In my Father's House

Tonight I was got an unexpected (but always welcome) call from my Amanda Kate. It is always good to see her name on my cell phone when it is ringing, and to hear her say "Hey Mama!" in that same cheerful and easy way she has. It got me started thinking about her, and all the wonderful times we had together. I actually had her on my mind a couple of weeks ago, after going to "Muffins with Mom" with Big C in his Kindergarten classroom. I remembered that long-legged little girl with the leopard-print hoodie who invited me to be her "mom" on such a special day, so many sequential years in elementary school. There is a framed photo of her behind my desk at work, and often people will ask me "who is this beautiful girl?" And sometimes I say "my first foster-child", other times I say "my oldest adopted daughter," and other times "my god-daughter." Truthfully, we never knew what to tell people when they asked. But I was drawn to her, as I have been with all my children. When people ask me, "How many kids do you have?" I never know what to say. I honestly feel like all of my "temporary kids", my two babies in Heaven, my step-children, and of course my three little ones who will officially be mine on June 25 in Superior Court, are "my children." But there are so many others who came into my life for brief or extended seasons, and who are now and forever part of my heart and will always have a special place in my home.

Maybe my journey to motherhood actually began in the fourth grade, as strange as that sounds. We mature, educated ten year-olds in Mrs. Evans classroom were recruited to serve as "book buddies" for a group of Kindergarteners. This would be my first experience of really, actually being "in charge" of a younger child, aside from my sister and cousins who I basically bossed around but were so close to my own age that it didn't really count. I remember the feeling of excitement that I would be matched with a beautiful, happy child who longed to learn how to read. I remember writing down words in the loose-leaf paper section of my Trapper-Keeper with the neon heart graphic on the front. Those were the words I would teach my little prodigy, and when she rose to the head of the Kindergarten Class, everyone would know that I was the best "book buddy" at Benefield Elementary School. And so the day to meet our "buddies" came, and I was as giddy as could be when I was introduced to a golden-haired little angel named "Farah", which was undoubtedly a popular name for girls in those days. My friend Kelly and I were actually put together to help Farah, because there was one too many students in our class, unless you count Richard, who was always in trouble and not allowed to be a "book buddy." But I was a teacher's pet, a good girl, so I wouldn't complain about being teamed up with Kelly, who couldn't spell to save her life, because at least I had the cutest little Kindergartener in the whole class. For two straight weeks, I tutored Farah and most likely Kelly at the same time. I brought in little fruit-shaped erasers for incentive, and loved the smile on my buddy's little face when she saw me in her classroom during reading time. The third week of "book buddies" was a time in my childhood that I will never forget. We came into the Kindergarten room with our books and prepared to meet with our buddies. The Kindergarten teacher took an unfamiliar, dirty-looking boy to my teacher, Mrs. Evans, who then lead the little stinker toward me, Kelly and Farah. "Melissa," Mrs. Evans said, knowing full well I would never deny her anything she asked of me, "This is Scotty. He is new to our school and needs a book buddy. How about if I let you be his book buddy, and Kelly can keep working with Farah?" I was horrified. But I would never say "no" to Mrs. Evans. Dutifully, I followed Mrs. Evans and "Scotty" to a corner where he scratched his ear with a crayon and stuck out his tongue at me throughout our lessons. Weeks passed where I would watch Kelly and Farah across the classroom, Kelly stumbling through Beatrix Potter while Farrah played with her pretty hair bows. At first it seemed so unfair, me clearly being the more suitable tutor for a smart girl like Farrah. I think I may have even tried to persuade Kelly to trade book buddies with me. It is unlikely any other fourth grader would have traded buddies to be matched up with Scotty. He was loud, whiny, stinky, and had no interest in reading. But weeks passed, and soon I discovered something. Scotty was funny. He made funny jokes about the books we read together, he used funny voices to read dialogue for characters, and he made funny faces that had me rolling with laughter. We started high-fiving and making our own little inside jokes. I began to love my little underdog, in the way that only a mother can love her little stinker. And when the school year was over, I gave Scotty a whole pack of fruity erasers. I knew that I would miss him.

It seems like many, many years have passed and my house is full (and has always been full) of kids like Scotty. They didn't have the advantages of a Farah, the perfect clothes and home, the nutritious lunches in high-fashion lunchboxes, or even the basics like good manners and reading skills. They came to me ragged and sloppy, and they still keep on coming.

One of our more recent "additions" is a girl I will call "Annie" - an adorable, bubbly little eight year-old girl who came to us through one of Georgia's babysitting jobs. She isn't here often, but when she is, she just fits right in, playing with all the other kids, entertaining Lizzie, and accompanying us on family trips. Without any planning or ceremony, she began to feel like "one of us." Georgia brought her to church, and she blossomed. She sang her heart out, participated in church dramas, hugged the pastors, and chased my little ones around in the fellowship hall. One Sunday, I took over as the Sunday School Teacher in the children's classroom. The Lectionary for the week used the scripture from John 14 where Jesus tells His disciples "In my Father's House there are many, many rooms . . . I go there to prepare a place for you." While preparing my lesson, I remembered the old song by Rich Mullins and decided to play it for the kids. I played the songs and they loved it, begging me to play it over and over. We listened to it maybe five or six times while we all drew pictures of our "dream house" on construction paper I had cut out into shapes of simple A-frame houses. I had placed markers, stickers, fun foam and other supplies on the table. I told the kids they could decorate the house however they wanted - and I told them that Jesus promised us a home in Heaven - a Perfect Home. At the time, it didn't strike me as odd that I was teaching a room full of children from imperfect homes about a perfect home - kids who had faced divorce, loss, addictions, domestic violence, eviction, and all sorts of dysfunction - inside their homes. It didn't occur to me as we drew elaborate staircases, windows, archways, fountains, and other beautiful architecture on the paper houses. I took a long sheet of butcher paper and spread it out across the wall in the hallway, writing the words from John 14. I told the kids to put their "houses" on the mural of Heaven. We added them one at a time, along with people figures, animals, stars, hearts, clouds, angels, music notes, rainbows, and other happy designs. After hanging up several houses, I noticed Annie had not given me hers. I went back into the room and found her diligently working on her "perfect home," with staircases, and lots of rooms. Georgia sat nearby watching over Annie's shoulder. "Wow!" I exclaimed, "you are really putting a lot of time into your Perfect Home!" Georgia cupped her hand around her mouth and drew me close to her to whisper, "she's drawing our house." My breath caught in my throat when I realized what this little girl had seen in our home. Our crazy, loud, messy, unorganized, cluttered, dog-hair-covered, sticky food-encrusted, crowded house full of people was her perfect home.

