Pretty sure this is illegal...

... but April Fool's anyway.

Mr. Peeper Man

Right in the middle of dinner tonight, someone knocked at our door. Steve opened the door to a slightly familiar face: the same guy who knocked 6 months ago to ask if we'd like a peep hole installed for only! forty! five! dollars! Let's call this guy "Cletus" for the sake of storytelling, mkay?

When he came last fall, I told Steve, right in front of Cletus, "You can install one yourself for 10 bucks like you did at our last house, can't you?" Steve smiled and nodded to Cletus, "Home Depot." But this didn't quell our determined Cletus like I thought it might, ohhh no! Didn't you know that The Home Depot does not have superior spy-hole-getting connections at its disposal like Cletus? Neither does Lowe's or Ace: I mentioned these to him as well, and let me just make it clear to you right now that you cannot find a go-go-gadget peeper such as Cletus' any.where.else. but through Cletus. Because Cletus is The Peeper Man! And he knows the secret phone number and/or internet address to get a peeper that can peep on your ENTIRE PORCH. And did I mention that you can't get this amazing peripheral peeper anywhere else? Well. You can't.

So this time when Cletus reappeared, we knew we had to bring a little more compelling explanation to the door in order to get back to our little family dinner before it went cold.

"Aww, Cletus, you're two months late. See, we just had a video surveillance system installed. As part of our home security package? Yeah, so when someone rings the doorbell, we just push a little button back in our kitchen back there? And voila! We can see the ennnntiiiire porch, isn't that amazing?"

And now I'm thinking, if I would have just paid Cletus his frick-fracking $45 bucks, I could avoid situations like this altogether. But then, I don't know, that might be a little too tempting for me. Why, I could go months and months without ever having to answer the door! Once I peeped to see who's on the other side, I could just keep on walking by (quietly, of course) and continue on with my evening. Yeah, maybe the peep hole is the way to go because right now? Not knowing who's knocking and still ignoring it brings me too much guilt. I HAVE to answer.

Birth Story Chapter 4: Ours

Click here to read Chapter 3
Click here to start from the beginning.

Teresa met us back at our house about 15 minutes after I hung up the phone. The funny thing about all this is, we technically hadn't finished our application process. The paperwork was done and approved, but there's a series of interviews and home inspections called a "Home Study" that has to be performed before a couple can be considered for adoption. But fate kind of shoved the cart before the horse in our case...

Teresa explained to us that Ashley had already chosen another adoptive family. This family was so excited for their baby to be born! They were all ready to go, were even at the hospital during labor and delivery. And then he was born. And he was beautiful, and he was perfect. And he was everything they had hoped for. And still they pulled Teresa aside and said, "We can't believe we're telling you this. And we have absolutely no reason at all. We just know this isn't our baby." They left the hospital heart broken. In tears. And Ashley was left devastated and helpless. What was she supposed to do now?

Teresa racked her brain for options to give to Ashley. We immediately popped into her head. But she shoved the thought aside. "They're not done" she told herself over and over as we kept coming to mind. Finally she had decided. "Kenna and Steve: NO for sure." And then five minutes later, another social worker whom we had never met, walked up to her and said, "I think you should consider telling Ashley about Kenna and Steve." Teresa said she initially snapped back at her, "No. They’re not. Done." But no matter how she went about it, she always came back around to us.

That first couple at the hospital had no idea why they had to do what they did. But as Teresa told us how things had gone down the day before, we knew why. And as courageous and humiliating as it must have been for that other couple to back out of something they had been looking forward to for months, we knew they were right. This baby wasn’t meant to be theirs. Call it what you like. Fate, destiny, following Heaven’s clues, there was no doubt in our minds – that sweet, tiny, perfect little being we met the night before was ours, and he was ours before we even knew he existed.

It took approximately 17 hours to complete our Home Study with our social worker. And by 17 hours, I mean 4. As soon as we finished, we were able to go back to the hospital to meet that beautiful boy again – this time, as his parents.

We arrived at the hospital just in time to see Ashley once again. She spent about 20 minutes alone with her son and then hugged us both good bye before checking out of the hospital to fly home to her family. As I held her, I whispered “Thank you” into her ear. Words were never so inadequate. I cried as I watched that intrepid young woman walk down the hall, leaving us with her heart; her hope.

