Off Script Mom

MY RELENTLESS, VIOLENT PRENATAL ITCHING AND THE DISMISSIVE DOCTORS WHO COULDN’T CARE LESS

I often think about ripping my skin off in one fell swoop.

I’m half-way there.
My wrists, hands, and forearms are scratched raw.
My legs are torn up with red marks.
And my stomach looks like a tiger clawed its way right through me.

Every night of this pregnancy - like clockwork - I can feel the itching start to take over.
The witching - or itching - hour.
It’s more of a burning pain than a traditional itch.
Scratching feels like the only solution, but there is absolutely no relief.

It’s incessant, and maddening, and exhausting. I end up crying in a way that I’ve never cried before.
Feeling completely helpless - and hopeless.

By morning, my entire body is left with the markings of what can only be described as the aftermath of a feral, rabid coyote.
Either that, or it looks like nothing happened at all. I don’t know which one is worse.

But perhaps equally as infuriating is the utter lack of responsiveness I’ve received from medical professionals.

When I first brought up the itching at my OB appointments, my concerns were dismissed as a minor discomfort, as if I said I stubbed my toe.

The assumption is that I’ll just have to endure the fiery skin issue until my due date, which, at that point, was several months away.
In fact, judging from my experience, my health is of little to no concern, as long as baby looks good.

My doctor visits usually go something like this —>
Me: I am desperate to stop maniacally itching and I’m seriously concerned that I can’t continue like this.
Them: Baby looks great! See you in four weeks.

I’ve tried all the lotions.
The oatmeal baths.
The cold showers.
The Benadryl.
The prescription topical creams from dermatologists.
The elimination diets.
Most importantly, I’ve tried advocating for myself at the doctor’s office.

And none of it works.

Throughout my first pregnancy I felt like when I expressed concerns, they fell on deaf ears.
During my marathon delivery, my serious concerns regarding my plummeting mental health were treated like a footnote instead of the headline.

If I had a penis, would the doctors have listened?
If dudes gave birth, instead of women, would all pregnancy related issues have established treatment plans and longstanding cures?

A quick internet search shows researchers have published hundreds, if not thousands, of studies addressing this disparity.

“Doubts about women’s pain can affect treatment for a wide range of health issues, including heart problems, stroke, reproductive health, chronic illnesses, adolescent pain and physical pain, among other things,” reporter Lindsay Bever wrote in her 2022 Washington Post article.

She goes on to quote Roger Fillingim, the director of the Pain Research and Intervention Center of Excellence at the University of Florida. “Research suggests that women are more sensitive to pain than men, and are more likely to express it, so their pain is often seen as an overreaction rather than a reality,” he said.
(And he’s from the finest university in the world, so he’s legit. 😉)

In a 2023 blog post, Cedars-Sinai’s Dr. Tania Esakoff wrote, “pain and health concerns of women and girls are dismissed far too often by doctors and researchers.”

When I found out I was pregnant again, it was absolutely imperative to me that this time around be vastly different from my first experience. Otherwise I truly believed I would not survive the process again.

But it’s all the same.

I have a glaring allergic reaction that’s negatively impacting my quality of life, yet once again, no one cares.

What is it that I have to do, short of becoming a dude?

No surprise here, the internet says to bring a man with you to your appointments. 🙄

Sure, why fix the pervasive, inherent gender biases within our country’s healthcare system, when you can just bring a man to your appointment instead?

Here’s what Dr. Esakoff offered:
“The key is to keep the conversation civil. You can say, ‘Thank you for listening to what I’ve mentioned, but I feel like we still haven’t addressed this issue. Can you please loop back to this because it is very important to me?’”

A 2019 article from The Today Show provided key phrases to use if you’re being dismissed:
1. "I know this is different for me and I want to find out what the cause of it is. I really need your help in finding out what’s going on. What tests could we do to investigate this further?”
2. “Can you think of some additional things that we could consider that would be causing these symptoms for me?”
3. “I’d like us to keep looking because this is impacting my quality of life and it could be impacting my quantity as well.”

It’s disconcerting that this issue exists in 2024.

At this point I’m annoying myself when I talk about the itching, I can only imagine how my family and friends must feel when I begin to complain. But if my doctors can’t provide support, what are my options? Suffer in silence? Sob every night in pain? Contemplate how to end this feeling?

I wrote this to possibly provide support for other women going through similar situations.
If you’ve had an experience during pregnancy like mine, I’d love to hear what worked for you.
I’ve tested for intrahepatic cholestasis of pregnancy, and it always comes back negative.