This world is just never going to be perfect. There are so many hurting kids, like a little girl in Big C's class who never had her mom or dad show up for anything this entire school year - not Muffins with Mom, Donuts with Dad, or any of the field trips or special events. At the Kindergarten Graduation Ceremony last week I didn't cry because my six year old is going to first grade, I cried because this little girl was laying on the rug sobbing when no one showed up for her. She was the only one without a parent or grandparent there to congratulate her. God knows if I could have gotten down on the rug with her, and gathered her into my arms I would have told her "You are wonderful and valuable, and loved. You might not have a happy home in this world, but you have a perfect home waiting for you in Heaven." And isn't that what we all want? We all want a happy, warm, safe place where we can all go and be "home."

My kids and I now sing this song at bedtime every night: 

"In my Father's house there are many, many rooms
In my Father's house there are many, many rooms
And I'm going up there now to prepare a place for you
That where I am, there you may also be

If I go prepare a place for you, I will come back again
If I go prepare a place for you, I will come back again
And you know I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, keep my command
That where I am, there you may also be

That where I am, there you may also be
Up where the truth, the truth will set you free
In the world you will have trouble, but I leave you my peace
That where I am, there you may also be

Remember you did not choose me, no I have chosen you
Remember you did not choose me, no I have chosen you
The world will show you hatred, the Spirit show you truth
That where I am, there you may also be

And I've come down from the Father, it's time for me to go back up
Oh, I've come down from the Father, it's time for me to go back up
One command I leave you: Love as I have loved
That where I am, there you may also be

That where I am, there you may also be
Up where the truth, the truth will set you free
In the world you will have trouble, but I leave you my peace
That where I am, there you may also be

That where I am, there you may also be
Up where the truth, the truth will set you free
In the world you will have trouble, but I'm leaving you my peace
That where I am, there you may also be"

Dear Mr. and Mrs. M . . .

Dear Mr. and Mrs. M,

The first time I ever learned your names was last Wednesday night as I went through the life books that we were given at our adoption signing last Wednesday morning. Quite significantly, Wednesday was also the one year anniversary of the date I first laid eyes on the three little ones who would forever steal my heart and change my life.
I have known about you since the very beginning - we heard your story when the kids came into our house. We heard about how the children were first given to you, in anticipation of a possible adoption. The facts were few but startling- you, like us, had been "hoping" for the placement of a sibling group to adopt. Like us, you were childless (though I have wonderful step and god-children) and you, like us, were willing to accept a legal-risk placement. Unlike us, you were scared away by the initial behavior of C, C, and little Miss E. You returned my babies to the DFACS office only 12 hours after they were placed in your home.
I know that you will very likely never read this letter, and its fine that way. But there are a few things I want to say, and since this blog will indulge me tonight then the time is just right for me.
It makes me very sad that my children were placed in nine foster homes between the time they were removed from an abusive natural family and finally brought to me. It literally breaks my heart to think about those moves - some after as few as three nights. Their few and scrappy belongings tossed into garbage bags and labeled with sharpies, piled into their caseworker's car as they were driven from one home to the next.
After their first night in our home, Big C asked me "how long are we gonna stay with you?"  When I told him, "I hope we can keep you forever," he replied, "but why would anyone want to keep us forever?"
Our caseworker told us little C was "autistic and noverbal." That did not scare us, and neither did the fact that he had been sick with diarrhea for over three months and had unexplained headaches. By the way, he is neither autistic or nonverbal. He has an amazing vocabulary and he loves to talk, laugh, tells jokes, and sing.
Part of me wants to thank you, because if you had kept these three beautiful children, they would have never found their way into my arms. Another other part of me wants to ask you how? How could you spend just a few hours with a five, two, and one year old and decide you wanted nothing more to do with them? How could you walk into the frantic and chaotic world of foster-adoptive placement and expect perfect angels to be delivered into your home? How could you be so unrealistic? 
And another part of me, the part of me that is C, C, and E's Mommy just wants to tell you a little bit about the blessing that you decided to forfeit. Big C is absolutely charming, funny, intelligent, spirited, competitive, and handsome. He is a natural athlete and he literally blows me away when he walks onto the basketball court or the soccer field. He is a hard and fast runner, a strong swimmer, a brave bike-rider, a natural and very gifted athlete. He has a few close friends whom he adores, and he is now almost finished with kindergarten, reading, writing, and growing every day. You missed the night he lost his first tooth, his excitement over our new backyard playground, and his kindergarten field trips. You were probably afraid of his language, the profanity, the screaming and tantrums. It was probably too much for you to assume the care of a child so angry. And so you chose not to know this child, but God had better plans for him, and for us.
Little C is the most breathtaking, adorable little boy you could ever meet. Yes, he was as pale as a sheet of paper when he was brought into our home, with a raw and red bottom, unable to be potty trained because of months of stress-related sickness. He was thin - down to 26 pounds, cried constantly, and never spoke.  But let me tell you this little ray of sunshine has blossomed into a sparkly, endearing, precocious little boy who one day decided to talk about the Incredible Hulk, and never looked back. He loves church, writes his name, can count to thirteen, goes to preschool every day with a giant superman backpack and runs across the room just to say "I love you, Mommy!" Little C grins in every picture taken and plays well with other children, especially girls. When he smiles, my heart just melts. He is such a gift to us.
And finally, little E - the most enthusiastic creature God ever made. She is like a cheerleader and a cherub all rolled into one sturdy little package with a sprinkle of attitude. She bosses our dogs around, kisses all her fourteen baby dolls goodnight every evening, and loves to sing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "If You're Happy and You Know it." Truly, she is happy and she knows it. Our little Princess claps and shouts "Yay!" every time you enter the room, tie her shoes, finish watching a cartoon, finish reading a book or when the car arrives to its destination. She is literally the happiest little one you would have ever had the joy of knowing. From her car seat, she often says "Mommy, dance!" because to her, life is a song and we ought to always be dancing to the music.
The last thing I want to say to you is about taking chances. And maybe this isn't just for you- but its to all the people out there who want to make the world a brighter place. Or, even to the people who "think" they want to make a difference. This is what I need to say - you will NEVER know what you have missed out on when you take the easy way out. When you decide that your comfortable, predictable life is all you want, and you turn your back on someone who could drastically alter your future because you were worried they might drastically alter your furniture.
Yes, our window has been broken. My husband's car has been carved into with a rock. In the fall, I had a huge black eye. Our home has very nearly been set ablaze. Our toilets have backed up mysteriously, and our walls are covered in crayon, marker, ketchup, chocolate pudding, and all manner of things. Under the seat of my car is a Sippy cup, happy meal toy, candy wrappers, cheetos, a plastic dinosaur, schoolwork, and accumulations of something I can only refer to as "unknown substance #47." My kitchen table is forever warped by Easter Egg dye and the banging of silverware. My dogs are traumatized. My new sofa looks like it landed here off the set of Sanford and Sons. But let me assure you, I wouldn't have it any other way. It is unspeakably worth it. 
At the end the night, I get to hear these words: "Good night, Mommy. I love you."

