Headed to BlogHer?

Do you blog about adoption? Are you headed to the BlogHer conference in San Diego this summer? We want to know!

We're gathering a list of any and all adoption bloggers who will be there, to help us find each other. I'd hate to head home only to find out I had missed my chance to meet one of you! So add your name to the list and grab a badge for your blog.

(Since there is often bloggy crossover, just wanted to point out that there is a list going for special needs parenting bloggers, too.)

Shared Sight

Beth (Mari's first mom) came over on Saturday to visit and bring Mari a birthday gift. She had decided that she'd rather have some quiet time with Mari for her birthday than join in the bigger family celebration the weekend prior. We were glad she knew that about herself and that she trusted us enough to tell us. And, honestly, it was nice to have the time with just her instead of in the middle of a larger group.

We stayed home, made some pizza together, and just hung out. Eddie was feeling under the weather so he headed upstairs to nap fairly early on. It was the three adults and Mari, Mari loving her status as only kid in the room. (Oh, the woes of the second child.) She took Beth on a tour of her new "big kid" room. She jumped on her tiny trampoline, a birthday present. She was just her own adorable, chatty self, at home in a familiar place among familiar faces.

Saturday afternoon was one of those too-rare occasions when I could sit back and enjoy Marian. The day had already been set aside to spend with Beth, so there were no competing demands on my time. Poor Eddie was asleep, eliminating the need to referee the kids' interactions. Beth was there to visit Mari, so she didn't mind that everyone was Mari-focused.

I can't speak for all parents, but I know Todd and I see our children with biased eyes. When we spout the clichés about Eddie and Mari being the two most interesting, captivating children we've ever met, we actually mean it. We delight in learning more about therm. And I'm perfectly aware that others don't think they're as amazing as Todd and I do. Even their grandparents don't have quite the same fascination. It's a parent thing.

The whole afternoon, Beth couldn't take her eyes off of Mari, couldn't stop laughing at her antics. At one point, as Mari sat feeding her baby doll, Beth said with a happy sigh, "I could just sit here and watch her all day long." I remembered then that here was the third person who shares Todd's and my bias, who sees her through the eyes of a parent. And it felt wonderful to be sharing that together, to be sitting in a room full of adults who wanted nothing more in that moment than to watch Mari.

This is the unique possibility of open adoption, at least one manifestation of it: that we had the joy of being with someone who enjoys this little girl just as much. Someone who sees her through the same adoring eyes.

* I know I need to finish this story. I'm awful. Awful.

Three

Dear Marian,

Last week you turned three years old. You thought your birthday happened on Sunday past, the day we celebrated with family, and we did nothing to discourage that idea. So on Tuesday, the actual day, it was just me quietly remembering that night you reluctantly came into this world.

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When I asked you what sort of birthday party you'd like to have you didn't even hesitate: "An orange party." You gave no further details about your vision of orange, except to request "chocolate cake with orange frosting and sprinkles." So we filled the dining room with orange--flowers, balloons, ribbons, paper cutouts on the walls. We made your favorite meatballs and tucked orange carrots by their side, found an orange cloth to spread on the table and told our guests to dig through their closets for orange to wear. And, yes, there was a chocolate cake with orange frosting and sprinkles. You loved it all.

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You exploded into toddlerhood this year. You chatter and sing at home, clamber up onto the couch to listen to books, and slowly but surely climb into your own car seat and dining chair. The first things you look for in any room are baby dolls to cuddle and other people's unattended shoes to try. Away from home you are still quiet and observant. You want us close by, your unofficial bodyguards in a world filled with children and people with whom you aren't quite yet interested in interacting.

Mari, I want to remember the way you bounce up and down like a jumping bean, singing songs you learned at toddler time. I want to remember how you lean your whole self into me when you hug and the way my arms wrap all the way around you. I want to remember your love for rice. I want to remember how you wiggle with laughter and clap your hands when I carry you to the mirror after hair time. I want to remember the way you say "pen-gu-in" with three syllables. I want to remember how wonderfully interesting you find the world, as long as we are there to hold your hand.

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I know you won't remember much of these years. The specifics of your days, the routines and items that are so important to you now will fade into fuzzy, half-remembered impressions. But I hope you carry with you always the memory of how deeply you were known and loved by your family near and far, how from the moment you entered the world  you were surrounded by people who became family to each other because of you, who will forever call you beloved.

With love,
Mama