Help!

national adoption month: why you should jump in, get wet, and make waves

I’m terrified of the ocean.
I get sick just thinking about the strength of the current, the enormity of the waves, and the sheer depth of the water.

But I set sail anyways.
Metaphorically.

And I didn’t just dip my toe in.
I jumped in head first.

In 2018 - we went from having no kids to four kids in the span of eight months.
We had four toddlers: two who didn’t speak English, and two who kept us on our toes 24 hours a day.

I was drowning.

Dripping with inexperience.
Soaked in naïveté.
Pulled down by waves of unrealistic expectations.

But what I lacked in parenting experience, I made up for in …nothing.
Nada.
Lost at sea.
I grasped at anything and anyone that would help me keep my head above water.

That’s when we found our raft.

Our family.
Friends.
Doctors.
Therapists.
Social workers.
Trauma-informed resources.
Non-profits.
Other foster and adoptive families.

Slowly, and somewhat organically, we built a supportive community that helps keep us afloat - a group of people that wrap around my kids, encouraging and inviting them to embrace and explore their unique cultural identities.

But this isn’t a peaceful European river cruise.

We’re more like that rusty pontoon boat that hosts nightly tours on the intracoastal for South Florida tourists who BYOB.

We’re fun, and messy, and we have stories for days.
But sometimes a hurricane forces us to drop anchor, take shelter, protect each other, and regroup.

Venturing into unchartered waters is scary.
It’s uncomfortable and hard.
But if you choose to foster or adopt, you won’t be on an island alone.
As a community, we can help each other, while helping children in need.

A rising tide lifts all boats.

I invite you to start in the shallow end, by exploring all the different ways you can help kids in the foster care system, or how you can adopt a child who needs a forever family.

how becoming a foster parent changed me
an interview with st. joe’s

I recently wrote this piece for St. Joseph’s Children’s Home about our foster care experience.
Learning about the child welfare system has widened my perspective, broadened my understanding, and deepened my empathy for the children and families involved in this complex system of care.

Here is my interview with St. Joe’s:

What is your fondest memory of being a foster (and now adoptive) mom to your boys? 

It is impossible to choose just one moment or memory! Our sweet boys were our first (and only) foster placement. We were trained, open, and waiting for about a year, and we started to wonder if anyone would be placed with us. We wanted to feel properly equipped, and confident that we were doing what was best for the children needing care and for us as a family. 

We were also in the middle of pursuing international adoption at the time (for our two oldest daughters) but once that phone call came about two little boys, ages 1 and 2, we felt ready to take the leap. We got the call on a Friday, and the boys arrived at our house on Monday. I will never forget those first few moments with them. Our whole world changed – for the better – and we never looked back. 

How has this experience changed you? 

This is huge. How has it not changed me would be a simpler question. Because of my experience with Kentucky’s child welfare system, I see the world in an entirely different way. I no longer only have my own (admittedly mostly privileged) experiences to pull from, but I now have a wider, broader, and deeper understanding of the racial, economic, and social disparities that plague our country. And while I may not have firsthand experience with the pervasive racism that spreads through our communities, I owe it to my four oldest children to acknowledge the inequities, to honor their cultures, and to be their constant champion, protector, and ally. 

What has motherhood taught you about yourself?

My husband and I became parents in an unusual way. Over the years, with my boys, my girls, and now our baby – I’ve learned that – well, I have a lot of learning to do. I recently read that so much of parenting is about changing our own behaviors, not our children’s. I agree. I’m learning how to be a better parent by changing the way I react and respond to situations. I think we can all evolve and improve as parents and as humans. My kids have taught me that I have plenty of room for improvement! 

What would you like for new foster/adoptive moms to know? Is there any advice you would like to give?

I feel like I could write a book with advice I would pass on to other foster parents. But here are a few of my initial thoughts for anyone thinking about fostering. 

• Make sure you’re getting into this world for the right reasons. I admit that when my husband and I became foster parents, I was very naive and knew nothing about trauma-informed care. I thought (and perhaps was coaxed into believing that) we could simply foster to adopt, and tie everything up in a nice bow. But nothing about any of this system is ever simple or easy. It’s hard, and takes way too long, and there are ugly parts. You have to be okay with a child going home to their biological family, if that’s what is deemed appropriate, because reunification is always the first goal. Basically, this is about the child – not you.

• Take teenagers. Easy for me to say, right? But trust me, teens in care are the hardest to place, and they need it! I interview them all the time for work, and these kids are desperate for a family. It will be hard work, but imagine what the kids have been through, and imagine all the ways you could improve their lives if you’re willing to stick it out. I am always so impressed with foster families that welcome teenagers. Many of them are heroes.