So many people refuse to answer the door to the unknown. So many people count the cost and decide its not worth it. So many people give up on broken people and forget that God and the love of a family can put them back together again.
Three little ones - broken by lies, substance abuse, physical abuse, exposure to domestic violence, moved in and out of other people's homes, with other people's kids, pets, rules. Nine different beds in ten months. What did you expect from them?

Finally, let me assure you that you will have another opportunity. Maybe not through foster care, because it is my understanding that the agency who placed the children with you before they became mine has decided not to use you anymore. But rest assured that you will have another opportunity to open your heart. For your sake, I hope you can look past the angry eyes staring at you through skepticism. I hope you can look past the bruises and marks of abuse, and through the grimaced teeth that may even open up and spew a few choice words your way. I hope that beneath all that aggression and fear you can see the tender and vulnerable heart of a child who needs unconditional love and hope.
I even wish that for you.
My life has forever been changed by your choice. I feel overwhelmed when I think about how just a few hours and unrealistic expectations changed the destination of these babies and brought them to me. I am so thankful to God that He gave to me the greatest joy of life through being a mommy to C, C, and E. I do wish the same happiness for you, but believe me when I say it doesn't come for free. 

One year later . . . we are part of a miracle, but sometimes miracles are hard work.

All the Best,
Melissa

Melissa is gonna be alright!

If you know me, or you have followed this blog for more than a few months then you know about my struggle with infertility, PCOS, fallopian tube failure, two ectopic pregnancies, and five female surgeries. What you may not know (or maybe you did?) is that although I have always been an outspoken advocate of adoption, and have always encouraged people to build their families through adoption, I was not always sure it was for me. I loved the idea of adoption, but I wanted to adopt in addition to having my own children . . . or so I thought.
The truth is, I never pictured myself with a newborn. I never pictured myself giving birth. Even as a young girl, then as a young lady, even when my older sister started having kids and a few years later when my friends started having babies, I just couldn't fix an image in my mind of myself with a newborn baby. I don't remember if I have ever admitted this or not. And yet, somehow, in spite of the fact that I never carried a baby for very long or in the right place, and despite the fact that I never experienced labor or a baby shower, I have never had a shortage of children in my life. I have, in fact, parented 29 children for a period of a month or longer, some for many years, and all have stayed in my heart forever.
The past year has been life changing. After years of loving and parenting other people's children and giving them back, John and I decided to open ourselves up once more but only to adoption of a "legally free" sibling group. We thought we had it all figured out and took our classes, got our license, medical exams, chased down documents on everything from our dogs to our septic tank, and began the agonizing chapter of "fostering to adopt." A phone call on March 27, 2012 changed our lives. In a brief, nearly hysterical phone conversation with the head of the foster-adopt unit at our agency, we learned that a sibling group ages 5, 2 and 1 were waiting for us.
I had really come to a point in my life where I grieved the loss of all things baby-related: car seats, onesies, and even diapers! So it was quite the irony to suddenly have three children in car seats, two in diapers, and three who very badly needed our constant attention.
We fell in love quickly but it was such a hectic time for us. I can't even remember the first few weeks because I was so exhausted. Rather than falling asleep from grief, I was collapsing from exhaustion, jerking awake to the sound of a little one crying out from her crib. I stopped counting the days between my cycles, and I stopped buying pregnancy tests every time I felt the slightest bit "off." And in the midst of all this chaos and joy, my younger sister announced her pregnancy. I can honestly say that I was happy for her. And I wasn't just happy for her, I was happy for me. I was happy for me not only because I had my babies, but because I was truly happy. I had my babies, and now she would have hers. My younger sister, who has faced her own heartache in different ways in life, was now happily married and expecting her first child. It was so different than when I saw strangers in the mall and envied their pregnancy. It was different from even seeing some of my friends having babies with ease and no planning. I was truly happy for my baby sister, knowing she would not have to deal with the pain of infertility and the frustration of feeling your body has let you down in the most basic way.
But still, I wondered how I would feel when her baby came.
Months went by and we continued to bond with our little ones, to teach them to trust us, to help them work through their fears and insecurities. And all the while, God was working on my fears and insecurities.
December came, and so did my beautiful little nephew, Isaiah. I surprised myself by wanting to drive up and see him when he was just a few days old. I took my grandmother and we made a day of it. And when I held him, he was just breathtaking. I felt little tears spring into my eyes - but not sad, angry tears. They weren't tears of jealousy or envy, they were tears of joy at his perfect little face and soft skin, tears of gratitude in knowing that God has spared my precious sister the pain of infertility. Tears of knowing that God works all things out for the good of those who love Him.
It's February and we have been told that by the end of the month, we will change from the children's foster parents to their "adoptive" parents. A date will be put on the calendar in superior court, and we will plan a party. It's really not all that different from having a baby. There is the anticipation, the joy, and the celebration of a new start. And while we were in the throes of finishing paperwork and signing forms, I noticed my body was feeling a little different. I noticed sensitivity in places that made me wonder: Am I pregnant? 
Immediately, I considered that since it happened twice before, it certainly is inside the realm of possible. But I worried that if I was in fact pregnant, it would be another loss, another tubal pregnancy. I put it out of my mind for a week, and then yesterday I was so tired, so exhausted that I had to leave work early and come home to sleep. I slept for three hours and told John about my fears. We talked about it, but I didn't obsess about it. Life is just so different now.
Today I went to work and got my period. My apologies to any guys who are reading this- I know you probably don't like to hear about these things, but you know that is the "clue" that I was reading my body's signals all wrong. But this time, unlike the eighty-nine times before, I didn't collapse in the bathroom floor in a heap of sobs and cry out to God to end my suffering. I didn't storm out of the bathroom angrily, or mutter any cuss words to the tampons. I just completed the restroom task and went back to work. I cut up with my coworkers, talked with some of our residents, worked on a grant proposal, answered some phone calls, and finished up our quarterly newsletter. And I realized the most wonderful fantastic thing has happened in my life- God has mended my broken heart! God has used my three little ones to mend my broken heart. God has really taken hold of me and I am gonna be alright!
I won't be tied to the yoke of jealousy and resentment all my life. I really will be okay. In fact, we will all be okay. Our wacky, cracked-up and put-back-together-again family is gonna be alright.

