Pride in the Wait


Pride often sneaks up on me. It’s always there, of course, asleep on my shoulders, but I’m not always aware of it until it wakes up and rears its ugly head in my face.

It’s been over 400 days since we started our second adoption from foster care process and we still have not brought home our child.

There was that first match meeting which was postponed for months only for us to not get picked. Then there was the adoption disruption. And then, more waiting.

We took family photos and captioned them things like, “Last Christmas as a family of four” and “Last time we’ll ever do ___" and instead we’re ending a school year and heading into the summer and still there are only four of us.

This was not how it was supposed to go. We were cocky. We had planned our calendars. We had requested maternity/paternity leave. We had postponed our own trips, wanting to save outings for next child. We knew we’d have one or two more children by now. We knew 400 days would not go by until we were a family of 5 or 6.

And yet we’re still waiting.

The feelings of failure have been strong. More so with this second adoption than we’ve ever felt in our infertility journey. At this point in 9 years of marriage it’s almost expected we won’t have biological children. No, it’s less shameful for us to not have birthed a child than it is for us to not adopt again. I mean, we attend our foster care support group regularly! So we need stories to add. We regularly speak and preach about why people need to enter into foster care! Where is our new child(ren)?!

It’s been hard. Dejecting and hard. It’s hard not to take it personally when you’re not the family that’s picked for a child (even though we make it a point to pray and rejoice knowing that child has a family). It’s hard not to take it personally when an adoption disruption (even though we’re rejoicing in seeing fruit from that hardship). It’s hard to put non-refundable deposits on summer trips and vacation homes and use pen to fill our calendars with plans because shouldn’t we wait? The What If Game is repeated over and over in our home.

At the end I know it will be worth it. I know because I’ve walked that road and even though it was significantly shorter I know the outcome will be similar.

At the end it will be worth it. I just wish we knew when the end was going to be.

Redoing The Room

I can’t bring myself to redecorate The Room.

I said I wouldn’t. I said and promised my husband I would. not. touch. it. until Future Child(ren) came and made her decisions because I once decorated a Future Children’s room four times before Future Children actually came into existence. So I swore I wouldn’t redecorate this room, even though the closets are wonky and the paint colors are terrible.

But then She came in and made the decisions and things started progressing and got done and the beginnings got decorated and then She isn’t coming back here. She decided on lots of white with a little bit of gray and I was going to surprise her with twinkly lights suspended from the ceiling.

I can’t walk past that room without seeing the comforter and sheets we picked out for her in the doorway, so we keep the door closed. I can’t go in there without seeing things She tacked to the wall, so the husband finally took them down. I can’t see that room without seeing her so now I need to redecorate it, even though I promised and I swore that I wouldn’t.

But I have to redo it and strip it of it’s character so i don’t keep seeing her. It’s what must be done.

Adoption Disruption


Originally published through my Respite Redefined Newsletter which you can sign up for here.

Little things remind me of her.  Fried chicken. Cat-eye glasses. Dutch braids.  Cookie dough ice cream.

Everytime I make an online order, I hear her teasing me.  I baked a bundt cake yesterday and had all the ingredients but the bundt pan, and I could have swore she jumped in the car with me for the quick Wal-Mart trip.  We went to Portland and I kept thinking Look at what she’s missing.

We were a family in thought only, but for a brief time we were a family.  Paperwork was just barely getting filed when everything disrupted. We knew each other for only a few short weeks but we knew each other.  We knew each other.  

I keep thinking she’ll call.  I’ll say hello and she’ll start with, “Okay, question…”  But she doesn’t. And I still have the phone reminder ringing every night at 7pm to call her.  I can’t turn it off.

I keep thinking she’ll write…but who even does that anymore?  Not teenagers, that’s for sure. I keep picking up cards wanting to throw them in the mail for her but I can’t.  It’s not appropriate.

In the world of foster care I have to love a child I barely know and think of her often without ever getting the right to know how she’s doing, how she’s coping.  Did someone sit with her? Hold her hand when she heard the news? Did she cry? Did someone hug her? Did she walk stone face to her room, demanding she was fine?