It was hard to watch her leave, not really knowing who she was, yet possessing a part of her. I knew she would never be able to understand the great love I had for her. I ached for her. But at the same time, my heart galloped with joy. This was my son! And this time, when I lifted him into my arms, I knew him. I really knew him. I felt his peaceful soul, and it wrapped its adoring arms around my heart.

Me with Carter in the waiting room of the hospital. Because I wasn't a hospital patient like most moms are, I didn't have a room. Carter spent 3 nights in the hospital because of jaundice, so we slept on the couch in the waiting room, and that's where the nurses brought him to be fed during the night. A few of the nurses didn't really "get it". I had to throw a fit a couple of times, pounding on the nursery window and showing them my bracelet and shouting "My baby's in there too" through the glass. For some reason some of them didn't understand why I wanted to feed him. Get. A. Clue, people.

Ready to leave the hospital and go home! I sat in the back seat with Carter on the way home. The radio was on in the car, but barely loud enough to hear. I recognized some Ashley Simpson song and started singing along while I stroked Carter's cheek. I looked up to see Steve's glassy eyes in the rear view mirror. I said, "Are you crying?" he blinked and said, "You're singing to our son."

We called them Carter burritos, and they were the best tasting in all the land.

Birth Story Chapter 3: "Don't get your hopes up."

Click here to start from Chapter 1.

“Now? You mean like now now?”

We had pretty much been waiting by the phone all night long even though Teresa (our social worker) had told us earlier not to expect a call until the next day. An hour later we found ourselves in the hospital elevator, creeping ever too slowly up to the third floor. A nice lady from the adoption center was there to meet us. She was ready to take us right into Ashley’s hospital room, but I stopped –

“Wait.” I said, “Behind that door is a girl who has the most overwhelming task of choosing someone to entrust with her very most precious possession. Forever. And here we are… what are we supposed to say? How are we supposed to act? Don’t you have any advice for us?”

“Just relax and be yourselves.”

Well. Sure. But, what else could there be? There’s just no possible way to prepare for this inimitable moment. We just had to do it. So we gave her a nod, and she opened the door to room 324. Every millisecond lasted a minute as we walked into that room. The bathroom wall jutted out into the room, blocking our view of the bed for a few steps. I couldn’t believe my feet were actually moving forward, one in front of the other. Finally, after what seemed like a mile of textured wallpaper passing by me, the bathroom wall ended and the room opened up before my view.

And then I saw her face.

Have you ever been just sure there was an intruder in your home? Sheer panic sets in. Your adrenaline skyrockets. And then the “intruder” turns around and you see your friend’s face and you go, “Oh. It’s just YOU.” The pure and unadulterated relief you feel in that moment? That’s what washed over me when I saw Ashley’s face. “Oh. It’s just you.” As if I had known her forever.

But I didn’t know her. Not at all. And I didn’t know the tiny blue bundle she was holding, either. It had two inches of black hair sticking straight out one end. I tried not to stare.

Ashley smiled. Her face was still and serene. Her smile was peaceful. We sat down in two wooden chairs.

“Hi,” we smiled, “How are you?”

Her quiet voice responded, “I’m doing good. You’re Kenna and Steve?”

She asked us questions about how we met. What we like to do together. Our future family plans. She lifted her swaddled treasure up and asked if I’d like to hold him. So I did, and I fed him his bottle as we continued to learn about each other. If I told you I felt an instant magical connection the very moment I lifted that little baby into my arms, I’d be lying. In fact, all I could think was, "DON’T look at him. DON’T fall in love with him." But it was impossible. He was perfect and mesmeric.

After an hour and a half, Ashley said to us, “I felt really warm when I read your profile. And I’m glad I got to meet you. Thank you for coming to see me even though it’s late. I love my baby very much and I have a lot to think about. Please don’t get your hopes up yet.” And then we shared some final small talk. And then we left. And then the entire ride home, I told Steve the reason she said “Don’t get your hopes up.” is because she thinks we are complete idiots and she was just trying to be nice. And Steve told me the reason she said it is because she needed to sleep on her decision to make sure it was right.

I slept like a rock that night. The type of sleep you get just after you’ve bawled your eyes out for hours and then finally the cry headache knocks you out into deep, sweet slumber.

The next morning, I sat up in bed and stared at the wall for a minute while I wondered what I was supposed to be doing.

“Well, it’s Wednesday. So I guess I should go to work? Yeah. Work.”