For the Bible Tells Me So

Tonight when I was doing the bedtime ritual with Lizzie and Cole, I realized how far we have come in the past ten months. Now, ask me at a different time- like when Camden referred to me as "Woman" in the van on the way to school this morning, and I might break down and say sometimes it feels hopeless. But lately, it feels like we just might be okay. Bedtime was such a nightmare in the beginning - John and I still laugh about it. The first night the kids were "home", we expected it would be hard, but we had no idea - and for awhile it only got worse. Nighttime was horrendous, complete with inner-ear-rupturing screaming like you only hear in horror flicks. In the first two months, it took an average of three hours for Camden to stop screaming at bedtime. His screaming kept everyone else up, and needless to say, nobody got any rest. Neither of the babies had any type of nap schedule, and crankiness was an art form. We tried every trick in the book- reading stories, playing soft music, rocking in a big rocking chair, singing songs, counting sheep, "herbal" home remedies, begging, pleading, attempts at coercion, various night lights, rides in the car, all forms of stuffed animals, and of course, punishment. Nothing seemed to work. But slowly, miraculously, over a very long period of time, we developed a routine. The routine is nice.
After dinner we bathe the children, put them in their pajamas and we watch a little TV together. Most recently this is "Go, Diego, Go" which the kids all love and they especially think it is hilarious that John answers every one of Diego's questions with the wrong answer. They think John really is that stupid and that makes them howl with laughter, except for Lizzie who isn't quite sure why she is laughing, but everyone else is - so why not?
After Diego (or Go Dee Go, as Lizzie calls it) we brush our teeth. After this spectacle of spitting and foaming at the mouth and arguing about doing it without grown-up help, Cole and Lizzie have some play time in their room, where for about twenty minutes that can just cook imaginary food in the play kitchen or dress the baby dolls and feed them with play bottles. I swear my kids have a nicer (play) kitchen than I had in my first house. They certainly have a better toaster. Anyway, this is a nice, quiet time because I watch them play and remember the nights when my heart ached for them and I had no idea where they were.
Tonight of course, followed Camden's weekly therapy session which is turning into Melissa therapy as well. It seems like every week, the light comes on more and more for not just my six year old, but for me, as I realize the enormous task ahead of us, but also as I realize all the baggage my little one has to overcome. It seems like every week, I am a little more aware of all my babies have had to live through. Maybe I shared this on my blog a year ago but we finished our adoption home study at the end of October in 2011. I can honestly say that as soon as we were "approved" to adopt a sibling group, I knew they were "out there" somewhere. I could hardly sleep for thinking of them (imagine the irony/ I couldn't sleep when I should have been storing up sleep!) At night before I drifted off, I would lie awake praying for my babies and for the hands of the person who was caring for them. I prayed that someone was tucking them in, singing to them, praying for them, and loving them and telling them everything was going to be okay. I ached for them and wrote journal entries and blogs about my desperate search and longing for them to be with me.
Part of my little ones' very sad and mixed-up story is that they lived in five foster homes before coming to us. Lizzie went into foster care when she was just four months old. She learned to sit up, crawl, and walk in the home of a caregiver who was later accused of abusing children and the home was closed. In a series of therapy sessions, and over the past ten months, Camden has disclosed more and more about the different homes he lived in, and sadly, the caretaker who had my children when John and I were first "officially approved" was not caring for them appropriately. My babies were broken down, screamed at, pushed into the floor and threatened. Bedtime was a sad time, and a lonely time for them. And that just tears at my heart because all that time I was here longing for them, and I didn't know their names or where they would come from.
So sometimes during the play time just before bed, I have to hold back the tears as I think about how grateful I am to have them here now. I sit in a big pink rocking chair and watch them playing so happily - securely - safely. I delight in them and cherish these moments. Sometimes Cole puts the dollhouse mom into Handy Manny's work truck and hauls her off to "jail". Sometimes he picks up a baby doll and beats her bottom, shouting "you go to bed, bad girl!" and I wonder why he has to remember those things. But most of the time, they are just sweet and happy little ones. Lizzie looks up at her clothes hanging in the closet and says, "My dress! My shirt! My hat! My pants!" and Cole points to the letters in his name and says "There's my name, Mommy!" I am so thankful that they recognize this as their home, these are their toys, we are their parents. I cannot describe the joy that it brings me just to have them call me "Mommy," and to be so happy to see me every morning and again in the afternoon after work/school.
After a short play time, I let Cole turn off the lamp and they crawl into my lap. We sing (in this order every night):
Old MacDonald (had a horse, chicken, cow, pig and sometimes when we are in a crazy mood, dragon)
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star
You are my Sunshine (and you are my Cole-bug)
I see the Moon
Skinamarinkeedinkydink (or however in the heck you spell it)
and finally . . . Jesus Loves Me
And what is really strange is that my three little ones who never attended church or heard about God's love before coming to live here have absolutely SOAKED UP our faith. Cole asks every morning "we go to church today?" and is sad and disappointed when the answer is no. The boys went from shouting out cuss words while we attempted to say a blessing before each family meal to literally arguing over which one of them gets to ask the blessing. Camden says "Thank you God for the food, Amen." and Cole-bug just says "Thank You God, Amen." but it's just the sweetest music to my ears. And although they love Old MacDonald and You are my Sunshine, the room becomes slow and still during "Jesus Loves Me." What follows is generally a conversation about God, Heaven, or Jesus. Once last week, it went like this:
"Mommy, where is Jesus' house?"
"It's in Heaven,"
"Where Porky lives?"
"Yes, Porky lives in Heaven."
"Does Porky watch Jesus?"
"I'm sure Porky loves to watch Jesus."
"I want to go to Heaven and see Porky and Jesus."
"You will one day, buddy."
"Mommy? What is "Tells me So?"
"What do you mean buddy?"
"It says, "Jesus loves me this I know. For the Bible tells me so. What is tells me so?"
Trying my best to explain to a three year old that the Bible teaches us about God's love through Jesus Christ, I chattered endlessly about the Bible and its simple yet profound truth. And what's even harder to explain is that this song isn't saying "Jesus loves me" because of something I did, or "Jesus loves me" because I'm good, or because I love Him, or because I read my Bible, or because I go to church, or even because I believe in Him and follow Him. The song says Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me So. It's not a feeling, it is a fact. It is as much a fact to say Jesus loves me as it is for me to tell my children how much I longed for them before they ever came to be mine. They can read in my journals or my blog and say "Mommy loved us before we even became hers. Mommy's journal tells me so!" This is a love based on blind faith and on a choice. God's love for me - not based on anything I say or do, is a simple fact repeated over and over again in the Bible. Jesus does love me - this I do know - for the Bible tells me so. He loves me in spite of my many imperfections, in spite of my past, in spite of my wildly ranging emotions, in spite of my struggles with faith. He loves me not because of anything I can do for Him. He just loves me.
And so tonight, in the middle of my nighttime ritual with my precious children, I was stopped cold in my tracks. As if I was three years old again, in blind faith, I reached out and took hold of that promise. A promise I will pass on to my children.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
The Bible Tells me so.

In Loving Memory

Tonight I am going to take a short break from the adoption journey to share with you about an earlier adoption, and hopefully in some small way honor someone who changed my life for the better. In fact, to tell you that this someone simply "changed" my life would be trite, and in no way do I want to minimize the role of this wonderful companion.

On January 8, I said goodbye to my very precious dog, Pork Chop, better known as Porky. I was never a "dog person" before she came into my life, In fact, I adopted her the same month that I purchased my very first handgun. I took Porky into my home because she was a guard dog. She was a Rotweiller, but I came to regard her as not my guard dog, but my guardian angel.