• Understand and acknowledge that this will be hard. Many of these kids have been through unspeakable trauma. Educate yourself on how trauma impacts them for the rest of their lives. There’s a good chance they will have ‘stuff’ to work through (who doesn’t). Do the therapy. Get the help. Ask professionals. 

• And finally – the most helpful strategy for me was making connections and forming relationships with other foster and adoptive parents. We understand each other in a way that is different. It’s huge to have that support. You will need a village, but it is worth it. What a beautiful way to help the world.

(Thank you, St. Joe’s for allowing me to contribute, and for guiding my family through foster care and adoption!)

How London ‘street art’ taught me to be a better parent

During one of our last nights in Europe this summer, my husband and I took turns carrying our 23-pound toddler through the crowded streets of London. I was regretting our decision to go sans stroller, and about to lose my grip on our wiggling sack of potatoes, when we unintentionally wandered into a public art exhibit.

“WHOAAAAA COOL,” my kids yelled.

The digital screens covered the walls around us, and stacked all the way to the top of the building.
Parts of it were interactive, so the lights and images corresponded with our movement.

The display kept the attention of my four oldest, so I had a few moments of peace.

LOLZ JK there’s no time for peace.
My brain has to analyze, and overthink, and worry.
And it has to interpret this art exhibit in a way that says more about me than about the piece itself.
It was Brian’s turn to hold our hot potato so I managed to spot the name of the exhibit -
‘The Spaces In-between.’

Okay, mind reader.
How did the artist know I always feel a little in-betweeny.

Like when I put the baby down for a nap, and my mind races through a rolodex of projects and chores.
But I become paralyzed, stuck in-between my proclivity for productivity, and my need for self-care, also known as a shower.

My in-betweenness knows no bounds.

I haven’t worked as a full-time reporter in years, yet I feel incapable of separating myself from that identity.
Since childhood, my worth was intrinsically linked to whatever job I had.

But now I have one foot deeply entrenched in motherhood, while the other is tap dancing around the notion that I should go back to work. And I’m trying to find my footing somewhere in-between.

Art is in the eye of the beholder, right?
My brain went next level with this concept.

There we were, immersed in this 360-degree canvas that symbolized the spaces in-between, and I was thinking about the deliberate chaos of it all.
If I understand anything in this world, it’s chaos.
My mind jumped from thoughts of art, to chaos, to anxiety, to parenting.
(I told you - my eyes were really beholding that art.)

This got me thinking of the contradictions we hear as parents:

★ Moms should stay home with the kids, but also go back to work and become a baddie boss b*tch.

★ Parents should find a good preschool so their babies can be prepared for kindergarten.
But you should also keep your kids home because why would you let strangers raise your child!?

★ We must limit our children’s screen time to prevent developmental delays.
But you, yourself, will spend eight hours a day on your phone.

I have a feeling the artist had a much more positive message in mind. Maybe his creation means the spaces in-between make up the journey.
The process.
The hard parts.
The trenches.
The nitty gritty.
Maybe he’s saying the in-between is, in fact, the place you want to be.
As in, it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey, or the destination is the journey.

By the time I finished my over-analysis, it was my turn again to carry our squirmy potato sack.
This time I felt inspired - to enjoy the walk, to be present during our trip, and to lean into the spaces in-between.

The circus is back in town

When we left for our trip at the end of June, I planned on documenting this experience like an instagram influencer at Coachella.
But then I remembered I travel with a three-ring circus, not a squad of baddies from TikTok.

I’m more like the carny at the fair operating a ride that could fall apart at any moment.
The kids are having a blast.
But I’m curious how the hell this ride is still going.

Strangers or even friends sometimes ask me how I do it, as in, how do I keep the ride going.
You know on the Gravitron, when it starts to spin so fast, your body gets stuck to the wall?

Or those few seconds on a rollercoaster when you’re at the tip-top of the track, just before you barrel down? If you combine those feelings, and add in that moment from the ‘Tower of Terror’ when the ground falls out from under you - that’s how it feels to operate my ride.

Once you’re on it, you can’t get off. You’re already strapped in. And that bar over your legs that (just barely) prevents you from falling out is already down in a locked position.

You’re in it through all the parts that tie your stomach in knots - the parts that make you feel sick. But then, inevitably, God willing, coming around the corner, are the good parts - the moments that give you butterflies.

