An Alternate Apology to Angie

The other day I shared a letter apologizing for many things in your life that were out of my control. But traditionally an apology is intended to make amends for one's own offenses. As I have plenty of those in our relationship, it seemed appropriate that I add on to the original apology with another...

Angie,

As I snuggle your brother endlessly, I'm saddened at how many sweet moments I missed out on with you. The physical connection that we could have formed might have moved us into a deeper healthier relationship for life. Scooping you up in my lap to read to you may have changed your outlook on books altogether. Being there as you first started to maneuver through life more independently, to guide your decisions and direction, could have meant so much. But I didn't have those chances.

I'm more sorry about the chances I have had, and blown. I'm sorry I've been so far from a perfect parent. There are no "perfect" parents, but there are many who are much closer than I am.

I'm sorry, that although I was never a "young" mom as the world uses the phrase, adopting you at the ripe "old" age of 30, in many ways I was still as clueless and inexperienced as a 20 year-old. I had a lot to learn about myself, and that was at your expense. I'm sorry. Children generally have the benefit of their parents being married before they're born. As if you didn't have enough load to carry, I added to you the burden of revealing to me my own selfishness.

Other than the dog, you were my first addition to the family. With Ruby, I could maintain the façade, and actually legitimately believe, that I was a selfless giving person. I had sold everything I owned and left everyone I knew to move to Bolivia, where I served during the day as a veterinarian and many evenings in orphanages and ministries. I had myself, and maybe others, convinced that I was altruistic, devoted, even self-sacrificing.

It wasn't until you moved into my home, my personal sacred space, and started to crowd me out that I realized just how much of me there was. I had been able to give, and serve, and love others in my spare time, sometimes inconveniently, but more often on a schedule that allowed for my own autonomy, until there was you there needing me all day long and in the middle of the night, interrupting my life, reflecting my selfishness to me like a distorted mirror. The problem was, the mirror wasn't distorted, my image of myself was.

Usually, one starts with a spouse up in their grill all the time, before adding needy kids to the equation. It's a more natural progression, as husbands are fairly mature, and able to care for themselves for the most part. So after adjusting to their messes, idiosyncrasies, and differences in schedule, it's a smoother transition to move deeper into the realm of living communally by adding offspring that can't do anything for themselves. Also, husbands choose their wives and commit to love them despite their self-centeredness. You have no such covenant with me.

But, alas, you had the privilege of pushing all my buttons for the first time, and showing me just exactly how many buttons I had, before anyone else had ever found many of them. For that I am truly sorry.

There were so many things that have been unfair to you in this world, I shouldn't have added another. I didn't even know I was involuntarily putting on a mask each day for a world who was probably doing the same, allowing us to interact without getting too real. That is, until you revealed the me what was under my mask. Finding out how far I could stretch, how little patience I had even on my best attempts, and how selfish I was deep under the mask, all that should have been Daddy's job. When you and I got comfortable, as people do in close quarters over time, our manners faded, our tones changed, our self-control dwindled. That was understandable for you, an 8 year-old girl with no training in such things, but not for me. I apologize that you had to be my guinea pig while learning to interact intimately with another human being.

Your father and your brother should thank you for your service to the family as you took one for the team, teaching me to die to self a little more each day. It's never easy to be the pioneer, but if anyone was strong enough, you were. And, I think the fact that we struggled alone together for so long, has bonded us, not the way cuddling you in your formative years would have, but bonded us nonetheless.

I'm sorry, you had to be the one to point out the flaws I had hidden even from myself. But I'm not sorry that you pushed me to the end of myself, because in those times when I ran out of me, I found Jesus most fully. And only with Him, can I be a parent worth having...

An Apology to Angie

Angie,

As we celebrate 14 years of the wonderful lady God is transforming you into, it's not news to you that this life isn't fair. It's not fair to anyone ever, and that's an important lesson for kids to learn as they transition from a sheltered home-life where parents can maintain a semblance of equality, into the "real world" with all its injustices.

But this is a lesson you learned long before your time, and for that I am deeply sorry. Your innocence, the blissful naivety about hardship that every kid deserves for a while, and in many ways your childhood were robbed from you by circumstances beyond any of our control. I am so sorry.