As I have shared on this blog before, my first marriage was a mistake and not a happy time. My first "husband" had a severe addiction to cocaine and alcohol. I married him during a short nine month period when he had found Christianity and was mostly sober. In my naivete, I believed that with me by his side, and his new found faith, he had all the tools he needed to stay clean. I was regrettably and unfortunately very wrong. His addiction spiraled very quickly out of control and took me to places I never thought I would go. If you knew me during this time, you probably knew me as the Baptist Children's Ministry Director who could be found stapling a laminated Jesus to a bulletin board outside of children's church with a happy Bible verse printed in large, happy handwriting. You might have seen me teaching young kids from the "Wordless Book" or leading a cheerful song. But that was public Melissa, daytime Melissa. At night and at home I became a gun-toting, paranoid, panic-stricken lunatic who survived on less than three hours of sleep and wandered around the housing projects looking for her husband or stolen jewelry.

In 2004, the ex "husband" was in jail. Again.
Shady characters began showing up at my house, knocking on the door asking for him, demanding money. One night, someone shined a flashlight into my bedroom window. I slept on the sofa, waking with every creak or bump in the night, crying and praying to God to protect me. I was literally living in terror. After weeks of this, I convinced myself that I needed a protector. I needed a loyal dog who would sound the alarm and scare off intruders. A gun was not enough. And so the search began.

After browsing online ads about dog adoption and fruitless hours spent at the animal control shelter, my sister one day sent me a link to an adoption page about Pork Chop. She was (in the photo) very commanding and intimidating. Meeting her in person a few days later, I was frankly terrified. Porky greeted me with a large toothy grin, knocking her sharp pointed teeth against my clenched knuckles and making sure I knew she was serious business. Linda, the "foster mom", handed me the leash and encouraged me to walk around the pet store where we met. I was very nervous, but I took that leash, and together Porky and I wandered the aisles of the store. I noticed right away that people moved away from us, although Porky never growled or barked. Her calm alertness and her confidence was enough to cause strangers to pause. Grown men stepped aside to let us pass, and I loved that about her. We stopped on the book aisle where I picked up "Rotweillers for Dummies" and I later grabbed a food and water dish, a bag of dry food, and some toys and treats. Linda told me that she would hold my check for up to six weeks in case I changed my mind about Porky. I called Linda the next day and told her to cash that check. I had found my guardian.

The first night in my small house, Porky was quiet in her crate. She was well mannered, polite, and followed my every command. On the second night, I decided that it made little sense to keep a guard dog in a cage. I invited her to sleep at the foot of my bed. She looked at me as if I was crazy when I patted the bed and urged her to join me. But she did. And for almost nine years, that is where she slept, at the foot of my bed, facing the doorway, always watching, always protecting me.

Porky saved my life in many ways. She saved my life during the darkest times because she gave me purpose. She gave me someone to come home to at night. Even as I pulled into the driveway, I would see the outline of her square jaw as she was watching through the mini blinds. She stood by the door as I unlocked it, and she made me feel so safe. She also quite literally saved my life, more than once. She warned me one Saturday that someone was in my yard. It turned out to be a very dangerous man who was looking for my ex husband. Although her warning gave me time to get my handgun, it was my Porky who scared off the intruder. Another time, my sweet girl chased off a drug dealer and bit him on the leg, all to spare me hurt and fear. With Porky by my side, I became confident, alert, and able to sleep at night. We began taking walks together in a neighborhood I had once feared. We took regular trips to Fort Yargo and hiked the trails alone, while I talked to her out loud and worked through my emotional wreck of a life. I took her with me on road trips, camping trips, and all my errands. She was truly my guardian angel, and I was her most difficult assignment.

When I finally got the courage to divorce my first husband, I talked constantly to Pork Chop. She stayed at my feet, or beside me on the couch through many long and painful nights. She always seemed to listen, eyes wide open and fixed on me. I could never put into words how much my girl did for me, and how well she knew me. I will forever be grateful that God brought her to me when He did. She gave me back my life, and she helped to make it really fantastic.

My mom told me that Porky stayed with me until she was sure that I was going to be okay. She got to be here in this happy house in Dahlonega with my wonderful, kind and gentle husband, John - the two-legged love of my life. While she stayed by my side through two very difficult and painful ectopic pregnancies, she later got to see me parenting my foster children and she watched over them with the same love and devotion she had always shown to me. She got to live her "golden years" here with John's two dogs (lost in 2011 and 2012) and she later accompanied us to the local animal control shelter to pick out her new dog buddy, Otis (who I am convinced she trained for the past ten months to protect our family.) In these past few years, she would join us in our crowded van full of loud and happy kids, sleeping bags and tents, and protect us fiercely in the woods of a camp out. She has ridden on boats with us on the lake, swam in her very own life jacket in every nook of the river here, and in the lakes at the state parks. She has hiked Brasstown Bald and most of the nearby waterfalls, with unparallelled enthusiasm, always watching every member of our family.

And when it was time to let her go, I honestly didn't know if I could do it. She was very healthy up until the holidays, when her age began to show. I spent a small fortune and ran her back and forth to our vet, giving her IV fluids at home, water from a syringe, and baby food until she began to lose the fight. I watched her fading away, and I wondered how I would survive without her. She stopped eating, refused medication, and eventually stopped walking. I kept her here on this earth for longer than I probably should have. I just couldn't imagine my world without her. She was my very-present help in times of trouble, and my always present companion.

On January 8, I found a vet who agreed to come to the house. I just couldn't put her through the ordeal of carrying her to the car and into the vet hospital. Before they came, Cody helped me move her into my bedroom, so she could spend her last few moments on earth at the end of my bed, on a soft cushion with a quilt spread over her body. The vets were very kind, explaining that her labored breathing was a sign of the inevitable. I spent 45 minutes alone with her, kissing her nose and telling her how much I loved her, how sorry I was to see her go, and how grateful I was for her never ceasing love and devotion to me. In the end of her life, I made a choice to let her stop hurting, knowing my hurt would go on for sometime. And I still cry a little bit every day. I expect to see her waiting on the bathroom rug when I step out of the shower. I expect to see the outline of her furry face watching me pull into the driveway. I expect to see her happy bobbing tail-bob when I come through the front door. I miss her fiercely.

Rest in Peace, my sweet guardian. Thank you for your commitment to me and my family. I can't wait to see you again one day.