Of course it’s not always going to be calm and peaceful like ‘It’s a small world’ at Disney World. In fact, for me, it’s usually bumper cars from every direction, or that twisty tea cup that leaves you dizzy and nauseous.

What I’m saying is I’m not a travel influencer on a trip to the Maldives, creating content that millions of followers will see.

A friend and I had a good laugh when some mutual acquaintances of ours said to her,  ‘Whoa, Christina sure is carefree to go on an adventure like that!’

Lolzz. I am unequivocally NOT carefree. I’m careFUL. And stressed. And anxious. And  chances are in the throes of a mental breakdown. Social media usually just shows the highlights - not the tantrums, kid fights, and yelling.

I’ve noticed many times during this trip, I’ve had a d*ck on my forehead. I’m assuming that’s why people are staring at us. Or maybe they can’t look away from our family’s circus act fumbling through whatever situation we’re currently in.

Forehead d*ck or not, we are always along for the ride - together.

(Sorry for the language. It’s that #carnylife.)

Traveling abroad: ‘Mom brain’ needs no translation

My family and I traded houses with a Belgian family. For a month, we are living in their Brussels apartment, while they live in our old Kentucky home. It’s interesting how a new experience can serve as a magnifying glass to your thoughts, your quirks, your issues. This is what’s been coming into focus for me:

I’m an overthinker.

In my twenties, I would analyze text conversations for days, wondering why a friend used a period instead of an exclamation point.

Becoming more comfortable in my own skin + parenting five kids leaves little time for grappling with problems like that.
I’ve moved on.
I worry about other things now.

Now my overthinking comes with a side of mental exhaustion, overstimulation, and hyper-vigilance. Sprinkle in thousands of scatterbrained thoughts, and a constant state of fight or flight. And for the pièce de résistance, my mind heaps a generous amount of crippling anxiety into the mix. Et voila!

That recipe is the reason I walk a tight rope any time I write something that others will read. I meticulously choose words as if I’m playing that game Operation, trying not to touch the edges with the tiny tweezers. This is an attempt to remain inoffensive to all, while still carefully conveying my message, and striving for exact accuracy. I’ll write - then delete - then write - then delete again. It’s a vicious cycle until I ultimately decide no one gives a shit. For some reason I feel the need to over explain myself, in an effort to be understood, in every situation.

You know that Mandy Moore movie - A Walk to Remember? There’s a part where she says she wants to be in two places at once. So the guy takes her to the state line and she puts one foot in each state. That’s me - only I’m straddling two ideologies. I cringe at the thought of appearing presumptuous, like I assume anyone cares what I have to say. At the same time, I like to write, and I hope someone - anyone - can find comfort in knowing they’re not alone in feeling this way. Even if that someone is me.

My mind’s biggest flex right now is the ability to take a completely innocuous situation and turn it into a full blown hypothetical catastrophe. When people ask ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ - I hand them an excel spread sheet of all the worst things that could happen.

When I was in middle or high school, I told my mom I kept having moments where I felt like I couldn’t take a deep breath. This went on for a while. God bless my mom who took me to doctors and all I could tell them was ‘I can’t take a deep breath.’ (Ay geez, girl, you’re trying to say you have anxiety! Your chest feels tight because you’re having panic attacks.) But I didn’t have the words back then to know what was happening to my mind and body, and how it’s all connected.

There are bible verses that say ‘do not be anxious.’ We are instructed to trust God enough to hand all our worries over to Him. Unsurprisingly, this concept has me profoundly worried. My mind swan dives into a rabbit hole. What will happen if I don’t know how to hand over my worries? Should I pray about the act of worrying or the things I’m worried about?

A good friend recently pointed out I have a hard time accepting help. Much to my chagrin, I agreed with her. We decided there’s likely a rationale for this that goes back generations. Is this why it’s hard for me to let someone else handle my worries? Is this why I can’t give it to God so easily?

My oldest kids went to basketball camp last month, where I looked forward to them being in a diverse environment. I loved seeing them surrounded by and playing with kids who look just like them. But then my oldest daughter said one boy bothered her every day because her mom and dad are white. This is the stuff that sends my overthinking into overdrive. Do my kids not fit in with other black kids because their parents are white?

Do they not fit in at their own school because they’re the only people of color in their classrooms? Where will they find their place? Their group? Their people? I worry about this a lot, and my overthinking can cause me to second guess some of my own beliefs - although I always land in the same place - everyone in our family belongs here. But I do hope people realize I can’t be ‘colorblind’ if I’m going to fully support and understand my kids, and provide them with a crucial appreciation of their cultures.

