Flying Towards Motherhood

30,000 feet up, wheels up, hopes up, dreams up. Ready. Set. Go.

My journey to motherhood has been a bumpy one. A ride filled with potholes, flat tires and what has felt like a few hit and runs. I became a mother at 29 when I got pregnant and my son Blake was born still. I will become a parent at 33 when I hold my precious baby girl in my arms for the first time this upcoming Tuesday.

The last three months have been more like a first class flight, with zero turbulence. My husband and I were matched with birth parents in June and our Skype calls and email exchanges have been an adoptive parents dream. The birth parents (we will call them Eric and Kate) are smart, witty and all around good young kids who feel they can not give their little girl the life that she deserves. We lucked out and landed an adoption unicorn. No incarceration, no drugs, no crazy. I could not be more proud to have gotten the opportunity to know them as people and have them pick us to share our love with their daughter.

After we were matched with Eric and Kate I was apprehensive in having them get to know us and for us to get to know them. For me, it was such a vulnerable place emotionally when NONE of the control rests in our hands but only in theirs. I fought to stay emotionally unattached to not only them but also baby girl. What if they decided they didn’t like us? What if I emailed something wrong? What if they decided I was not the person they wanted to mother their daughter? That could have happened and technically happen up until three days after her birth.

And then… I got over it.

I decided to have a change of attitude and a change of heart for my daughter.

I would have missed out on all the joy and growth the adoption process has brought me had I have remained guarded by fear. My heart has been pulled wide open. The relationship that has unfolded in the past 63 days with Eric and Kate is one of friendship, trust and mutual respect. The magnitude of four people coming together with the common goal of having one child taken care of for her entire life has not been lost on me. I would have missed that. Eric, Kate and baby girl are and always will be my family now.

I can’t wait to share the story and this journey with baby girl when she is older. I can’t wait to tell her about her birth parents, our friendship and how she became our forever family. I can’t wait to tell her about the tears that were shed, the smiles that led to laughter and about how four people who lived across the country from one another came together to take care of her. I hope she is proud of her roots. I hope she is no stranger to this part of her story when she is older.

The pilot just announced we are on our initial descent. Time to put our tray tables away and seats in the upright position, we are landing to go get our baby.

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Trauma Travel

Four Seasons Papagayo

Trauma travel (Verb): The act of taking a trip to a foreign country and/or a super awesome locale to lick your wounds after life delivers a major bitch slap. 

I wish I could say that I am the great pioneer of trauma travel but I’m pretty sure Elizabeth Gilbert beat me to it.  Her little novel called Eat, Pray, Love (you may have heard of it? I’ve only read it a million times) found its way to the New York Times best seller list and became a blockbuster hit.  So while I am not the founder of this awesome method of healing I sure am working on perfecting it.

When the universe decided to make me its human punching bag last week by delivering an epic failure for my first round of IVF my husband and I decided we are way overdue for some R&R. After pulling the plug on stimulation day 10 after only 3 out of my 12 follicles woke up from their snoozefest I thought I’d indulge my non-pregnant self with things that I would not be able to otherwise do if I were with child.

They include: ziplining, massages whilst laying on my stomach, surfing, drinking adult beverages out of coconuts and hanging out near an active volcano. They will all be accomplished by the end of this month in Costa Rica!

For me, nothing cures the life shat upon me feeling quite like my passport and a plane ticket to anywhere but here. At this point it is safe to say I am an expert trauma traveler.  In the last 15 years if I have needed to clear my head and readjust my sails I’ve hopped on a plane.

Out of the 35 countries I’ve visited a handful have been to lick my wounds. When I went through major breakups in my 20’s Norway, Germany, Italy, Thailand and the Philippines were all there to give me the warm hug and kick in the ass I needed.

When I was laid off from the advertising world when the recession hit I dashed off to Norway and England to plot and plan my next career move.

When I lost my son Blake I got on a plane to New York City a month and a half later (which did prove to be a bad idea when I uncontrollably sobbed for hours in Central Park) So I headed to Seattle a few months later and the trip breathed a bit of life back in to me.

In January my husband and I explored Colombia a few months after I miscarried at 9 weeks.

I’ve learned that life happens in between positive pregnancy tests. When we are “trying” I feel as if I am holding my breath underwater and when we aren’t I’m allowed to come up to the surface to breath again.   I have learned and continue to relearn to find the happy in the “in between”. I try to avoid the “if I get pregnant then I will be happy” mentality because my in between  is that infinity pool overlooking the ocean in the photo above. I’m going to soak up all life has to offer in the in between.