Bumps in the Road

Has it really been two months since I posted anything? Geez, there is no excuse for that. Although I doubt that all twenty-two of my readers are biting their nails in anticipation, I guess two months is a long pause in the middle of all this excitement. And a long pause is really what it has felt like for us too- we at the Line house have just been in a "holding pattern," because right after my last post, there was an appeal. We expected it, we were told to prepare for it, but it was discouraging nonetheless. So we waited thirty long days to hear that the appeal had been denied. Sweet relief! Six days later, we got another call - there was a second appeal by another party. I won't go into boring details, because I myself (a family law nerd) got really burned out around November. There was paperwork slowly moving around in different offices and courtrooms, there was this achingly, tormentingly grinding slow desperately obnoxious clock ticking in my mind - tick - tick -tick - tick. It's even worse than that BIOLOGICAL clock that all women have but some deny it. I was still hoping and praying that this adoption would happen before the end of 2012. In my mind, adopting C, C and E would be the PERFECT Christmas present. My mom described it this way in an email: "I feel like we've all been holding our breath for the past six weeks." So when the call came announcing the second appeal, I cried. I cried hot, angry tears and told our caseworker, "Well, I'm just pissed." She tried to comfort me, and tried to help me see that this was just another bump in the road. In fact, she used the term "bump in the road." I was not excited about her metaphor. I was ready for an adoption hearing in superior court, not another bump in the road to permanency.
Around this time, Big C started seeing a new therapist. I don't blog daily for a reason, and this child is the reason. I've been a short-term or long-term mother to twenty nine kids and this one is the toughest. He wears me down. He exhausts me. Oh, he has many, many wonderful qualities - but he also has some personality "quirks" that are other-worldly. In fact, if Scully or Mulder was to ring my doorbell one morning to announce that this child is from another universe, I would not be shocked. And although this child has zero problems at school and on the basketball court, he is hard to treat in therapy. Or so it seems. Anyhow, we had to transition to a new therapist and I was pretty excited - hopeful that the new one would be our magic answer! She would be the key to unlocking that tied-up heart and resolving these lingering issues with authority, respect, honesty, and love! I know (now) how silly that sounds, but I have made great strides myself with good counselors, so I always have a lot of hope when working with a new provider for one of my children. The first appointment came and I picked up the little stinker from school where he greeted me in the front office with a glare and said "Mommy! I thought you said you would pick me up BEFORE P.E! YOU LIED!" Lovely to see you too, son, I thought as I ushered him out of the office while explaining that I had miscalculated the time it would take to get to the appointment. We drove to Cleveland and found the office with no trouble, signed in and looked through some Bible story books while waiting to see our new hero. When it was time for his appointment, the therapist led us back to a small cozy office with a two love seats, a small desk and a shelf full of toys. Big C picked up a small ball and began throwing it at my head. I quickly told him that he was not to throw the ball at people, and the therapist offered a few rules about her play area. "You may roll the ball," she told him, "But you cannot throw it." It should come as no surprise that the ball was soon confiscated and Big C sat in the floor surrounded by trucks and dinosaurs, pouting about the injustice of losing that Spongebob ball. She explained that each week she would spend a few minutes catching up with me about his progress, and would then spend the rest of the hour talking with him and building trust. I knew she would also ask me what I hoped we would accomplish through therapy - my goals for treatment. I knew it wouldn't sound good to say "I hope you can make him a little nicer, a little more normal," So I listed some of the main issues we have been dealing with at home. "It's odd . . ." I told her, "He seems like he likes me, seems to be trusting me, but then he does something so rude, or cruel, or so mean. I gave her this scenario to better explain what I was trying to say: At bedtime, I try to spend about 20 minutes with the little ones in their bedroom. We sing about five songs in the rocker, we talk and laugh, and then I put them in their beds and sing "Jesus loves me," before leaving the room. Then I go across the hall to Big C's room. We read two stories, laugh and snuggle, tell jokes, etc. and then he always asks me to scratch his back. I scratch his back and sing one little silly song that he loves. We always laugh. And sometimes, that's it, I tell him good night and that I love him, and I walk out the door. But most of the time, it doesn't end that peacefully. I finish scratching his back and he asks for a longer back scratch. I scratch his back a little longer, then I persist that I must leave -it's bedtime! I turn to leave and then comes to mysterious part. Under his breath, he mutters "butt head," or "Stupid" or worse . . . as I am walking away. A couple of times, he has not only muttered an ugly name, but he has thrown an object at me, or just as I am closing the door he screams "Mommy! I hate you!" This is hard for me. It makes me feel like the entire 20-30 minutes we just spent together was a waste. One night, I taught him about Wet Willy's, putting my spit-covered finger in his ear and we laughed and laughed. I let him give me a wet willy, pretending I didn't know what was coming when he whispered "I'm gonna tell you a secret!" And we laughed so loud, John came to see what was happening. And after he was under the covers, back had been scratched, song had been sung, and little brunette head had been patted, I turned to walk out the door and heard him mutter "Shit head." Why would a child do this? As I was describing this scenario to the new therapist, in just as much detail as I've given you, I knew it probably sounded trite. I am a thirty-five year old, married, professional woman who volunteers in her community and has fostered dozens of children! Why would this bother me so much? And yet it does, I admitted. It bothers me because I don't understand it. Why is he pushing me away?
The therapist nodded at all the appropriate times, and we talked quietly since big C was just a few feet away cramming dollhouse figures into the trunk of a toy car and pounding them with his fist. "It sounds like attachment issues," she offered. I nodded, pretending to agree. Attachment? We talked more and she offered this synopsis: "He loves to feel close to you, but he's still holding you at arm's length." She then asked me how I was feeling about the progress of the adoption timeline. For a few minutes I pretended to be the hopeful, upbeat, always-positive-foster-adoptive mom that I pretend to be ninety per cent of the time. It turns out I couldn't lie to her so well. I dropped the act, and shook my head in realization. "I think I've been keeping the kids at arm's length too," I confided. And I told her about Peniel and Jeremiah, and all the other kids I have loved and lost. I told her about the babies I had lost in early pregnancy, and the baby we were planning to adopt at birth. "Honestly," I told her, "And I didn't realize it until now, but I think I've been withholding my love because I'm afraid of losing them. Every time something happens to postpone the final adoption, I worry. I fear that something crazy will happen and all this love I spent on them will be lost." And there was so much more I didn't say that afternoon. It wasn't my session, but maybe I should have stuck around for one that was focused on me. All this time I've been trying to figure out why Big C is afraid to let go and love me, and yet I've been afraid to let go and love him. To love him completely means to accept him, in spite of his imperfections. To love him means to let go of my own ideas and notions of what makes a perfect family, a perfect mom, and perfect child. It turns out that no matter how great he feels when I love on him and show him attention at bedtime, and no matter how much fun we have and how close he feels to his new "mommy," when I turn to walk out the door, he throws up a defensive arm to protect himself. He's only trying to keep himself safe. He's only trying to spare himself from future pain. Oh, my poor little one. I understand that now. I see it exactly as it is, because I've been doing the same thing too.
Like many children I have parented, the words "I love you" don't drip naturally off Big C's lips. In fact, he hasn't said it, yet. But two weeks ago during church, when the children were coming into the sanctuary after their classes, he slipped behind me in the pew and handed me a small 3X5 index card with the letters ILYU in his childish scrawl. "What is this?" I asked, ready for any answer. He pointed to the letters as he spoke, "It says I LOVE YOU," he announced, and bounded off down the aisle to tackle John.
It turns out we needed these bumps in the road. Had it been a smooth ride we wouldn't have realized how much we needed each other, and how God is working it all out, step by step, day by day.