During an interview once, Barack Obama said one of the best qualities a person can have is the ability to bring solutions to a situation, not problems. I love this way of thinking. I talk about it all the time with my kids. But it would take a lot of writing and deleting to share about my “solutions” to overthinking. It’s all really just a tool belt - an arsenal - that I can pull from to turn down the volume.
To hush some of that brain noise.
To breathe deeper.
To unplug the game.
To simplify the recipe.

Maybe I’ll write about that next time.

Au revoir!

‘compliments’ about foster care can be cringe; here’s what to say instead

I low-key cringe when someone praises me or Brian for having fostered or adopted our kids. 
It feels like a weird thing to take credit for. 
Neither of us possess any special qualities that would uniquely qualify us to be foster or adoptive parents. 

We’re just regular. 
(But like cool, too.)
We wanted kids, so we found a way. 

We weren’t solving the world’s problems.
We weren’t fixing complicated social issues. 
And we definitely weren’t ‘saving’ anyone from anything. 

If anyone deserves praise, it’s my kids. 
They’re the ones who have seen some sh*t.

Speaking of seeing sh*t.
Here are 3 misconceptions I had when I first became a foster parent, and what I’ve learned since.

1. I wanted to adopt. (I didn’t realize yet the first goal of foster care is to reunite the children with their biological family if possible.)

2. I wanted a baby. (I hadn’t learned yet that a huge part of Kentucky’s child welfare system is made up of older kids and teenagers. These children are hard to place. And when social workers can’t find a proper placement, the kids sleep in DCBS offices.)

3. I wanted control. (Lolz. I was clueless. I didn’t know yet that the state’s foster care and adoption system is broken, unpredictable, and time-consuming.)

When we signed up for foster care training in 2017, it was just another egg in another basket. 
But as we stepped deeper into it, I had a front row seat to parts of our community that usually stay hidden.

I could see how biological parents battling addiction aren’t always given resources to help pull themselves out of a crisis. Yet when their kids are taken away, resources are provided to the foster family. 

I saw overworked social workers drowning in cases, unable to keep track of visitation requirements, therapeutic needs of kids, or even simple phone calls. 

And I heard about abuse and neglect happening in biological families, as well as in foster families. (Hence the desperate need for quality foster parents.) (Click here to learn more about becoming a foster parent.)

This begs the simple question: How do we fix a broken system, and create preventative and supportive programs that help biological families before children are removed, while simultaneously creating quality safe spaces and permanency for the kids who are inevitably going to end up in the system? 

I’m obviously kidding, it’s not simple, it’s incredibly complicated. See for yourself, here are Kentucky’s foster care facts.

I have a vivid memory of a conversation Brian and I had when we first moved to Louisville, that shifted my viewpoint on privilege. We talked about how I lived for 30 years before realizing it wasn’t just my hard work and plucky good attitude that got me to where I am. 

In my ‘aha moment’ (or maybe ‘duh’ moment) - I could see what seems obvious now - we don’t all have the same starting point. 
(I REALLY like how this YouTube video shows social inequities.)

More often than not, kids in foster care were likely born into a family with deep-seated generational trauma. Perhaps their parents, grandparents, and/or great grandparents were physically or sexually abused, or severely neglected. 

TikTok’ers post videos about breaking through cycles of generational trauma. It’s trending. I hope that’s a promising sign for the future. 

Some kids in care make the grave mistake of being born into poverty, or they have parents battling drug addiction, or maybe they’re constantly surrounded by criminal activity. 

Maybe they don’t live in a place long enough to grasp the lessons they’re supposed to be learning in school. They don’t have tutors, or someone explaining their homework to them, or anyone to pick them up a poster board from Walgreens at 9:00 the night before a project is due. 

Their starting line is miles behind kids who grow up with privilege.  Those are the kids with two healthy parents, consistency, safety, food, and shelter.  

Brian and I were born into families that provided us the tools to thrive, allowing us to go to college, get good jobs, and earn money. All of those factors allowed us to extend our privilege to four kids who had a rough start.

That’s why I cringe. 
All we did was have good parents, who held an average or above average socioeconomic status.
And we were born with a skin color that is still intrinsically linked to more opportunities in the U.S. (I brought receipts, and they’re from Harvard.)

Anyone who has spent time with my family can tell you - we’re not for everyone. 
We’re loud, and we can be irreverent, and chances are someone just pooped their pants.  
Imagine Jurassic Park when the dinosaurs break free, combined with the sound of Cocomelon blasting in the background.

With all that said, I do feel sufficiently qualified, obligated in fact, to show others that you don’t need to have superhero powers to do this. Or maybe you do, but we do it anyways. 

