Thankful

Happy Day After Thanksgiving. Yesterday I had a flu that nearly killed me dead. I caught this unhappy little bug from my son who, when he had it, insisted that he drape himself over me thus contaminating me with all of his germs. Oh motherhood!

Thankfully, our house guests left yesterday morning and made it home to their family in time to spend the holiday with them. We decided that we were not eating Thanksgiving food on account of the fact that I never got out of bed. Instead, I threw up for roughly ten hours, ran a fever, slept when I wasn't visiting the commode and felt like death was upon me.

I looked at Facebook a time or two. This was a stupid idea because, in the words of Junie B. Jones, first grader, wowie wow wow! (If you've never read those books, they are hilarious!) Did you know that everyone and her brother's wife's neighbor post pictures of food on Thanksgiving? Did you know that? This is a very bad thing when you are bound to your bed and bathroom with the plague of vomit. So thank you all. I'm fairly certain I tasted all of your food--only it was coming back up. I'm sure that is not the way you intended it.

I'm so thankful today that it is gone. I still feel like I got hit by a truck, but I'm definitely mending.

I'm also thankful for:

My incredible husband who took care of the boys all day, did a ton of laundry, cleaned the basement, washed the sheets on our bed when I told him they smelled too bad for me to get back in them, brought me Gatorade, and held down the fort. He's a good catch. And don't think I've forgotten.

My boys. They crept into my room last night to check on me. They missed me. It's good to feel wanted.

My family. I missed being with them yesterday. Not that I would have wanted to be with them while I was throwing up but I missed the idea of them being there.

My church family.

The roof over my head.

The food in my pantry and refrigerator.

The fact that we are blessed beyond all measure. We don't own a home. We don't have fancy cars. We don't eat at the nicest of restaurants. But we are privileged to call ourselves God's children. We are redeemed. We are His.

And there is nothing I am more thankful for than that.

Hot Chocolate and Bad Words

This morning, while doing some reading work with Matthew, he was sounding out three letter words. They had pictures with them so he was having a great deal of success. That is, until he got to the card with a picture of a mug on it. "Hot chocolate!" he loudly declared, very proud of himself.

It didn't help that I started to laugh somewhat uncontrollably.

Also noteworthy was the fact that I read him Fix-It Duck. His job was to say that sight word "the" every time we came to it. He was moderately successful. His other job was to shout out the words, "FIX IT DUCK!" whenever we came to that part of the story.

He was doing very well with that part. That is, until the time when he became a little tongue-tied and replaced the all important D in duck with an F. He screamed loudly, "FIX IT %^#*!"

Have I mentioned that the people staying with us are in ministry? I'm sure it was startling when a four-year-old shouting the worst of all bad words echoed down through the ventilation system.

My Boys In Pink

So basically, I'm just sitting around waiting for a six centimeter cyst to rupture inside my body. This is especially special because many of my friends have seen fit to explain the sheer heights of pain that this will bring me. It's apparently like the end stages of labor, passing a kidney stone, swallowing a double edged dagger and having one's body ripped in half all at once. I will likely also be crawling on all fours, writhing, screaming and vomiting all at once. 

Neat times.

I really hope it happens tomorrow or Tuesday while I am teaching math to first graders. "What's happening to you?" they'll ask.

"Oh, just the ridiculous effects of Common Core," I'll reply, through gritted teeth and between rounds of regurgitation. 

I can see myself crawling to the neighboring classroom, barf spewing from my throat. It'll be super if that happens.

Um. Not.

In the meantime, yesterday was National Adoption Day. We celebrated it by snuggling this adorable baby girl.

And realizing just how good my boys look holding pink.

They are now both completely smitten with the tiny bundle.

And I am completely smitten with how gentle and sweet they both are with her.

Pay It Forward

If you've spent any amount of time reading this blog, you know that adoption is one of our most precious joys. So many of you helped us fight for Matthew by lifting us up in prayer, sending money, and holding fundraisers. With every fiber of our being, we know that we could not have done it without the generosity of our families and our friends.

We have always longed for a time when we could pay it forward.

Unfortunately, our financial situation is not one that allows us to hand someone a large check to help them fund their adoption.

Still, we have talked and prayed about a time when we could really help someone realize their dream of bringing a child into their home.