An hour later as I merged onto the freeway, I had a very lucid moment. I was sure I had become psychic. I told myself through quiet tears, “She didn’t choose you. It’s okay. It just wasn’t meant to be. You’ll be fine. This too shall pass.”

And then my phone rang. It was Teresa.

“Hi Kenna. Where are you?”

“Just driving to work…”

“I just left the hospital. I had a long talk with Ashley. She wanted me to tell you she really appreciates you coming to meet her last night.”

Please say “and” PLEASE say “AND”!

“And. She wants to know if you and Steve would adopt her baby.”

...to be continued (and finished) tomorrow.

Click here to read Chapter 4

Birth Story Chapter 2: Already!?

Click here to start from Chapter 1.

The next morning, after having calmed down in the comfort of my husbands enormous yet gentle arms, I called the doctor to schedule an appointment. In one nervous breath I answered the question And what do you need to be seen for?

“Well, first, I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant so I’d just like a confirmation of that, and second, I haven’t changed a thing about my lifestyle except, well, I did just get married, I guess that’s something, but anyway the point is, in May? I wore size 10 jeans and today? I wear size 18 jeans and I swear I haven’t been eating like a cow, I swear it! So maybe it’s the pregnancy, or maybe there’s something wrong with me. And that’s what I need to be seen for.”

“Mmmmmkay,” she said, “we have an opening at 3:00pm.”

Steve and I walked into the doctor’s office, hand in hand, hearts racing, completely ignorant to what was ahead of us. The doctor took a pregnancy test. It came back negative. But the phenomenal weight gain and other strange symptoms begged him to take a closer look. An MRI showed a small tumor on my pituitary gland, which caused a repeating cycle of freakiness in my body. In short, wigged out hormones caused hundreds of ovarian cysts, which caused the jacking up of different hormones, which caused mega insulin spikes, which caused me to gain weight like a diabetic on a carbo-licious diet.

Blah, blah, blah, fast forward four years and many boring medical quandaries later to 2006, when Steve and I really started wanting a family. We went to a few fertility doctors and at the end of a 2-3 month series of tests, we were candidly informed of our grim situation: we had a small chance of pregnancy with in-vitro fertilization, but even then, I wouldn’t be able to carry a baby for any longer than 20 weeks.

Surprisingly, we both left that particular appointment with the same prevailing feeling of … peace. And I was shocked to discover immense relief within myself! I was somehow able to feel thankfulness in that moment, perhaps because I felt some conclusiveness. Instead of having a reason to hold on to a single thread of hope for what could be years and years of trying to get pregnant, I felt overwhelming closure.

We immediately opened our hearts to the idea of adoption. Steve is a stage 2 testicular cancer survivor, so we knew from the beginning that adoption could be in our future. We chose an adoption agency and picked up the application paperwork. It sat on our kitchen table for months, glaring up at us every time we sat down to dinner. We knew we wanted this, we knew we were ready, but I just wanted to be absolutely sure I wasn’t emotionally hurting about my infertility. That wouldn’t be fair to my child, as it would surely affect my parenting an adopted child. I didn’t want one single reservation. And I hadn’t felt any yet! I didn’t feel any amount pain. I spent an entire year waiting for the pain to come. I thought maybe it was dormant and would eventually surface, at which point I could have a few cleansing weeks of emotional torment, and then I’d know I was fine. I’d know it was time. But all I felt that entire year was excitement to meet our future adopted child.

In early 2007, we dusted off the application papers and filled them out. We dropped them off at the agency and had an interview with a social worker. Two days later we took off on a 7 night Caribbean cruise and ohhh, boy it was divine and spectacular and fabulous. And way too short. And even two whole weeks after we returned, I found myself dreaming of sunshine and sandy beaches at the office. During one particularly poignant daydream on a Tuesday afternoon, my cell phone startled me back to reality:

“Hello?”

“Hi McKenna, it’s Teresa from the adoption center.”

“Oh hey, how’s it going? Did my background check come back clean? Hehe”

“Uh. Ha! Yes, actually, but that’s not why I’m calling. A little boy was born this morning. He was supposed to go to another family, but… that didn’t work out. The reason I’m calling is just to ask you if we can present your profile to the birth mom, Ashley, for consideration.”

All I could say was a pensive, “Oh.”

“I’m really, really sorry to do this to you. I know it puts you on the spot in a major way, but I need an answer within an hour or so.”