You can be just regular parents who are really tired all the time, and who maybe possibly perhaps on accident dropped an f-bomb when you didn’t know the kids had a friend over (more cringe) - and still make a significant and positive impact on kids in need. 

After 10 years of infertility, our adventure continues

It feels like a dream.

The stories that make up our long path to parenthood could fill a book. God led us on a tireless, yet purposeful, journey to build our family.

We traveled across the world twice to experience the highs and lows of international adoption. And right in our own backyard, we navigated the long, messy adoption process from Kentucky’s broken foster care system, opening our eyes to social, racial, economic, and political issues we can no longer ignore.

Not one part of this was easy.
In fact, it seems like we hit roadblocks at every turn.
But we kept going.
Because that was the only option.

When we were in the thick of it, I never realized I’d be grateful for the hardship. But damn we learned a lot about life. We got to see outside our own, pampered bubble. I wish everyone got the chance to experience life past their own comfort zone, and get to the parts that are hard to face. That’s where you grow the most.

I say all this because, now, nearly 10 years after our infertility battle began, our story is taking another twist.
After lots of discussions about (mostly me) wanting a newborn, Brian and I took a third and final shot at IVF.
A Hail Mary.
And VERY MUCH to our surprise ... it worked.

Now my four young loves will be joined by another little one.
Still in disbelief, this babe will come straight from mama’s belly.

None of it feels real.
(Except for the nausea all day, everyday - that’s very, very real.)
Thank you, God, for weaving this into our story. We can’t wait to meet the youngest member of the Dettman tribe at Christmas!

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention how torn I am about sharing this news. I feel ...guilty. These are the types of posts I used to read that punched me in the gut. I was told years ago I have “bad eggs” which prevented me from getting pregnant. I couldn’t see pregnancy announcements without mentally unraveling. But then a different doctor, different embryologist, different process, different facility, and a different outlook on life told me my eggs were perfect, and so were our embryos.
(Take THAT, previous doctor!)

Don’t stop advocating for yourself if it’s something you truly know is meant to be.
And if you’re still waiting, or hurting, or hopeless, I’m praying for you.

With all this said, I remain a fierce advocate and proponent for adoption and fostering. Without these two processes I wouldn’t have my four children that God picked specifically for us. This was meant to be our road.

our ‘HAPPY ending’ is someone else’s heartbreak

This road has not been pretty.
It’s been bumpy. 
Messy.
Ugly at times. 

And I’m sure I will face more of that over the coming years. 

But right now I’m sitting here overwhelmed with GRATITUDE. 
Feeling incredibly grateful and blessed to be a mom to my boys. 

Then this story popped into my head:

I remember exactly where I was when he asked it.
We were on our way home from the gym.
(Remember when we went places?)

“Mommy, when did I come out of your belly?” 

He said it so casually.
But it caught me off-guard.
Especially because we are so open with the idea of birth parents and forever families. 

I spent the next few minutes fumbling through an explanation that a four-year-old could possibly understand. 

“Ohhhh so THAT’S when I came out of your belly,” he replied. 

Okay.
That was not the day to help him understand.
I would try again next time. 

My sons were babies when they came to be part of our family through foster care.
But as we get closer to their adoption, I can’t help but think about the other part of their story. 

Don’t misunderstand.
We are thrilled to finalize what God had planned all along. 
But most happy foster-to-adopt stories have a flip side.

Somewhere out there is a birth mom and birth dad who lost their kids. 
Their story is messy, hard to hear, and not mine to tell. 
But I have to imagine the love they had for their kids didn’t disappear when their rights were terminated. 

It took me time to arrive here. 
I haven’t always been able to see the good in everyone involved in this story. 

But I want my sons to know they are deeply loved.
Not just by our family. 
But by an entirely different group of people who likely think about them - a lot. 

Adoption is a beautiful way to build a family. 
But the happy ending doesn’t often come without heartache for everyone involved. 

And one day - when they’re older and able to understand more - my kids will likely feel some of that heartache too. 

Years ago I sat in a foster parent training session and learned that children who are taken from their biological family can store trauma in their body, even if they were taken as newborn babies. 

I never forgot that. 

Our bodies remember trauma.
Whether we have tangible memories of it or not. 

Today when I look at my boys, I am SO PROUD of them.

Smart.
Witty. 
Funny.
Sweet.
Silly.
I could go on and on. 

They are incredibly bright, with even brighter futures. 

Thank you, God, for leading me on this path that brought me to my boys. 