Earlier this month, Troy received a phone call from a pastor in Alabama. He and his wife were awaiting the birth of their third child, whom they would welcome into their home through the miracle of adoption. The baby would be born here in Salt Lake City. This couple was hoping to save hundreds of dollars by finding a home they could stay in instead of paying for a hotel every night.

Troy said he'd see what he could do.

And he mentioned it to me.

One of my pet peeves is when something is so obviously the right decision and people say, "Um...hmmm...let me pray about that and see what God says." Sometimes, I don't think we need to consult Him through prayer. Not when it's all lined up in the Bible already. We are called to have a spirit of hospitality. Of course we can still pray about it. Of course He wants to hear from us. But He isn't going to contradict what He's already said in His Word.

Adoption=Good.

Hospitality=Good.

Add to this situation the fact that we've been there, done that. Add to it the fact that this baby is half African-American and we know a little bit about transracial adoption. Add to it the fact that we aren't handing them money but we are saving them money and, therefore, giving back.

They got here on Wednesday.

The cutest, tiniest little peanut of a baby girl was born on Thursday.

They brought her home to our house yesterday.

When I heard the key in the door, I ran down the stairs yelling, "Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!" They immediately handed me their 6 pound, 17 inch long daughter and it's entirely possible that I fell in love with her straight away.

Then my 7-year-old asked if he could hold her. They said yes and he fell in love with her straight away.

Matthew did not, so much. He knows she isn't staying but I think he's slightly jealous anyway. We own a golden retriever and a cat. If my children had to represented by those animals, the youngest would definitely be the cat. He loves what he wants to, in his own time. Like the dog, Garrett just loves anything that walks through the door.

The thing about thinking that you are blessing someone is that you always end up being the blessed. We get to snuggle a newborn until their ICPC goes through. We get to talk about ministry and adoption. We all get our baby fix.

Of course, I might already be contemplating felonies. I kind of want to keep her.

Six Centimeters

There's a six centimeter cyst on my ovary.

Yeah. I'm going to go ahead and lead with that from now on.

"Hello, how are you?"

"Good, how are you?"

"There's a six centimeter cyst on my ovary."

And let me tell you, it is not pleasant. It has not been pleasant since Monday when I first started feeling it. It has been unpleasant every day as I have instructed a room full of first graders while wanting to curl into a ball to wait for death.

Or something slightly less dramatic.

My ovaries are covered with cysts all the time, but they are teensy tiny cysts that have never bothered me except to say, "Hey, we're going to make it really hard for you to have babies." This cyst is different. This cyst is dwarfing my ovary.

I went to urgent care on Wednesday. The doctor there pushed and shoved and poked and prodded my abdomen. He checked my urine and he had a nurse take incredible volumes of my blood. Then he told me to follow up with my regular physician yesterday. She wasn't available. So I saw someone else.

Who recommended an ultrasound which happened today.

Now I wait.

For rupture.

For absorption.

For it to grow two more centimeters so that I can have it removed.

I vote for absorption. And it is my after all. So I should get a vote. I should get the only vote.

That's the story of my cyst. The end.

Sice

For some odd reason, I've been getting notes almost every day at work that ask me to excuse students from recess. They go a little something like this... "Please let Fitzpatrick* stay in during recess. He hasn't been feeling well."

Or...

"Aristotle** is still getting over a cold. Please excuse him from all recesses for the week."

Or...

"Brinkleighanna*** is still recovering from the stomach flu and needs to remain inside during recess." Swell! Thanks for sending her!

So it was becoming an epidemic of notes and illnesses and the first grade team got wind of it. They told me that the kids were getting their parents to write notes because they thought that staying inside would be fun. But then I wasn't getting any kind of break in the day at all. They told me what to do.

During lunch recess the students stay in the cafeteria. It's not very fun in there.

During afternoon recess, they stay in the classroom. However, instead of playing and having a grand time, they have to put their heads down on the desk and rest. They are, after all, recovering and need all the rest they can get. I think this is a great idea because if they are truly not feeling well, rest is what they need. If they're milking it, a power nap is not something they enjoy.

It works like a charm.

There are some students, however, that still have a romanticized idea about what goes on when their friends stay inside. I encountered one such student today.

She came up to me, armed with her best pouty face. "Hi," she said, her voice dripping with fake illness. "My mom says I have to stay in today because I'm sick. Here's a note from her" she told me. She handed me a tiny scrap of paper.