I'm so sorry that you'll probably never have baby pictures to prove what we already know, that you were an adorable newborn, and likely an even cuter sillier toddler.

I'm sorry that you don't have pictures of your parents either. I can't imagine how hard it is, not to know what they looked like, what you'll look like, to see where you got your full lips, your luxurious hair, and your perfect nails.

But more than their pictures, I'm sorry you don't have your parents themselves. We can never replace the people who share your family history, your ancestry, your native culture, your genes, your infectious laugh, your beautiful golden skin, and deep dark eyes. We understand you lost so much in not knowing them, even if we can't fully comprehend what it's like for you. And I'm sorry this will affect generations to come, as your children won't know their brown grandparents either.

I'm especially sorry that you've endured more heartbreak, trauma, transition, sadness, confusion, and loss than most of us ever will. I'm sorry for the horrible things that led you to the orphanage, and I'm sorry for the things we don't even know about that caused you to be separated from your original family.

I'm sorry that these things have written your story so far, and will continue to define you in many ways even as you hone the power to become the author of your own story from now on.

But I'm not sorry about everything.

I am not sorry for the compassion and empathy that those tragedies have developed in you. I'm so grateful that these traits combined with your determination might give you a voice as an advocate for others who've survived similar misfortunes.*

I'm not sorry, that all those evils man intended to harm you, God used to bring you to us. I'm not sorry that we are the ones who get to work out the scars from your past and see the beauty that will rise from the ashes. Although I feel sorry for the family who lost you, I'm not sorry that we get to be the family who found you; your forever family.

* "Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God." -2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Our Village

My sidekick and I have been pretty inseparable for the extent of his precious little life. The past 15 months outside my womb have resembled the first 9 inside pretty closely. Some days he appears to want to climb right back in where life was safer and simpler, and definitely cozier. The few people who still ask me to go out and do things after 7:30pm have some serious perseverance, because Isaiah does not go to bed without me, at least he never has...

Last week, Facebook showed me this picture from one year ago that day. Isaiah working his first conference booth at three-months-old.

Since then, he's been our Booth Babe at 8 conferences, and has accompanied me on 15 work trips.

Ironically though, when I saw that post from a year ago, I was sitting at another CVM booth, this time alone. For the first time in his life, I had gone to work without him.

Three mornings in a row, I went to the exhibit hall at 6:30am and didn't return till after noon. Which was not only the longest I'd ever been away from him, but also by far the longest he'd been without nursing, except a few nights. Once when I pulled back up to our place after the conference, he started crying as soon as he saw me. His caregivers had done such a stellar job, I don't even think he knew I hadn't been there all along!

Our village of helpers that allowed me to work my first conference solo in a year and a half.

I read once that it's insane to try to work from home and mom from home full-time, and there's probably some truth to that. But with support like these superstars it's possible.

This awesome crew of nannies even allowed me to play in the conference's tennis tournament, the kind of thing I loved to do before I had another person attached to me at all times. During one match, when I caught a glimpse of Isaiah passing by the court and made the mistake of saying "Hi," he lost it. I basically double faulted the whole game away after that, but the tournament director was totally impressed that I was able to keep playing. I think I had him convinced that this was the kind of thing I did all the time, when of course it was only my first naïve, and belated, attempt at such independence.
I sometimes think of single mothers with 5 kids and can only say "bless their hearts!" I have no idea how they get through an hour. During this trip, on the other hand, Isaiah, was a single baby, with basically 5 mothers. And we could still barely keep him safe and sound. There were tumbles, choking hazards, attempts to dash for the parking lot, sleepless nights, and screaming fits. Clearly we're raising him to be rotten, and he's loved beyond measure.

I thought about titling this post "The End of an Era," as I started to let myself grieve the loss of his 24-hour need for Mommy, and at the same time daydream of potentially simpler fall school visits for work, sans the sidekick. But, upon our arrival home from Florida he decided to make up for lost time and stick closer than ever day and night. So it doesn't look like our era as conjoined twins is quite over yet. I'm so thankful for the loving village of help we have to make life and work with this sweet silly boy not just possible, but so much fun!