I am so grateful and blessed that I was chosen to be their mom.  And I have learned that I also need to pray for the mom/dad who had to say goodbye to them. 

P.S. Everyone’s foster/adoption story and situation is different. This is a very small glimpse into ours. 

i got into foster care for all the wrong reasons

I got into foster care for all the wrong reasons.

I was reeling from several failed fertility treatments.
My brain was filled with thoughts of having a baby.
My body was - in every way - yearning for a baby.
Yet - ironically - couldn’t make one stick.

So I did what I do.
I became an expert on all things adoption.

International.
Domestic.
Open.
Closed.
Lawyers.
Background checks.
Fingerprints.
Physicals.
Home studies.

Then one day someone said the magic words.
Foster-to-adopt.

They barely finished the sentence before I googled, researched, and called the first foster care agency I came across.

And that was it.
We were signed up for training classes.
And I thought - this would be my way to a baby.

Here’s the thing though.

We did the classes.
We completed the monthly trainings.
We learned CPR, trauma-informed care, and how to fill out every form in the state of Kentucky.

But there was this elephant in the room.
Staring at me.
That I could no longer avoid.

The entire concept of foster care is about the temporary.
The bridge.
The gap.

In our agency, it was about older children, often teenagers, who needed homes the most.

And my biggest pill to swallow.
The concept that took the longest to click.
Foster care, ultimately, is about reunification with biological parents.

That concept scared me.
The uncertainty scared me.

I was completely naïve.

It’s not anyone’s fault.
I wanted a baby so badly, I looked past several factors.
I was only allowing myself to see the best case scenarios.
I was laser-focused, blinders on, trusting God that my prayers would be answered.

And then they were.

We waited out the process for more than a year.
And just before “quitting” our agency after saying no to dozens of scenarios that weren’t right for us , we got THE call.

Two little boys were coming home.

Now, our story is:
Somewhat rare.
Still not over.
And not without many complications.

But since starting our foster care journey, I’ve learned a lot about Kentucky’s child welfare system.

The system doesn’t need people like me.

It needs foster parents to fill in the GAP.
To be the TEMPORARY.
To love and support children until their biological parents get better, or get back on their feet.

It needs adoptive parents willing to take older children.
After all, teenagers are the hardest to place, and they’ve experienced the most trauma.

It needs mentors to help children who are aging out of the system.
It needs people willing to help teach simple life skills to young adults who are on the verge of becoming homeless.

And if I’m being really honest, I don’t actually think it matters why we got into foster care.
Because we love our boys.
From the second they walked in our door as babies, I felt a connection.
We have hard times.
(Every foster parent can attest to that.)
But our love makes us a family.

THAT’S what the state needs.
Pure, unadulterated LOVE.

Whether you’re loving them for a day, a week, a year, or God-willing a lifetime.

kindergarten edition: i’m not ready!

The first time we saw you -
you both wore pink.
Your pictures in an email showed our missing link.

Our first hug came next.
We traveled 14,000 miles.
We knew you were ours.
The four of us -
with big smiles.

When we finally brought you home,
we made a family of six.
Two girls, two boys.
Our own special mix.

We weren’t there when you were born.
We don’t know how much you weighed.
We missed your first steps.
And thousands of other memories made.

But from here on out.
We promise you this.
Every first, every milestone -
will not be missed.

So forgive me today.
While I walk you into school.
I will probably cry.
And lose my cool.

Our journey wasn’t easy.
And that was meant to be.
My beautiful daughters -
You are loved, endlessly.

Kindergarten today.
Then college will come fast.
You both have bright futures.
And a most beautiful past.

foster care is not for the weak

Right now.
As I type this.
While you’re reading this.
Nearly 10,000 Kentucky children are going to sleep at a home that’s not their own.
In a bed that’s not theirs.
With a family that’s different from their own.

It’s overwhelming.

What’s the solution?
Help families before their kids are taken away?
Tackle the daunting and massive opioid epidemic?How do you stop neglect, physical and sexual abuse, and drug-use?

I’ve written in my news stories a hundred times: the state and private agencies are in desperate need of quality foster parents.

Fostering a child is hard.

My boys came into our home October 30, 2017.
I had prayed, begged, and pleaded with God for kids.
Here they were.
And I was in shock.

The first week was a blur.
We had to learn each other.
My youngest - who was 1 at the time - threw unbelievable tantrums 80% of the day.

One night in the very beginning, I told my husband I couldn’t do it.

But we did.
I lived day by day.
Sometimes minute by minute.
And slowly, a village grew, to help me take care of these boys who needed us.