My first two kids are 9 and 6 now.  My first two respite babies who spent 10 days in our home and forever in our hearts are out there somewhere, too, and I think of them just as often as our forever children who are in our home.  Did they get adopted? Are they doing well in school? Does she still like giraffes? Does he still like legos?

The door to her room is always open.  I understand those people who have to close it off and not look at it, but the difference is she never slept there, never left her mark, so there’s no lingering presence.  It’s just empty. She had grand decorating plans for it, though. We went to get paint samples and taped them all over her room so she could decide what to paint the dresser and what to paint the walls.  

I went in there the other day to find the smallest dog curled up in the bedding.  I wonder if he misses her too? And saw that someone had ripped the paint samples off the wall–probably Kevin–there was a mark on the wall wear the tape had worn off the paint.  

Now we just wait for another phone call.  We impatiently wait for the phone to ring or the email to ding and we guiltily feel so calloused (as this foster care life has made us) to worry and mourn one child while immediately anticipating the next.

You get it.  I know you do.  You get the simultaneous stomach butterflies of expectation and heartburn of loss.  You get it. I get it.

It doesn’t get easier.  I don’t know how it can get harder.  It’s just there. A side effect, a symptom, like morning sickness that never ever fades away.

When We First Met - Frost Family Story

by Caitlin Frost

Newly married with no job, no kids, and nothing to do all day, I obsessed over birth stories.  It was 2010 and pretty much every person on the planet was blogging about the minute details of their lives and I relished in reading them--all the blood and guts included.

I couldn’t wait to write my own.

Fast forward four years and I was ready to write that story.  I was ready to spill my own blood and guts--literally--and blog about it for other bored new housewives to read about.  But there was no baby.  Instead, there were two littles waiting for me somewhere in the state of Massachusetts and I could not wait to finally meet them.

And I met them.  I learned their names and their faces and heard their voices for the first time.  I got to run my hands through their hair and look into their beautiful eyes.  I was lucky enough to hear a laugh and to learn about who these people were.

I finally had a birth story to write. It wouldn’t really be like those stories I stayed up until midnight reading, but it would be just as special.  I was going to write all about the day I first met my kids and how amazing it was.

But for two and a half years, every time I try to write about that first day, there are no words.  I can’t do it.  It was just as amazing as I had anticipated, but there’s nothing I can really put into words, no matter how hard I try.

So I can’t tell you what that day was like and what we did and how I felt, although I certainly remember every single detail.  But I can tell you this.

When we first met, my breath was taken away.  I stopped breathing when I saw their faces for the first time.

When we first met, I couldn’t speak.  What do you say to a little person when you meet them the first time?  Everything felt so unimportant and cliche.

When we first met, I changed.  Looking back that was the moment I became a mother, though it wouldn’t be until months later that I broke down crying in my car in a parking lot at the therapist’s office because the idea of motherhood and the weight of what that meant had finally set in.

When we first met, I had no idea two little strangers could look and act and talk just like me.  It was if God had created a mini-me and destined us to find each other.

When we first met, I had no idea how I was going to mother another woman’s child.  I was so excited that my dream was coming true at the expense of my own daughters’ life.  That was when I first felt the tragedy enveloped in the beauty of adoption.

When we first met, I couldn’t leave.  I overstayed my welcome at the foster parents’ house (much to our social worker’s chagrin) and my husband had to drag me out to the car.  I met my kids and the idea of leaving them with someone else was so upsetting to me I cried the whole way home.

The days are long and the years are short but the memory of meeting my two forever daughters is as vivid today as it was when we first met, and I don’t think it will ever fade away.  I don’t need to write the details because we all feel them.  Every time I rock one of them to sleep or bandaged a hurt knee memories of that day surface and I feel so grateful that I get to mother these daughters of mine.  I’m so grateful for this birth story, even if I can’t write about it.