This Momma

The past few months have been very exciting for us, and also emotionally challenging. The little ones who were placed with us on March 27 were considered a "legal risk" placement, which basically means that although it looks like they will become legally free for adoption, that was not yet the case when they were placed with us. So we brought them into our family with very open and hopeful hearts- praying and wishing they would forever be ours. Situations like these can take years, but fortunately due to some hardworking people involved in their case, and thanks to foster care reform laws in the state of Georgia, C, C, and E were on the fast-track to permanency. Over the summer when all three parents were incarcerated at the same time, the state filed for the termination of parental rights. In case you don't know what that means, it is exactly what it sounds like - a judge hears a case to determine if it is in the children's best interested to terminate their biological/legal parents rights, essentially setting them "free" to be adopted. So way back in the last summer when all the parents were locked up, we signed papers indicating our wish to adopt this sibling group of three. Everything was explained to us- the legal process, paperwork, financial commitment, etc. and we joyfully signed those documents. Then a court date was put on the calendar - October 10, 2012. And though some cases (like ours) may seem cut and dry, like a determination would be quick and easy, this is rarely the case. The attorney for the parents works hard to find compelling evidence why their client's parental rights should remain intact. The attorney for the state prepares a case to show the court how the parent has not demonstrated the ability to parent his/her kids. The caseworkers for the department of family and children's services work with the state to establish the reason why they felt it was no longer a good idea to try and "reunite" this family. In our case, there were also a handful of biological family members (who had all at one time been ruled out as an appropriate placement for the kids) who had hired an attorney and gone to battle against the state as part of the same case. At the same time, there is also an attorney for the kids- also known as a GAL, who represents the children and their interests in court. And fortunately for us, there was also a wonderful CASA (court appointed special advocate) a volunteer who works exclusively for the children, and makes an informed recommendation to the court on behalf of the kids needs and wishes.
In preparation for a court case involving four attorneys, three biological parents, and a host of evidence, witnesses, and experts, the judge had assigned this case four days on the court calendar- 10/10 being the first day of proceedings.
A few days before the hearing, our subpoena was served. We also received notice that dad #1 (Big C's biological dad) had agreed to surrender his rights and there would be a "goodbye" visit for him on the tenth when we came to court. My sister agreed to go with us in the event that John and I were called to testify. We hoped and prayed that we would not have to testify. At the end of day one, the kids had a visit with their great-granny, while we went to lunch with a few of the key players and caught up on the days' events. We learned about the great show that went on in the courtroom, the tears, the accusations, the eye-rolling, the dramatic meltdowns, the expert testimony (that didn't look good for the biological parents) and the blame game, where I'm told the biological mom actually took the stand and tried to point the finger at the judge. The most dramatic part for me all day was when I took Big C across the hall into a conference room for his goodbye visit with his biological dad. The child was running a fever that day, fighting a cold, and he just plain didn't want to interact with someone. Plus, and let's be fair - he is five years old. Concepts like "forever" and "goodbye visit" are pretty abstract to him at this point. To him, he just wanted to stay on my lap and when a stranger came to get him and take him across the hall, he was not happy. He fought her with his entire body, and cried and screamed into my neck. "Can I walk him over?" I asked, thinking I would just lead him into the room and drop him off. Little did I know that because all the important people were in the courtroom fighting it out, there was a lone deputy who had brought Big C's dad over from the jail. They sat in conference room chairs, watching awkwardly as I struggled to bring the five year old into the room. A woman from DFACS was there, but we had never met before and I am pretty sure the kids haven't ever seen her either. The deputy was a grandfatherly man, and he smiled warmly, trying to ease the tension in the room. "Should I leave?" I asked, seeing Big C's dad in person for the first time.
"Why don't you stay?" The deputy asked, and I took a deep breath, feeling like a fish out of water. What was I doing here? Why was I part of this? I always assumed that God called me to adopt children out of foster care to get them away from their original parents. My plan never included being buddies with original dad. But God gave me grace . . . again. I turned and saw him sitting there, in plain clothes because they let him change- slumped in a chair holding a few snapshots of himself and Big C together on their visits over the past year. I could see he was fighting back the tears, and that made me soften toward him. I walked over to the chair beside him and sat down, cradling the child in my arms.
"Hi," I said, trying to think of what to say at such a time.
"It's nice to finally meet you," he said, offering me his hand to shake.
We sat there quietly for a few minutes. The lady from DFACS and the Deputy seemed to be waiting on me to take the lead. So I did, with God's help. I told original dad about Big C's progress in school, our recent camping trip, his plans for Halloween, and about our household. I told him about my infertility, my desire to be a mother, and my love for these children. I told him about my faith, and about my amazing and wonderful husband. I asked him questions about his family, his parents, his brother, his former jobs, and his pregnant girlfriend. We talked about everything from hobbies to hymns, tattoos,  cars and dogs. At one point he calmly said, "The only reason I signed the papers is because I can't do anything for him right now. And I don't want him to move again. I don't want him the be with anyone but you guys." I nodded, appreciating his honestly. I told him that in our house we don't speak badly of anyone- including other parents. I explained to him that we will raise the kids to have respect for their birth parents, to know that they did the best they could for them at the time. I told him that he would never have to worry if his son was loved, cared for, and protected. I assured him that this was not goodbye forever. When the visit was almost over, our wonderful DFACS transporter arrived and took Big C into her arms to free me up. I went to take Little C to the potty and as I walked from the room, I took one last look at Big C's birth father. They spent about fifteen more minutes together before the deputy took him back to the jail.
We were excused from attending the hearing on Thursday, so I hung closely by my phone at work all day. I got regular updates from our case workers, the CASA, and others who were involved. At around 3:30 pm, I learned that Dad #2 had surrendered his rights to little C and E, his biological children. Our caseworker asked me if I could transport the kids to the courthouse for their "goodbye" visit with him the next day. John had a job interview so it would just be me. I thought I would just be the transportation - but again I was wrong. On the way back to the courthouse, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number.
"This is Deputy Davis . . . I was just calling to see how far away you are?" I told him I was about an hour away, and he commented that we were making good time.  He told me that we would meet inside juvenile court, at the same conference room as the prior goodbye visit. I realized it was that same older gentleman who escorted dad # 1 to Wednesday visit.
"Oh that was you on Wednesday?" I asked him.
"Yes," he said, "And I meant to tell you - you did a wonderful job with him."
That was the Lord, I told him, because it was very hard and very uncomfortable for me. And yet, God called me to do it again on Friday.
I met with our CASA volunteer (who had come to support me) and we realized no one from DFACS or family court was coming to supervise the visit. It was just the four of us- and the two little ones. We got there about 4 pm and saw one of the grandmothers had been invited as well. Little C looked at her suspiciously, as though he could barely remember her - but not enough to slow him down. The two of them ran around the conference room, eating handfuls of raisins and getting into everything.
