today is the yesterday you’re going to be all nostalgic about tomorrow

We’re in Colorado, in the town where Nate and I met, spending the holidays with family. Our first little condo is here, the one we bought right before our wedding. I hadn’t been been back there for years. We went over Monday to check on some things, to figure out new flooring once the current tenants leave, and to reminisce. On the drive back I told Nate “I miss the us that lived there.” The truth is I miss the us that []

in defense of the imperfect story: finding hope at christmas

Growing up I loved to read the Christmas newsletters and cards my parents would receive. From all across the United States they would pour in, spinning their beautiful tales of promotions, graduations, and vacations. Magical moments captured in dream like perfection. And then social media came with Facebook and blogs to give us that same feeling year round, perfect lives captured in perfectly composed pictures. And then Pinterest. Pinterest is like those old Christmas newsletters played at high-speed while a disco ball throws light []

our seven favorite holiday books this Christmas

Without being deliberate to think about it I’m fairly certain our holiday collection of books would feature the same white Santa with rosacea that is seemingly everywhere. But because my children are African-born and because their father and I are of European descent I choose to think about it. I want them to see their skin tone mirrored in the books we read, especially because they do not see it in their parents’ faces. Our holiday book collection is still small. Because []

a song for the broken hearted (or: virtual hugs for waiting adoptive parents at Christmas)

The last three Christmases we spent waiting. Waiting for a referral that was supposed to come and then came for a baby that didn’t live. Waiting for our oldest. Waiting for our youngest. Three holiday seasons filled with waiting. I often felt alone. I want you to know you’re not. There are other moms and dads wrapping presents for children that won’t be there to unwrap them. There are other parents curled up next to Christmas trees crying their eyes out. There []

nine months (or time slow down already you crazy thing you)

Nine months together. It seems like yesterday it was six. Time feels like it’s skipping and I can barely hold on to the moments, let alone the memories. Maybe it’s the time of year but everything feels like it’s in fast-forward and I want it to just slow down already. I know I’m alone in this sentiment, no one that has ever held a little one close has wished for time to stand still for just a few tiny minutes so you []

holidays and lists and expectations… oh my

There is a Christmas tree in the corner of my living room. It has white lights twinkling everywhere but the very bottom, waiting on the replacement strand I bought last night. Outside my window the valley has cleared of fog, the evergreen trees make it look like it’s Christmas everywhere. Behind me, on the sideboard , are two tiny pumpkins. And in the fridge there are what I’m calling “Thanksgiving Leftovers”, actually just pans I don’t feel like scrubbing yet. The holidays []

this year there will be no “next year…”

This year there won’t be a picture frame on our Thanksgiving table of the family member who’s missing. This year there won’t be presents labeled for babies that aren’t ‘home’. This year every moment won’t be filled with dreams of “next year…” This year we’re together. I write that and I feel a chill go through me. It seems unreal. This time last year I held serious doubts that little Baby K would ever be coming home. I waited for news on []