From Foster-Alum to Foster Mom

by Guest Writer Alexis

I remember the day they told me they wanted me to talk to my school counselor about the “situation” at my house. I was twelve years old. They spoke ever so gently to me about how my mom needed some time to “get better,” and how they would split the four of us up and send us to different family members. I remember the feeling of dread that crept over my body as I attempted to spit out the words, “but I can’t live without my mom,” before erupting in tears. They explained that it would be temporary, like summer camp. I soon realized it wasn’t my housing and guardian situation that would be temporary, but rather that I would be temporary in so many different families.
We were a wild brood, but we had many aunts, uncles, and cousins that tried generously to take us in. 

Life was different. There was structure, food in the fridge, clean clothes on my back, no unwelcome guests, and a clean house with no little critters running around. There were expectations and consequences, chores, and (my absolute favorite) rewards ;). People were always asking me how I felt, or if I had something I wanted to say to my mom or dad. They asked if I wanted to scream, cry, or even punch a pillow to express anger, but I remained stoic and composed, never wanting to ruffle any feathers. In truth, I was angry, sad, depressed, mouthy—a typical teenager, and then some.

Flash forward 16 years and I beat the system. According to the most recent research, only 50% of foster youth graduate high school, while fewer than 10% of foster youth graduate from college. This May 2017, I will be graduating with a Master’s of Arts degree in Elementary Education. Did I do this on my own? NO WAY! Every family placement I have been with had a hand in creating my eclectic personality that is driven, determined, educated, creative, stubborn, and just a pinch of awkward. They are more responsible for who I am today than anything. Because of this, I knew I was going to be a foster mom, even before I knew I wanted to get married or be a teacher. 
I knew God not only created me with a great desire to care for children, but also with a heart that had endured hardships in preparation for my own personal ministry.

When I look at my children, I can identify with the hurt in their hearts and the confusion in their eyes. I know what it feels like to think, “Will there be any dinner? I must shovel it all in before I lose my chance!” I know what it’s like to feel abandoned, alone, worthless, or to just want love and attention. As much as I know there are no words to make all the hurt go away, I know there are words that can offer solace, just a quick distraction from the emotions wreaking havoc in their hearts. 

I am a foster mom for many reasons, but this one alone is my driving force: it doesn’t matter where you came from, it only matters where you’re going. Every child deserves a chance to succeed. Many are met with opposition very early in their lives. Many doors are closed for them before they can even walk or talk. All eyes are often on them looking to see if they are going to follow in their parents’ footsteps, or venture out on their own, forging a new path for those to come.

Teach your children to blaze new paths. Show them they are worth so much more than they will ever know. Love them not “like” they are your own, but because they are your own. Know this: no matter how long you have them, they will always carry a piece of you, whether it be in a quirky personality trait they inherited from you, or their newly-discovered love of asparagus. Although they may only be your “temporary” children for a short period of time, you will always carry a piece of them, too. In its toughest and most painful moments, emptying your cup of love on your foster children will be reflected tenfold, and that is a beautiful thing to be a part of.

I've Got This


by Guest Writer Lauren

I've Got This.

The closest thing to a daily mantra I've had.

I say it when I stand in front of the sink to hand wash our dishes for the umpteenth time. I say it when I walk down the stairs, carrying another load of laundry I have every intention of finishing but never do. I said it when I found strawberries and bubble solution smashed all over my white comforter. When I uncovered 50 fruit snack wrappers and a half eaten rotten apple under the couch cushions- again.

I've said it after my husband calls at 6:32 PM to tell me that he's still working. That and a couple of expletives.

I've Got This.

I've been saying it all morning as I try desperately to type this, wanting nothing more than to word vomit all over my computer. But I can't. Because of all the kids. Particularly the baby. The one, the one who is by far the sweetest, quietest, happiest baby we've ever had. But is also the one who refuses to be put down- anywhere. Not in the swing. Not in the crib. The car seat or the carrier. But who just wants to be held, like he's eating, even when he's not. I paced around the kitchen for a while. He's wrapped snuggly now. Content. Safe.