She told me several details about this little boy. 8 lbs 4 oz. 20 inches long. Native American. Perfectly healthy. Tons of dark hair. I took copious notes on a fluorescent orange sticky note, and told her I’d call her back.

I ran to my car, and started driving home. I called Steve to tell him the news. He thought his phone was breaking up because all I could utter was, “Hi. Um?” and then I interrupted myself to shake with silent sobs for 10 seconds before I could spit out, “Teresa called,” and then more silent sobs. After a couple rounds of this, Steve knew exactly what was going on, and he met me at our house 10 minutes later.

I told Steve I didn’t think this boy was supposed to be ours because the timing wasn’t right at all. We had just turned in our paper work two weeks earlier! He asked me to list my reasons and all I could come up with was:

1. We haven’t finished painting the kitchen.

2. Our basement isn’t finished.

3. What will I do about my work schedule? You can’t just take maternity leave on 5 minutes notice!

As soon as I finished with the list, all the bawling-induced snot in my head shifted just enough to relieve pressure from the part of my brain that keeps me from being a COMPLETE IDIOT, and we called Teresa to tell her that yes, she could show our profile to Ashley.

Several hours later, she called us back.

“Ashley would like to meet you if you’d feel comfortable coming to the hospital right now.”

…. to be continued.

Click here to read Chapter 3

Birth Story Chapter 1: One day late on posting my story about being 3 weeks late

One of my very favorite bloggers, Sarcastic Mom, is hosting a Birth Story Carnival, inviting all bloggers to tell their stories. I’ve had this carnival on my calendar since it was announced several weeks ago and it would be just like me to get an IKEA hankering on the day of the carnival. I’ve never managed to get out of that forsaken place in less than several hours, and last night was no different. Result: I didn’t even sit down to the computer yesterday. So if you want to get all technical, I'm a day late for the carnival. But I’m still sharing my story with you. And since I’m already late anyway, I suppose it’s not a problem if I tell my story in a few installments instead of plopping in all the details into one post for you to fall asleep over. This is one of the stories I hold closest to my heart. It’s quite remarkable, yet I don’t tell it very often at all.

Here’s the prologue.

And now, our birth story:

********UPDATE********
Oh GREAT, I've created some sort of awkward silence - zero comments. So let me add that the next chapter brings an unexpected twist and this story starts to look much more pretty, very, very soon. No need to feel bad for me just because I used the "F" word. Promise. :)
************************

Chapter 1: 90 Surprises in Under 3 Months

He was different from other guys. Other guys opened doors for me. Fine. This guy pushed in my chair at dinner. He held my coat open for me to slide my arms in. He turned the heater in his car on full blast to keep me from shivering, even though it made him sweat. He deeply respected me. He wasn't too cool to be goofy. He didn't kiss me until Thanksgiving, our fourth date.
And by Christmas, we knew we were forever.
And by New Years, he had picked out a ring.
And by Spring, we had tied the knot.

We came home from our honeymoon to our brand new 600 square foot apartment. Okay, actually it was 40 years old, but it was brand new to us. Our first home together was perfectly tiny. The kitchen had 6 square feet of counter space (I really did measure it).

We woke up every morning at 6:00am to workout and eat breakfast together. After work we’d make dinner together and then cuddle together on the couch, watching television and munching on kettle corn and slices of fresh swiss cheese (not in the same mouthful). Life was so sunny and golden. We were caught up in the whirlwind of newlywed uber-BLISS. So caught up, I didn’t even notice that my body was going through some very rapid, very major changes.

One morning, just several weeks after our May wedding, I was getting dressed, and my size 10 jeans didn’t fit. Man, I couldn’t get that zipper up for the life of me! And here's the real proof I was all fogged over in newlywed bubble-land: It. Didn’t. Even. Phase me. I thought to myself, “Ah, yes. Must be the newlywed 10.” (I don’t know, something similar to the Freshman 15?) As if it was some unavoidable fact of life that would magically resolve itself later. And if that’s not nutty enough for you, it also didn’t bother me to find out later that evening while trying on new jeans that the “newlywed 10” made me jump from a size 10 clear up to a size 14.