Sarah is sice. Except it didn't say Sarah because that isn't her name. It had her real name. Insert real name here is sice. It was all I could do not to burst into hysterical laughter right then and there.

"Sarah is sice?" I read aloud. And by the way, in case there is any other way to read that word, I am pronouncing it as though it rhymes with nice. Or ice. Or lice.

She replied, "No. It says, 'Sarah is sick.'"

"It says, 'Sarah is sice.' What exactly is sice?" I asked. Then I looked at her. "Your mom did not write this."

"YES SHE DID!" The little girl insisted.

"She did not," I replied. Annoyed that she was really going to try to keep up the charade.

"She did so! She could only find a little tiny piece of paper. But she wanted you to know I am very sick!"

"Okay. Well. I'm sorry you're sice," I replied. I couldn't help myself. Seriously. I mean, really. If my only job for the entire day had been to not respond in a snarky manner to this little lying miscreant, I would not have been able to do it.

"So can I stay in for recess?" she asked.

It took everything in me not to burst with mirth. "Um. No."

Of course I shared this with the first grade teachers. Of course they laughed. Of course I contemplated letting the mother know that her daughter is a complete liar by showing her the note. Of course I decided to let it go. Mostly because I really wanted to bring the note home with me and keep it forever and ever. It's sitting on my nightstand right now. I can't look at it and not laugh.

And, from now on, whenever I'm sick, I fully intend to tell people that I am feeling sice.

"I can't come to your dinner party. I'm very sice."

"Last night I was super sice. Up all night with the stomach flu."

"My son won't be at school today. He's really sice."

There is no end to the joy that this little girl gave me today when she chose to exercise her devious sin nature. My world is truly a better a place.


*Not really the name of any kids in my class. Not that I'd put it past anyone. This state has some really strange names.

**Also not the name of any of the students I have. However, once, when I was subbing for a high school class, I had a Socrates. True story.

***It's only a matter of time before I come across this name. I kid not.

Israel 2013

I finally made time to put together a slide show video of our trip. It's nine minutes long and I'm sorry for that but you try choosing between 900 pictures from three different cameras. In any case, here's a recap from our trip.

 

Perspective

"Look what I got!" Matthew said as I walked through the door at 4:00 pm. He was sporting his alphabet crown. Although he's known his letters for quite some time now, he always managed to miss one when he was being tested. Until today.

And I wasn't there to pick him up.

I was there when a first grader started to cry over something so ridiculous it's ridiculous. "What's wrong?" I asked her. She said her eyes were watering. Why do we do that? Why do we hide what's wrong? Bury it under ten feet of crap and lies. I'm a woman. I've been pretending that my eyes are just watering for a long time. I saw through. So I sent everyone else away and I talked to her. And we fixed it.

It was a first grade problem. But we took care of it.

I feel good about that.

But I feel bad about missing my kid's crowning moment.

I live my life wishing I could have a career. I live my life wishing I could be the very best mom. If anything, these past three days have showed me that I can't really have both. And I'm thankful that this job has an end date.

***Edited to add.
I was thinking about this post while I was driving home from Bible study and I realized that it maybe sounded like I was saying that women can't have a career and children and do either job well. That is absolutely not what I was trying to convey. I simply know that, for me, having a full time job and being as involved of a parent as I want to be would be a very difficult balance. One that I am glad, at this point in my life, I don't usually have to attempt. Women who do it all (especially single moms) have my utmost respect.

What Does the Fox Say?

It's become apparent to me that the blog will suffer while I work full time for the next three weeks.

I'm enjoying it but I'm already thanking the Lord that I don't usually work this much. I miss my kids. Our evenings feel super rushed. By the time I finish my Bible study it's dinner time. By the time we finish dinner it's time to start the bedtime routine. I'm thankful for this time of employment but I'm already thinking about what we'll do together in December, when I'm no longer spending my days inside a first grade classroom.

I might be able to live my whole entire life without ever again hearing, "What does the fox say?" However, since it is my first graders' most favorite thing to say, I am not holding my breath.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging: Part Two

I was called into the room with the torture chamber MRI machine. The technician in there asked me if I'd ever had an MRI done before. When I told him that I had not, he gave me some rules. Rules like, "DO NOT MOVE A MUSCLE AT ALL OR IT WILL BLUR THE IMAGES AND YOU WILL SPEND MORE TIME IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH THAN NECESSARY!!!" Okay, so he didn't say it like that exactly. I mean he didn't use three exclamation marks or the word "death" but I got the point. He asked if I was claustrophobic.