I've got this.

I've been a Foster Mom for 3 years. Baby D is the 7th in our care, our 9th human we've parented. It's been a whirlwind and I'm never really sure how to explain our family. For the past six months we had five kids. A season I'm still trying to process. Then, just like that, we didn't. As of this writing, we have four kids. Two Biological, One Adopted, and the littlest on the track towards adoption. Our life is a crazy whirlwind of everything and anything.

If you are reading this, you probably already know. This life isn't easy. This parenting of other people's children.  It doesn't take a whole lot to feel like you're going to go over the edge. One day a few weeks ago I was super close to that line. I've been “done” a million times before. But this time, this time I was past the line. Exhausted. Wanting to quit. I was trying to find time to see the boys birth mom. Trying to homeschool. Trying to stay married. Trying to do just one- just one- load of laundry all the way through. Trying to wash the bowls before the next gourmet dinner of boxed dry cereal and milk. Trying to do it all at once. And it hit like a giant crushing wave.

The problem with my mantra.

I don't have this.

I never have.

He does though.

I still forget. Like today. When I was working through my thoughts. “I've got this” running through my head. Never really getting anywhere until I stopped to breathe, to remember:  He's got this.

It will get easier. The boys will get older. We'll find a rhythm, a beautiful one that fits us. We'll eventually get a dishwasher and I'll figure out how to get my kids to do their own laundry and I'll remember that I can always call the take out place down the street for dinner.  

But what really changes our day to day, now, what really changes it, is perspective. It's letting myself off the mat. It's not relying on myself to do anything. But on Him. The one who can, for real,  do everything.

You see, when your mantra is, “I've Got This,” it sucks when you clearly don't. But when it shifts to “He's Got This,” well, yeah. He just does. And then you can breathe again. And you can let all the small stuff slide and you can play a board game with your big kids. You can read a book to your toddler. You can sit on the couch with the baby. For hours. Because He's got this. He's got you and your kids and your dishes and your laundry and your meals. He's got your marriage.  He's got you so tight and so well and you don't have to do a single thing- except take it freely- and remember every once in a while.   

I'm with you in the trenches, mama. So, say it with me, as your fumble through your day drinking cold coffee and crying for no reason.

He's Got This.

The Most Amazingest Mother There Ever Was

 by Caitlin

I’ll never forget the day I posted an Instagram photo of my faceless children with a caption about how hard that particular day was going.  I had been a mom for about two full weeks and was in deep, deep over my head.  I was drowning.  Adoption was harder than I thought.  Motherhood was overwhelming. I wasn’t sure what we had gotten into and I was cussing way more than usual.

Then a real life friend told me that I shouldn’t be complaining because I knew what I was getting myself into and that I was being ungrateful and they (other friends, I guess?) were all really tired of seeing my constant complaints on social media and I needed to just get over it because my kids deserved a better mom than what I was being.  Another real life friend said that they had a congratulations card they wanted to give me but because I was sucking it up big time (her words) she decided to not send it to me.  Another real life friend said that it was great I was a mom now and all, but since I stopped hanging out with her and the rest of the women in my small group, I was being a terrible friend and small group leader and I really needed to shape up or they might need to talk to our pastor.

I can hear you all simultaneously gasp from here.  Horrific, right?  What absolutely terrible things to say to any first time mom who finds themselves drowning in a new life change.

I’m the founder and creator of community designed to give you all the practical tools and encouragement to know how to rise above comments like these to be the best mom you can be.  So what amazingly awesome thing did I do?

I cried all my tears out, yelled at my children who wouldn’t stop bickering, yelled at God that he did a crummy job making these people and maybe He should go back to the drawing board, and pleaded with my husband to give these children back because surely they were better off somewhere else than with me.

Yeah, it was not my finest moment.  I’m cringing just writing these words and reliving this moment.  Cringing and crying again.  Because while I’ve fully processed these events the feelings when I relive these moments are still very real.

