you've been so sick.   You have a blood sugar of 700.  You have diabetes."   He left.

Wheeled up to the ICU.  Hooked up.  It's quiet in there and calm.  I get my own nurse. 

"You could have died," she said.

The visiting doctor tells me the same thing.

So does the nurse educator two days later.

I should have been dead.

Who survives 1.5 years of her body eating itself alive?  Sugar tearing through every vein, every organ, destroying, deteriorating, drowning.

Despite the blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm every thirty  minutes, reminding me I was now in a forever-prison of disease.  Despite blood test after blood test.  Despite the ugly as hell hospital gowns that were four sizes too big.  Despite the heart monitors that beeped and beeped and beeped and wouldn't leave me alone.  Despite two horrible roommates who robbed me of sleep for nights on end.   Despite having to learn to befriend needles and syringes and looks of disgust and shame.   Despite people telling me "at least it's not cancer" and saying if anyone could handle this beast of disease it was me.

Despite.  

Beat the odds.

I was relieved.   I was relieved.  I had an answer.  I had a name to give the madness.  I had management options.

Three days after my diagnosis, while curled up in the fetal position in a hospital bed while listening to my diabetes educator talk about insulin and carb counting and syringes...I heard God tell me one word loud and clear:

ADOPTION.

It's what I now realize I was able to cling to,  unknowingly, during those hellish nights when my blood sugar would plummet to 36 or days when people all around me would be happily bustling from place to place, sipping grande Starbucks drinks or chomping on greasy fries, while I saw another 300-something reading on my glucose meter.   I was able to cling to it when I organized glossy brochures entitled "Your Sick Day Plan" and "Counting Carbohydrates."  I was able to cling to it while I sat in sterile doctors' offices, surrounded by elderly people with oxygen tanks and baggies full of prescription pill bottles.  I was able to cling to it when lab reports arrived in the mail.  Each finger stick, each injection, each drop of insulin.   Each time I heard someone call me a "diabetic" or asked, for the 100th time, "Is your disease under control?"

I tackled diabetes with all I had. 

I want to win.   I don't every day. 

But occasionally a "100" will appear on my glucose monitor.   Or I'll spend a day eating so healthy that Dr. Oz might just show up and give me an award.   Or my energy level is so high, the sun is shining, and my kids are smiling.

This disease SUCKS.   It's a prison.  I'm never free.  I always have a heavy, heavy weight on my chest and a cloud over my head.  A storm is always brewing.   I'm never without worry.   I'm never certain if the flutter in my chest is because my sugar is going up or down or because I'm simply nervous or excited.   I see specialists.   I sit in waiting rooms with people three times my age.   Whiel everyone around me guzzles sodas and seemingly swallows donuts and burgers whole, I am trying to eat the organic salad.   

Every day is a fight.   Every day I tread water, desperate to stay afloat.

And the one and only thing that keeps me sane is the fact that I had and still have hope.

To call my disease a blessing is a joke most days.  But deep down, I know it's true.

Without diabetes, without my 1.5 years in medical hell and the climb up from that valley, I wouldn't have adopted my children.

I cannot imagine my life without them.

My disease reminds me how precious life is.   And how desperately I need God.   And how there's no way I ever could of planned a life this incredible.

I wouldn't have chosen diabetes, and I don't wish it upon my worst enemy.   

But I wouldn't trade my journey for anything.

It's a pretty sweet life. 

  

Adoptive Breastfeeding

UPDATE:    Well, my internet has been funky all day, so I'm just now posting this.   I pumped for two and half days.   Then I learned the extent of the FBI and DCFS contract conflict in our lovely state of Illinois, which means it might be longer than expected for us to be able to adopt.     So the pumping is on hold.

Here's what I want to say:

1:  Please read the original post below.     I stand by everything I said!

2:  My consultant made a great point:  Breastfeeding is about a relationship, not about milk.    I stand by this as I put the pumping/breastfeeding on hold for now.

3:  I am not willing to pump for months on end with no due date, no end to this state nonsense, and with no match.     It's time-consuming, and to be perfectly honest, I am SO tired from staying up until 11 p.m. to pump and then getting up at 3 a.m. to pump.

4:  It wasn't painful to pump at all, and my consultant says pumping or breastfeeding shouldn't be painful.  If it is, you need to get help on fixing the issue.  

5:  I encourage you, if you are tinkering with the idea, to give it a whirl.    If it weren't for all this legal drama, I would probably continue.

I continue to welcome your comments and thoughts!  You all have been a tremendous blessing and source of encouragement!

-----


Arguably, adoptive breastfeeding is one of the most taboo topics in the adoption realm.     I think this is the case for a few reasons:

1:  Some just think it's outright strange.  Breastfeed a child who isn't biologically yours?   

2:  Some think you haven't earned it.  If you can't conceive, or go through 9 months of pregnancy, or give birth, then why do you think you deserve to breastfeed?  Earn your right to breastfeed, sister.

3:  Some think breastfeeding in general is gross/unnatural/strange/inappropriate/inconvenient, so adoptive breastfeeding.....

4:  Some don't know it's even possible, so when they hear of it, the initial reaction isn't positive.

5:  Some people are uncomfortable with anything that isn't within their own experience.