Affirmative.

I informed him that I planned to go to my happy place. By happy place I meant that I was going to pray to Jesus continuously. You want to learn how to pray without ceasing? Stick a claustrophobe into a tube the size of her body. Speaking of "the size of her body" can I just ask a question? I am completely serious here. And I don't mean even an ounce of disrespect. I'm a fairly smallish person. I had a couple inches to spare on either side of me. Do they have different sized machines for different sized people?

I hopped up onto the gurney. He asked me if I wanted to listen to music. I figured a little music could only help. This ended up being a good decision. He asked me what kind of music. I listen almost exclusively to KLove and Christian albums. I didn't figure they had a wide variety of that type of music. "Just anything contemporary is fine," I said. This proved to be an unwise choice.

I laid down, flat on my back. He placed a contraption around my shoulder, a foam pad around my forearm, and a wedge under my right side. He asked me if I wanted a washcloth placed over my eyes. I thought this would be a very good idea because then I wouldn't be able to look around, even if I wanted to. He put the cloth over my eyes and the giant headphones over my ears. I slowly slid inside the machine. Both of my arms rubbed against the sides of the tube. The foam around my forearm moved down, pulling my arm into a slightly uncomfortable position.

I interrupt this story to bring you an important message. I'm all for breaking pastor's wives stereotypes. I mean, really. We are all gifted in very different ways. I don't play the piano, knit onesies for babies, or spend three nights a week entertaining in my home. I don't wear a dress every Sunday. Today I wore brown boots over reddish colored jeggings. With a shirt. I did wear a shirt. But when it comes to listening to music in an MRI machine, I maybe shouldn't have told them to play contemporary music for me when I haven't really listened to contemporary music since my oldest son was born.

While I'm all for shattering stereotypes, it is not my style to listen to an artist who calls himself Flo Rida and sings, "Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby? Let me know." And I'm just going to go right ahead and stop there because the lyrics just get worse. So I'm in a tube the size of my own body, my sight obstructed, my ears covered in huge headphones blaring about whistles, my shoulder immobilized, and that's when the machine gun began firing. It sounded like what I imagine a war zone sounds like. I could only kind of hear Flo Rida. (That was, of course, merciful, but the loud drumming sounds were not.)

I started to pray.

Please let me block out the song about whistle blowing. Please let me block out the loud gun fire sounds. Please help me not start hyperventilating.

The first fifteen or so minutes were relatively uneventful. The good thing about having music on was that I could guess how long I'd been in there. I'd been told that the first set of images would take 25 minutes. After several songs, my shoulder began to throb. All I wanted to do was move it. I knew I couldn't and that just made me want to more. My ears were on overload. I concentrated on breathing and tried not to think about how much my shoulder hurt. Then I made the mistake of opening my eyes under the cloth. I could see out the hole created by my nose. That's when I realized that the top of the machine was two inches from my face. I continued to hear loud gun noises and crashes and smashes and the only thing keeping me sane was the thought that I wasn't really trapped in there. I knew the end of the tube was open and I could wriggle myself right out if I absolutely had to.

Suddenly, I felt myself moving out. A woman removed the cloth from my eyes. The man took the headphones off. They asked me to position my arm over my head for another image that would last four minutes. I don't know whose minutes these were because they were certainly not Earth Standard Minutes. They were some sort of medical imaging minutes where four minutes might actually equal seven or eight.

Back went the cloth, except it only partially covered my eyes that time. Back went the headphones except they weren't positioned correctly and my ears were bent up inside. Back I went into the machine.

Roughly eight minutes (ESM) later they pulled me out.

And I was done.

So I survived my very first MRI. It wasn't actually as bad as I'd imagined it would be. Perhaps the most traumatizing thing was Flo Rida. In hindsight, I probably should have asked if they had access to KLove.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging: Part One

Apparently, dedicating ten years of my life to competitive swimming was shoulder suicide. The right one has some sort of permanent injury which, thankfully, only now bothers me every once in a while. Like when snow is coming. The left one has something more pressing going on with it.

By pressing, I mean that it's been hurting for a year and a half.