But then, a couple weeks later, the same thing happened. My new 14s suddenly didn’t fit anymore. That night I found myself in the dressing room with dozens of hangers ranging from sizes 10 to 22. I left the store with a sac full of 18s and 20s, self conscious and confused. I hadn’t changed my eating habits much at all. I hadn’t become more sedentary. What was going on? I walked to my car with my sac of clothes, newly wed and newly fat. Two and a half months previous, my husband married a thin, beautiful, happy woman. And now some strange enchantment had turned me into a fat person. I was ashamed. I was ugly. I was pissed as hell.

As I drove home that night, I planned the whole thing out: weight loss is mathematical, right? CALORIES IN minus CALORIES OUT = WEIGHT LOSS. I would eat no more than 900 calories per day and do an hour of cardio each morning. I walked in the front door, took three steps forward (in order to cross our tiny living room, go through our minuscule kitchen, and enter our strangely normal-sized bathroom). I stepped on the scale to see just how bad it was.

WHOA.

220 lbs.

WHAT!?

It’s impossible to gain 90 pounds in less than 3 months. Right? RIGHT? Well, at least I had a plan to get it back off. I estimated I'd be back to my normal size in about double the time it took me to gain all this, and that felt conservative. So the next morning, I got to it! I had never worked out so hard in my life. And I stuck with it, too. Every single day for a week and a half, and then? On July 30, 2002 I realized my period was 3 weeks late.

My heart started pounding so hard I was sure I was seconds from a heart attack. I couldn’t believe this was really, truly happening. I couldn’t hide my anxiety behind my newlywed smile any longer. Not even one second longer. I threw myself onto my bed and sobbed into my husband's pillow, staining it with 2 coats of mascara and pink eye-shadow. What could I tell my husband when he got home from work? Three months married, fat, and now pregnant!?

…to be continued.

Click here to read the next chatper.

Big Wuss.

We are sitting in our pitch black basement watching I Am Legend with the bass turned up and we're completely FREAKED. I've heard it gets stupid toward the end. Oh please, oh please get stupid soon!

Slackerdom

Okay, I know, I really do know. I'm a complete slacker. I'll spare you all my (very valid) excuses, although if you're really interested in the details (TMI), be my guest.

So this time I'm really back to blogdom. I've sanitized every corner, spread a line of sand along the perimeter of our home, and otherwise voodoo-prohibited any other illness from entering our home from now until the next time they enter our home again, which thankfully, according to the very wise sage to which I turn with all the most important questions in my life, is "Not likely" to happen even at all. Are you a big old skeptic like most people are when I tell them about this sage advice giver? Need some concrete, mathematical proof? Well, first off I think you should try having a little faith, but if you just can't muster any, then fine. I will tell you that I tested the sage, and have scientifically proven he is not lying to me. Here's your proof, naysayer.

Now that my excuse for not blogging is feeling much better, I'm going to go have a time out for mommy (read: sleep til the cows come home). And by the way? Due to lack of interest, tomorrow is canceled.)

"Priceless"

Number of diaper blowouts today:17
Number of times I've been puked on today: 4
Number of baby baths: 5
Number of large loads of poopy laundry: 4
Can someone please tell me what the "priceless" line is?

Btw that's not even his shirt... Its mine. And that's poop. Very watery poop.

He has a future in extreme sports.

Carter has been getting around really well lately. He seems to have no fear, mowing over anything in his path, climbing up, over, under, inside every new and interesting thing. Yesterday while sitting on the couch with me, he kept throwing himself over the front of the couch and if I didn't reach out to catch him, he would have landed on the floor right on his head. He'd giggle each time I saved him, and finally I thought to myself, "You're not going to be there to catch him every single time. He needs to know this isn't a game. It isn't fun." So the next time he did it, I broke his fall just enough to ensure he would land in a safe position, but otherwise let him feel the full impact of his 18" fall. I prepped to pick him up to dry his tears from the fall, sure that he had learned his lesson this time. But there were no tears. Instead, I heard the most hearty, rip-roaring laughter I've ever heard escape him. Then he turned around, stood up to the couch, and started bouncing up and down, asking me to lift him back up. Bouncing turned to a screaming temper-tantrum, and stupid first-time mom that I am, I gave in and lifted him up to the couch. He didn't sit for one entire second before thrusting his entire body forward and off the couch again.

Well that was yesterday. This morning he stood up on the tile in our kitchen and fell on his face. Ten minutes later, a dark purple bruise appeared in the perfect shape of his left eye socket. Heaven help me.