6:  Some people believe that birth parents would be deeply hurt knowing that their child is being breastfed by the adoptive mother.    Some also believe birth parents should be involved in the decision of the adoptive baby being breastfed or not.  

7:  Insert your own thoughts here.

I have contemplated breastfeeding for over four years now.  I didn't vocalize it much, because I wanted to avoid judgement (which is funny since we adopted transracially, and I don't care if someone has a problem with it).  

There is only one fairly-current book dedicated to adoptive breastfeeding:   Breastfeeding an Adopted Baby and Relactation.     Many breastfeeding books touch on the topic, but generally, very lightly.    There's also the Newman-Goldfarb method where the mother is encouraged to take certain medications and follow a particular set of techniques to induce lactation.    This book on attachment and this book on breastfeeding are also helpful.    (Note: Martha Sears, wife of Dr. William Sears, is an adoptive mother and breastfed her adopted daughter.)  Finally, my own breastfeeding consultant, Dee Kassing, published a fantastic article on a bottle-feeding method that supports breastfeeding.   (My sources say that many adoptive mothers do not make enough milk to exclusively breastfeed, so these moms have to supplement with alternative ways of feeding, be it bottles or an SNS).     

Here's what I've learned, in a nutshell:

1:  Inducing lactation, even if you've never been pregnant, is probably quite possible, but it can be extra challenging.

2:  Breastfeeding, even if NO milk is produced, is still beneficial for the mother and the baby.

3:  If you're adopting, you are already in the realm of "abnormal," so don't worry about what other people think and do what you want with your baby.  :)    (Get some inspriration here.)

4:  There ARE people who will support you.  The first person who needs to support you, if you go the breastfeeding route, is your partner.  The second person is your consultant (be it your doctor, a LeLeche leader, another lactation consultant, etc.).   Finally, you need others (friends and family---some, not all) to support your choice.  

(Note:  The best advice I got from a fellow adoptive mom when we were waiting to adopt transracially and needed to tell our nearest-and-dearest that we were open to a child of any race was this:  Tell with confidence; don't ask permission.     I think the same can be applied to adoptive breastfeeding.   You want support, so you may say, "We are choosing adoptive breastfeeding, and I hope I have your support."   Offer resources if prompted or if you think it would be helpful).  

Here are my personal fears:

1:  My diabetes.  Always.  My diabetes.  (Did I mention my diabetes?)

2:  Having two small children in the house already.   Is it possible to effectively breastfeed and care for two other children?  I also worry how fair it is to give a new baby so much mommy-time (more than I would having bottle fed) when I already have two children who need my attention.  And my husband generally did many of the middle-of-the-night feedings with our first two; will he be missing out on his bonding time if I snatch so much of the baby's time? 

3:  Sleep.  I don't just love to sleep.  I NEED to sleep.  People who sleep well weigh less, are overall healthier, and are more productive.  Oh yes, and they are in better moods.  :)

4:   Convenience.  I know, I know.  The age-old argument is that you don't need a bottle; just whip out the breast and feed the kid.   But it's likely I'll need to do both (breast and bottle feed), so it's almost extra inconvenient.  And I love convenience.  I hate time gaps, driving long distances, waiting.  basically, I'm impatient and demanding.   Though I've grown a bit better with time, I'm still me.

What I know is:

1:  I really want to do this.   I have wanted to for four years.  I don't know how many kids we'll adopt, but I don't want this chance to pass me by.

2:  Breastfeeding will force me to bond with my new baby quicker than if I (or any nearby person who wants to help a desperate mom of three) pop a bottle in the baby's mouth (perhaps propped up by laundry-waiting-to-be-folded). 

3:  It's healthier for the baby than formula.  (I know, I know.  Formula has come SUCH a long way; it's healthy; babies across the world are fed formula every day and are fine.)     My oldest daughter received milk from my sister-in-law for the first month of my daughter's life.   I strongly believe this great start has helped my oldest daughter continue to grow up healthy.    Maybe the breastmilk helped her with the potential family allergy issues?  I'd like to believe it did! 

4:  Babies grow up SO fast.   There's only a small window of opportunity when adoptive breastfeeding is possible for any given child.  (THIS IS THE THING I KEEP REMINDING MYSELF OF.....)

5:  I don't carry much at all about what other people think.   I'm confident in my choices.  If someone has a problem with my decisions, he or she is spending too much time focusing on me and not on himself or herself.     (I did consider NOT blogging about this.  Is it TMI?   Will anyone care?  Will I lose readers if I start throwing around the b words like breastfeeding and breasts and bras?)

6:  There are always options.   I'm not up for taking any drugs to induce lactation.   Some mothers swear by it, but I'm incredibly picky about what I put into my body (thank you, diabetes!).   My consultant has shared with me that by pumping, along with some other natural procedures (hand expression, herbs, along with my own belief in positive thinking and visualization), it's possible to produce milk.  (BIG SIGH OF RELIEF).      And again, even if I don't produce anything, it's ok! 

I'd love to hear from you.  What do you think about adoptive breastfeeding?  Have you done it?  Considered it?  Researched it?   Why was it (or why wasn't it) for you?   

For more inspiration, check out these articles found on Adoptive Families website:

How I Was (Sort of) Able to Breastfeed

What You Need to Know to Breastfeed Your Baby

Nursing School

Nursing Matthew