The first round of physical therapy helped tremendously and got me through the summer almost entirely pain free. Then I did something--I have no clue what, exactly--and the whole shoulder just fell apart. Or maybe it wasn't that dramatic but a second round of physical therapy hasn't helped it. The less I use it, the better it feels but I'm tired of my left shoulder and, by extension, my left arm being purely ornamental.

I went in on Thursday for my very first MRI. Since the shoulder is a very small space, the doctor ordered an arthrogram to accompany it. After reading a horror story about a hip arthrogram, I decided to stop taking the Internet's word for how bad the pain would be. I'm the biggest wussy about medical procedures and it's rarely as bad as I make it out to be in my overactive imagination. Let's just say that there was a lot of room to freak out ahead of time given that I'm a recovering needlephob and I'm also terrified of small spaces.

When I got to the imaging office, I had to step over the tail of a 60-year-old little mermaid. Because Halloween is a bizarre day. After waiting for a few minutes, I was called back and put into a room to change my clothes. That took me approximately thirty seconds. I was sure that the woman who took me to the dressing room had said she'd come back for me. In fact, the more I think about it the more certain I am. She said, "I'll be back in a minute." So I sat in the chair and waited. And waited. After ten minutes I heard a knock on the door. A man's voice said, "Lori?"

"Yes?" I responded.

"Are you doin' okay?"

"Yes..."

"Are you ready to come out?" I could tell that I was supposed to have come out nine minutes earlier. I explained, as I opened the door, that I thought the lady was going to come back for me. Apparently they'd both been sitting around discussing how it could possibly take me so long to change into a hospital gown. I assured him that it had taken me thirty seconds and I'd been wondering what in the world was going on.

It was embarrassing. I'm certain it was made worse by the fact that I was wearing a hospital gown, gaping in the back, and the guy was incredibly attractive. As in, he has no business working in an imaging office but should, instead, earn his living by modeling...anything. I mean, really. I just feel like I wouldn't have been as embarrassed if he'd been a fifty year old socially awkward imaging technician who was addicted to gaming. (If I wasn't married I would not be seeking a spouse among gamers, just sayin'.)

So the attractive guy took me into a room and explained the arthrogram procedure. He informed me that I would first be injected with lidocaine. "That part is going to hurt and sting for about a minute. It's pretty intense," he warned. Later, the doctor said almost the exact same thing. I almost questioned the level of intensity. Like am I going to scream and cry and make a bigger fool of myself than I already did when I sat in the dressing room for ten minutes? Compare this to the pain of contractions...

I was flat on my back, my shoulder was exposed and Hot Guy buttered me up with iodine. He asked about my kids, what they were going to be for Halloween, told me his three-month-old daughter was going to be Minnie Mouse, then asked me if my husband and I were going to have a girl to go with our two sons. It seemed like a bit of a strange question. Kind of like asking if I wanted fries with my burger. He asked me to tell him my birthday. I did. He asked again. I told him again. "Hmmm...it's in here wrong. What's your name?"

I told him. He asked what I was there to have done. I told him. I guess he found my answers satisfactory.

Then the doctor stuck me with the lidocaine. I was prepared to clench my teeth, wiggle my toes, whatever I had to do so that I didn't scream. That was unnecessary preparation because I felt a slight sting, definitely no worse than a bee sting, for about ten seconds. Then another prick. Another slight sting. After that was finished, I turned my attention to the monitor so that I could watch what was happening. I saw the large needle descending into my shoulder. As I watched, I felt pressure in my shoulder. It was not pleasant. It didn't hurt but it felt like the needle was separating everything that was supposed to be together. My stomach felt sick. I clenched my jaw a bit and looked away. Once I could no longer feel my shoulder falling into pieces, I looked back. Dye spilled from the needle into my joint.

The doctor retracted the needle. Hot Guy wiped up my iodine and my blood, put a band-aid over my bleeding puncture wounds, and told me I could get up.

I'd survived the needle being thrust deep within my shoulder. Now I had to survive being trapped inside a tiny little tube with no hope of rescue...

Before You Came Into My Life...

The older my youngest son gets, the more aware I become of my responses to personal questions about his adoption. I also become more aware of the gap between my level of recognition of his sensitivity and the rest of the world's ability to see the subtle ways his face falls.

No one ever asks me if Garrett is my son.

Matthew notices that. And his expression drops--even if ever so slightly--when people ask me if he's mine.