I cried, and I cried, and I stopped posting on Instagram.  When my mother-in-law asked how we were doing, I said fine.  When my mom asked how we were doing, I said fine.  When other friends asked how I was doing I told them fine.

But I was far, far from fine.  I had definitely developed some post-partum/post-adoption depression and while I cannot give these women the credit of putting me in the dark place I would be lying if I said I didn’t walk in the lies they spoke over me and allowed myself to dive deeper in depression than I should have.

It was when an authority figure at our church had said that I was being childish and needed to step up my act that I got so ticked off I stopped hanging out with everyone and anyone.  We stopped hosting our small group.  I stopped going to church altogether.  I said it was because I didn’t want my children’s first experience with Jesus to be with these people, but truth be told I had no idea how to keep tiny humans alive, much less give myself to my husband, my small group, my friends, my extended family.  I didn’t know how to survive the day as a mother, much less thrive as one.  I needed to stop multi-tasking and start single-tasking.

A year later and we had moved cross country and had no friends.  While I was so grateful to be out of that negative environment, I wasn’t really in any environment.  I was relieved to be away from people who told me I was a terrible mom, but no one was telling me that I was doing a good job mothering because, well, I had no one.  I hadn’t been in the state long enough to make friends.

I had two choices.

Would I continue believing the lies of the enemy that my children didn’t deserve a mom who yells or throw things or loses her temper?  Would I believe the enemy who said that my children deserved a mom who made homemade applesauce and took them on nature hikes and played with them outside and read them a book every single night?

Or would I believe that I was the woman God created me to be?  Would I believe the truth that God created me to be my children’s’ mother; that He uniquely equipped me to understand their emotions and deal with their trauma?  Would I believe that God created me in the image of Him, the same way He created my children in the image of Him, and that being a good mom had nothing to do with building the best playdoh creations or possessing the ability to keep all the dishes clean or feeding them only organic, non-GMO foods?

So I stopped walking in lies and began speaking truth over myself.  I am the mom my kids need today.  I began to read scripture daily, in between yelling at my children for their constant bickering, and baking sugar cookies with them.  I told myself I was uniquely equipped for these two children when I couldn’t get them to take a nap or when they had nightmares at night.  I told myself I was a good mom because God had given me all the tools I needed to be a good mom when my kid locked me out of my car (on purpose) and when I took them to the beach and waded out in the water with each one on my hip.

The truth is, I am really the most amazingest mother there ever was.

The truth is, you are, too.

Women of God, I tell you this story because you’re wallowing.  Just like I allowed people in my life to speak lies over myself, you’re doing the same to yourself.  Just like I wallowed in self-pity, so you are, too.  I see your Instagram comments about the terrible things that you do when you’re angry with your children.  You slam doors and break dishes.  I see your social media posts about the worst words people ever said to you.  That you don’t deserve these kids and you’re being a terrible friend.

I see them and I commiserate with them and I empathize with you because that was my life.  I went from wife to mom overnight.  I didn’t have nine months of carrying my child in my belly to get used to the idea of being a mom.  I didn’t have an outward appearance of motherhood that allowed friends and family to have months getting used to the idea that I was having children.  I daydreamed about how wonderful motherhood was going to be when I finally held my not-so-baby babies in my arms that I forgot to brace myself for the whirlwind impact of what motherhood actually is.  I didn’t know I would never pee alone.  I didn’t know that I would have to serve grilled cheeses every single night just so my kid would eat something.  I didn’t know I would never sleep.  I didn’t know people could be so cruel.

I also didn’t know I would wallow in loneliness and self-pity.  But I did.  And that was worse than anything anyone ever said to me.

I don’t want to sit here and tell you to WOMAN UP!  Get over yourself!  Because that is the last thing you need to hear.  But can I tell you what I wish someone had told me?

I wish someone had told me to WOMAN UP!  You are a daughter of the most high King; you think He doesn’t know what He’s gotten you  into?  You think He is going to let you flounder all alone?  You think He doesn’t hear your cries?  You think He doesn’t know the thoughts that go through your mind?  OF COURSE HE DOES!  He created you!  And just like He created you He created the little people living in your home right now and you have a duty to them.  Your job is to help them believe in the same truth that they are the daughters and sons that God created them to be.  Your job is to love them, to keep them healthy and to keep them safe, not to feel sorry for yourself.