Everyday got a little easier.
We found a great daycare, special therapies, and we learned how to parent these little boys.

I’m writing this because Monday is WLKY’s Adoptathon. An organization I’m part of, Wednesday’s Child, is raising money for children in Kentucky’s foster care system. We are also recruiting families to foster and adopt.

But I don’t want to sugar coat it.
This is hard work.
You will have hard days.
Hard nights.
Overwhelming moments.
Just like I presume people do with their biological children.

But think about the impact you can make.
Simply by providing a safe space.
A healthy home.
A happy place to be.

Something I’ve told myself again and again during this journey: nothing worth having comes easy.

It took a lot of pain for my little (now big) family to get where we are, and we’re continuing to find our way. And there are still plenty of painful moments.

I will never regret joining the foster and adoption world.
It changed our lives for the better.

Please consider learning more.
You can quite literally change the course of a child’s life.

the special meaning of october 27

Today marks one year.

It was a Friday.
My last day of work.
(Well, last day as a full-time employee.)

I was at my desk, putting together an easy story for the day, when my phone vibrated.
I recognized the number.

The woman said I probably wouldn’t want them, but she described them anyways.

Two baby boys.
Brothers.
Likely needing a new forever family.

I felt butterflies in my stomach.
We waited more than a year for this call.
And the timing was clearly planned by someone greater than me.

So despite an impending trip to Malawi, and the potential international adoption of two little girls, we said yes to the boys.

(We’ve said yes before, and didn’t get picked. This time was different. Our boys were coming home.)

In the two days that followed, we frantically prepared for two babies.

I filled multiple shopping carts at Target and Kroger.
Brian put together two cribs.
Neighbors, friends, and family gave us the rest.

By Monday morning, two social workers arrived at our house.
One brought balloons that said “It’s a boy!”

Then our sweet babies arrived.
They were scared.
And Brian and I were clueless.
But we were ready to love them, protect them, and provide them a happy home.

After 365 days with us, our sons are still in the foster care system. And they were in the system long before we met them. (Working on the adoption - nothing is quick.)

This process is hard.
But we’ve witnessed them grow, and mature, and learn, and love.
And I’m lucky to be their mom.

my daughters’ mothers

November 25th, 2013.
It was a Monday.

Malita Malidadi traveled from the small village of Mtamba to Chiradzulu District Hospital in Malawi.

The babies were coming.

Malita was a talented singer in her choir.
She was outgoing.
She prayed often.
And she worked hard to support her son and daughter.

Today her family was growing.

Malita arrived at the hospital thinking she was having twins.

Doctors delivered triplets.

Three beautiful baby girls.

The tiniest went to Kangaroo Mother Care (KMC) - Malawi’s version of the neonatal intensive care unit.

But Malita got sick.
Her country’s maternal mortality rate is one of the highest in the world.
She - and one of the baby girls - didn’t make it.

So Malita’s sister Agnes stepped in.

Agnes brought her new nieces back to Mtamba.
She loved them.
Provided for them.
And kept them safe.

But resources in the village were limited.
At times, Agnes took care of more than 9 children in her humble home.

She wanted more for the girls.
More opportunity.
Possibility.
And hope.

So she brought them to their first orphanage.
That’s where the girls finally got their names.

Francisca.
And Prisca.

(Prisca was healthier now, after her time in KMC)

When the girls were two years old - they moved to Good Samaritan Children’s Home, in Blantyre.

And they met Thandie.

Thandie Chickefunji is a mother to more than 100 kids at the home.

She is selfless.
Dedicated.
Passionate.
Fiercely strong in her faith.
And unapologetically committed to making the world a better place.

Thandie loved the girls from the moment they were in her care.

She snapped two photos of the twins when they arrived, hoping to find them a forever family.

And she did.

14,000 miles away.
I got the pictures on October 13, 2015.

It was my turn to be mom.

Each woman who came before me has helped shape my daughters’ journey.

The girls have a piece of Malita.
Agnes.
Thandie.
And probably others who I will never know about.

As they grow, I want my girls to learn about the love that got them here.
The sacrifices.
And the hope for a good life.

MEMORIES FROM MALAWI

My husband and I traveled twice to Malawi (in 2017 and 2018) to complete our girls' adoption.  
The process took YEARS, and it was HARD and COMPLICATED.

But we fell in love with the country.  

The Good Samaritan Children's Home treated us like family. And when we traveled to our daughters' village, they welcomed us with open arms.  I can't wait to bring the girls back when they're a little older.  For now, I'll show them this video - with some of our favorite memories of our home 14,000 miles away.