No one ever asks if we adopted Garrett.

It's true that we didn't, but how do they know?

Matthew is nearing five. Questions like, "Where did you get him from?" just might make him feel like he came from outer space. And, as much as he might like to pretend he came from space when he's playing with his brother, he doesn't want to feel like he's different in real life.

This is a challenge for us as parents. We are adoption advocates. For me, I simply can't understand why everyone doesn't consider building their families in this way. It's outrageous and I get that. It's complicated and I get that. But it's also gorgeous and wonderful and I couldn't love anything more than that boy. I want to answer people's questions because I know that they (almost always) come from a place of genuine wonder and I want to take any chance I get to share about what an incredible experience this continues to be for our family. But the older my son gets, the more challenging these questions become. I just can't risk his well being to satisfy the world's curiosity. I'm an open book when he isn't right next to me but I'm trying to be more protective when he's standing there.

I've learned subtle ways to respond to their questioning while still trying to confirm Matthew's permanent place in our family and in my heart. Generally speaking, we do okay. I can usually change my tone when questions become too invasive. People seem to pick up on the fact that I don't want to talk about it with my ever aware four-year-old standing there.

In our country.

But in the Old City in Jerusalem, it was another story.

We were browsing in the Muslim quarter and our family of four wandered into a shop. As we stepped in, a man pointed and said, "Is this your son?"

"Yes," I replied with a smile.

He gestured more emphatically, as if clarifying that he was talking about Matthew. "This one?"

"Yes," I said, a little less friendly because Matthew was now staring at the man, aware that he was being singled out.

"Is this your husband?" he pointed at Troy.

"Yes, he is."

The man looked baffled. We continued to look around and, eventually, Troy and Garrett wandered out. Matthew stood there with me. The man questioned me again. "This is your son?"

I set my jaw. I think I flared my nostrils a little bit. "Yes. He is."

The man then said, "But he's not your son..." and as he said it he moved his hands from his torso to his pelvis as if to simulate childbirth.

Matthew stared up at me. "No. I did not give birth to him. But HE IS MY SON," I said.

"You adopted him then?"

"Yes, we did," I said more curtly. He wasn't picking up on my tone. At all.

"The other one is your son?" he asked.

"Yes. They are both my sons," I responded. Then I turned and walked out.

I conveyed the rest of the story to Troy who explained to me that in Arab cultures adoption is completely different. If a child is adopted, he becomes a ward of the caretaker and not a son. The concept is completely foreign. So then I kind of felt like a jerk.

Except that this stuff affects my kid.

Moments later he looked at me and said, "Mommy, before you came into my life I missed you so bad. And you should know that. I missed you so so bad." Oh sure, he was just repeating Carly Rae Jepsen but he wasn't singing it. He was saying it. With feeling.

Just a few shops down the street another man began waving me over. I approached him. "Is that your son?" Here we go again.

"Yes," I said.

"You adopted him then?"

"We did."

"Beautiful," he said. My family was still down the street and out of earshot. "Where did he come from?" he asked.

"We're from the United States and he was born there as well," I answered.

"Do you get to keep him until he's grown?" he asked. I was thankful for my husband's quick lesson on Arab adoptions because, without that new information, I might have said something really snarky. No I do not keep him like I hang on to last night's leftovers or a shirt that has sentimental value. I raise him, love him, clean up his vomit. He's not a possession. Instead I smiled and said, "Yes." But it was easier, because Matthew was down the road.

"Amazing," he whispered. "I want to see him. Bring him to me, please?" he asked.

That was kinda weird. Not gonna lie.

"Uh...he's with his dad. He'll be coming this way in a minute." I figured Troy could handle whatever strangeness was about to happen. I went into another shop. When they met up with me, I asked Troy what the man did. Apparently he just said hello and waved at him, enthralled by this concept of adoption.

I grapple with this, though. What to say. What not to. How to validate my child and still answer questions to advocate for future adoptions. It's a difficult place to find myself.

Lately Matthew has been saying, "I wish I was in your tummy. I like your tummy better than your heart." I remind him of how special it is that he has two mommies that love him. But tonight I decided to just share my feelings with him when he said it again. "I know. I wish that you had been in my tummy too. But that isn't the way that God chose for us to be a family. He decided to have you grow in my heart and His plans are always the best plans."