I wish someone had told me that this is hard and in some ways motherhood will be the worst thing to ever happen to you.  Motherhood will show you your weaknesses, your true selfishness.  Your children will mimic your worst qualities and pick up on your worst habits, some that you never knew you had.  But in most ways, motherhood will be the best thing to ever happen to you.   It will make you work hard and you will be all the better for it.  Your level of patience will expand, your selfishness will begin to disappear, your habits will begin to change.  Motherhood will show you that you can love someone besides yourself.

Over two years into this motherhood gig and I’m often told I’m doing a terrible job--sometimes by someone on social media, sometimes by my children, and sometimes by myself. What’s different now than two years ago is that I also tell myself I’m an amazing mother who is specially designed by God for my children.  I also have surrounded myself with people who tell me the same thing and who allow me to speak truth over them.  I face a choice every time I yell at my child or become exasperated by their antics--no matter how I respond I’m still an amazing mother.  And no matter how you respond to your children you’re still an amazing mother. Believe it.

Whether you believe in God or not, whether you believe that God created you and your children, whether you believe that He has equipped you in such a time as this doesn’t matter.  What does matter is that there are lies and there are truths and you have to decide which one you’re going to allow to define you.  

Moms, stop wallowing in lies.  Believe in your strengths and learn from your weaknesses.  Smash a bowl because you’re angry and then ask your kids for forgiveness.  Yell at God demanding all the crappy people be smited and then go in and bake brownies and let your kids lick the spoons. Tell yourself that you’re the most amazingest mom there ever was and then BELIEVE IT.  Because it is the truth.  

You really really are the mother your kids need today.  And you’re killing it.

Caitlin is the founder and creator of Respite Redefined.  She is a wife and mother of two daughters through adoption from foster care.  Caitlin loves to read, to write, and to dream of the places she'll go and the sights she'll see and the new kids she'll one day meet.

Mothering with Chronic Pain

by Erin

I type this as I sit with a heating pad on my abdomen, Tylenol within arms reach, a baby is in his walker and a toddler is fighting a nap in her crib. Days like this are some of the hardest days. Not because of DCS or court or toddler behavior. Days like this are hard because of me- my body.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to call the DCS office so my husband and I could start the foster parenting process. I had a whole long list of reasons not to but ultimately, there was really only one question that mattered in my mind. Will I be healthy enough?

You see, there are days where I lay in the bathtub for hours just to try and find some relief. There are days when I can barely stand upright because the pain won’t allow. There are days where I simply cry because I know next month I’ll just have to do this all over again. I’ve tried herbs and homeopathic medicine and yoga and massages. I’ve tried all of the oils and the anti-inflammatories. I’ve tried less caffeine, more caffeine, no dairy and no gluten.

I have endometriosis. And this disease is trying to steal my motherhood.

I don’t really talk a lot about it anymore, the endometriosis. And now that I’m a momma, everyone seems to think it has gone away. But the truth of the matter is- it’s never been more real. You see, now the pain days aren’t just a reminder of my infertility. The pain days now also prevent me from being a momma. But I won’t allow them to steal my motherhood.

I used to always think that endometriosis would make me an inadequate parent but I’m learning that’s not true. Does it add certain challenges? Certainly. The truth is, I am an inadequate mother- not because of chronic pain, but because I’m human. And I can be ever thankful that His grace and mercy covers my motherhood.

So I’ll say to you, momma with chronic pain, you’re not alone. You don’t have to pretend to feel better than you are. And you certainly don’t have to allow your pain to steal your motherhood.

Erin is a foster momma in small-town Indiana where she spends her days doing life with her husband of 5 years, chasing her two littles and styling hair in a local salon. She loves Jesus and enjoys all things beer, coffee, wine and kombucha. You can find her at