Dad # 2 was soft-spoken, smaller than I had imagined - quiet. He tried to hug and play with the kids but they regarded him as a stranger. E knocked her head on the corner of the conference table and screamed for me, running across the room into my arms. I felt like dad #2 and grandma were watching me with the kids, maybe hoping to find something that they could dislike about me- but as the visit moved on, we talked and opened up to each other. Grandma asked if she could send me some pictures of distant relatives and baby pictures of the kids. I told her that I would like that very much. I told her and her son that we would never speak ill of them, and that we would always make sure the kids knew how much they were loved. Dad # 2 told me similarly to Dad #1 "I couldn't do nothin' for them in the jail. And I want them to know I love them." I assured him the kids would always know he loved them. He was more playful than dad # 1, maybe because the kids are smaller and you have to be on your toes with them. But at the end of the hour, a second deputy came into the room and motioned to him "It's time to go," he told him. And the air in the room became very heavy, like someone was about to be executed. I saw him literally swallow a huge lump in his throat. He took a deep breath and fought back the tears. The kids didn't know what was happening while the dad and granny took turns hugging and kissing them, at one point Grandma grabbed my hands and thanked me, saying "I love you." I struggled with my reply. Should I say "I love you too?" to someone I don't know - to someone who at one time posed a threat to my possible adoption? I looked at her in that moment, while the deputies were leading us from the room. I looked at her pale face, stringy long hair, thin frame, faded jeans, tear-stained cheeks. Underneath it all, I saw E's little face, the light in her eyes - and little C's sweet smile. There were my babies- in her face. I couldn't help but love her, because they are a part of her - so I embraced her in that doorway and said, "I love you, too."
Outside the conference room and outside the courthouse, I could not get away fast enough. I ran with the kids in their stroller and buckled them into the car seats. They were hungry, but there was no chance I was stopping in that county for dinner. We drove for over an hour before I stopped to buy them a happy meal. At that point, it might be less "Happy" and more like and "angry meal," but I let them play on the playground and get an ice cream cone to make up for it.
And we came home.
And we waited.
I hoped we would hear that biological mom had let go gracefully. But, as the CASA told me, "She won't go away quietly." 
The third day for court was scheduled for October 16th. The caseworker called to tell me that, while the kids were excused from court, I was being called as a witness. Me and my big mouth.
So John and I made arrangements for the kids to be dropped off super early at the daycare so we could travel again to the courthouse 2 hours away- and watch the drama unfold.
We arrived a few minutes before 9am, and sat in a waiting area with various relatives of our kids. A few minutes later, the caseworker motioned for us to follow her into a hallway where she told me "you're being excused from court today. We don't need your testimony." I must have looked stunned. God knows I had practiced my little speech over and over, looked at my notes, listened to "lose yourself" by Eminem in an attempt to motivate myself, picked out a special "court outfit" and even wore my special bracelet that I wear anytime I need confidence. Not to mention we drove 120 miles again . . . but truly I was relieved. I was relieved because I just wanted this to happen without me. I wanted there to be enough compelling evidence that I could just collect my babies and leave when it was all over.
"But," she told us, "you're welcome to stay and watch the hearing. You both can sit in the back of the courtroom."
I jumped at the chance to do that. It was way better than trying to stay busy all day, wondering what was happening. I don't even think I gave John a vote. I grabbed his hand and we walked into the courtroom.
"Yes, were staying," I told our caseworker.
It was a very long day.
The judge made it clear that she wanted to finish hearing this case on that very day. She explained that breaks would be very brief- lunch would be only ten minutes- and that court would remain in session all night if that was required. Again, I hoped it would be quick and easy. Instead, it was long and ugly. It was like Jerry Springer meets Law and Order, with relatives pounding their fists on the podium, biological mom growling and staring at me, the Granny club seething in anger just down the bench from us, attorneys asking difficult questions, the judge asking for clarification on a few things.
The most memorable moment of court for me would be during the state's arguments when the assistant district attorney was questioning a witness on the birth mom's side. "And you think," she shouted, "That considering all these children have been through, that we should remove those children," she turned and pointed to us, where we sat holding hands on the bench, "from this Momma and this Daddy." 
At 4 pm, John and I left during a short recess. We needed to be back in Dahlonega in time to pick up the kids. It did not appear that court would be over soon.
At 7:30 pm, all sides rested. We were not there- but we got the message. The judge decided not to rule from the bench, and indicated that she would likely use the last day set aside for this case- October 23 - to render her decision. I prayed it would not take thirty days (that is the legal time limit for the judge to render her verdict in these types of cases.) I told myself we would hear something right away. I tried to put it out of my mind for a few days. We tried to stay busy. The weekend came, and I got sick- really sick. I vomited, ran a fever, had chills, cramps, sore throat, and a terrible cough that is still lingering a week later. And by Monday, I grew really worried, irritated, desperate, and cranky. I couldn't exercise, I couldn't talk without crying, and I started dissecting everything I had seen and heard in that courtroom. Suddenly all the outrageous things I had seen and heard were starting so seem less outrageous as my mind started playing games like "worst case scenario" and waking me up at night to ask "What if??" That is not a pleasant feeling, and it lasted for a few days. Tuesday came and went. Wednesday came and went. And Thursday came and went, with me slowly slipping into insanity. I texted and called our caseworker and CASA like some love-sick seventh grader: "Has she made her decision yet?" "Have you heard anything yet?" "Should I be worried?" "What's going on here??" I was so obsessed. And like I told my facebook friends, the person who penned the phrase 'no news is good news' was clearly a drinker. For the first time in my life, I was seriously considering drinking.
I began to think that maybe it would have been better if I had testified. Maybe it would have been good for this Momma to take the stand. This Momma could have told the granny club all about the sad state in which these babies came to us. This Momma could have told the court about the amazing progress of these three brave kids, of their huge leaps and bounds in health, emotional well-being, academic pursuits, social development, and inner healing. This Momma could have told them about the way they cling to me, want to be held and rocked as much as possible, draw pictures of our family, ask for John when he is away for just a few minutes. This Momma could have told them how they NEVER ask for their birth family, never mention them, never draw pictures of them. This Momma could have told them all about the emotional baggage these little ones carried into their new home. And this Momma could have told them that although I may not have carried them in my body,  I would give my life to see them happy and healthy forever.
Friday morning I came into work, warmed up my breakfast sandwich, checked my emails. Around 8:45 I went into the restroom, carrying my phone (because that's what you do when you're obsessed) and it rang.
"Hello?" I answered, half coughing (still sick.)
"Are you ready for some good news?" she asked me. She being our caseworker.
"Oh yes," was all I could reply.
"It's done," she said fiercely, "It's over. We won."
I could barely wrap my head around it. Finally. Thank you, Jesus! And the words that followed were sweet and perfect. She told me how the judge had written into her court order: "the children were placed in this current home in March of 2012 and the foster parents have done wonders for them. It would be detrimental to the children to be removed from this home."
This Momma is really, really happy.