I Carried You in My Heart

Today's post is part of a group post of sorts. I recently found out that my good friend Heinous adopted his son from Korea. I immediately emailed him and asked him way too many questions. In an attempt to get me to leave him alone, he suggested that we each post our adoption experiences on our own sites today. My story, rather, my children's story is below:

Did you know that you picked mommy and daddy to be your parents while you were in heaven? You saw us and you said, “There they are! That’s my mommy and daddy.” But mommy couldn’t grow a baby in her belly. She could only grow the hope for you in her heart. Soon, you met a very nice young woman named Bailey. You made each other a special promise. She promised to love you and keep you safe in her belly while she found your mommy and daddy. You were so little and needed her help. One day, she found your mommy and daddy. (That’s us!) She placed you in our arms. Then mommy and daddy made a very special promise to Bailey. We promised to love you and protect you always. Then mommy gave Bailey a piece of that hope she had in her heart. Now, mommy carries you in her arms, and Bailey carries you in her heart.

Henry loves to hear that story. It’s his story. His baby sister has a similar story that one day she’ll grow to love as well. It’s the most straightforward and honest way we can think of to explain adoption to them while they’re so small. People are often surprised that we talk to our children so early and so freely about their stories. We’ve made a conscious effort to make sure that Henry and Reese know their stories now. We want them grow up NOT remembering an awkward moment where they discovered they were adopted.



For anyone who hasn’t adopted, you’re likely to hear stories from couples who have journeyed down this road. They’ll speak of mounds of paperwork, parenting courses they attended and the emotional roller coaster ride of the whole process. All this can be true, if you let that be the memory you keep.

I like to think we’re just like everybody else. Remember your first sonogram? Remember how excited you were? Well, I remember the first phone call from the adoption agency telling us that we were approved. Remember that sugary gunk you moms had to drink to test for gestational diabetes? My version of that was turning in background clearance paperwork. My labor? The phone call we waited months to receive. Congratulations! A birth mother has selected you, but keep in mind, she can change her mind at any moment. Now wait for two more months. Good luck with that.


See? I’m just like you. I may not have gone through the physical parts of pregnancy, but I have some of the same battle scars. After we adopted Henry my hips spread about two inches. I’M NOT JOKING. I even cut my hair in what I thought at the time was a sassy mom bob. Turns out is was way more “mom” than it was sassy. After Reese came along, I purchased some expensive go-to-town sweats and suffered a long bought of postpartum depression. It’s true. Adoptive moms can have depression and dress in fancy sweats just like you!

Both of our adoptions were domestic, meaning they were conducted inside the US and both took place in Utah. As a matter of fact, Henry’s birth mom (Bailey) lives only thirty minutes away from us. I find myself looking for her when I’m out shopping.


Reese’s mom (Keely) only lived in Utah for a short time while she was pregnant. About four months ago, she moved back to her home state in the southern US. Even though she’s hundreds of miles away, I still look for her when I’m out shopping too.

The first time I laid eyes on Henry he was swaddled up and in the hospital nursery. There were two baby boys born within minutes of each other that day. Jeremy and I stood together, our faces and hands pressed against the glass trying to figure out which little creature was our son. Something drew me in closer to one baby in particular. I can’t describe fully why, but I just knew the little loud one on the right was mine. Although my eyes didn’t recognize him, my heart certainly did. I pointed to him, with tears in my eyes and said, “That’s him. That’s our Henry.” Jeremy hugged me and said, "God I hope so".

Reese came into our lives a little differently. We believed, along with her birth parents and two ultrasound technicians that Reese was a boy. When our caseworker called to tell us that Keely had given birth to a little girl, we were stunned and thrilled. (Mostly thrilled.)

Keely and Tim (birth father) waited to name her until we arrived at the hospital a few hours later. The four of us had grown closer so it felt only right that we should name this baby together. Her name is Reese, meaning lively and energetic. Her middle name is Michelle. I don’t know what it means and you know, it doesn’t really matter. It’s Keely’s middle name. That’s all I need to know.

I remain in contact with both of our birth moms somewhat. We reunited with Bailey when Henry was just ten months old. She was able to hold him and finally spend some one on one time together. We send her updates yearly and she has our blog address.

Keely and I email a few times a week and I send her updates as well. We’ve reunited with her twice since Reese was born. Keely is also a frequent reader of this here blog. (She even sent me the nicest message yesterday after reading Reese's post)

I have no doubt that my path will cross with these birth moms at some point during my children’s lives. Will it be a chance meeting at the grocery store? Will it be long awaited reunion when the time is right? Who knows? But whenever or where ever it is, I will welcome these women with open arms. They loved and carried my babies when I could not.



Be sure to visit my good friend Heinous (Jim) over at Irregularly Periodic Ruminations today. He has a touching adoption story about his six year old son Jacob. It was his idea to post together today in a tribute to our children.

(This week has been an emotional one for The Bee Family. I'm rounding the corner for regularly scheduled nonsense soon.)

Space Oddities

You've heard of Dark Helmet.



Meet Yellow Helmet.


He's a villain in training. The Force is still quite dim with this one.

It Took Ten Years, But I Finally Managed To Gross Out My Husband

Sunday we dropped in on my parents for a few hours. Jeremy and I had spent most of Saturday cleaning our house so we thought we'd let Henry and Reese run wild at the Grandparents for a few hours. You know, let the kids mess up their house.

As is typical fashion, our kids can do anything at Grandma Jo's and Grandpa Brent's house. Chocolate milk? You got it. Cookies? Well, we don't have any, but let me drop what I'm doing and run to the store right this very minute to pick some up for you. What? You don't want them now? After I've just returned from the store fetching the very cookies you wanted just minutes ago? No problem.

Seriously, it's like a spa for the kids. A Disney DVD, macaroni and cheese with a Twinkie chaser spa at their house. But it's not all about the food. There's also the activities. Guests who stay at Brent and Jo's Bed & Breakfast also have ample opportunity play kick ball, T-ball and an odd hybrid form of tennis-bowling INSIDE their house. As I watched Henry lob ball after ball into grandma's many house plants I thought back to the many times I was scolded for just walking past them too closely. My mom was afraid that somehow I would kill her plants if I even got close enough to breathe on them, let alone touch them. In her defense, she did have a point. To this day I kill any green thing I come in contact with.

But my lack of a green thumb is not the story here. I know. Just when you thought you were about to read an exciting tale of Botany, I pull the rug out from underneath you. No, I had every intention of stopping by the topic of my son's athletic prowess and eventually zipping on over to how immature I am. Keep reading. This post has nowhere else to go but up.

So, after watching Henry kick and throw balls in every corner of my parent's house, Jeremy decided it would be a good idea to get the little guy a T-ball set. I agreed, but added that we ought to start scouting for agents too. You can never start too early. Well, actually you can. I think age three is a little too early. I'm totally waiting until he's five.

Jeremy: Yeah, I think a T-ball set would be a good idea. He's already got a glove.
Me: The blue one?
Jeremy: Yeah, that's the one!
Me: It's a little stiff isn't it?
Jeremy: Bu....
Me: That's what she said!
Jeremy: (disgusted look) But we can fix that.
Me: That's what she said!
Jeremy: (ignoring me) All we need to do is oil it and break it in a bit.
Me: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Jeremy: (now glaring at me) I just threw up in my mouth.

Hella Good

Recently, the newly famous blogger Black Hockey Jesus asked his readers if they had a best or worst memory that they associated with a particular song. When I read his question, I knew exactly the two songs that had a special meaning for me. I'll only go into one of those on this post today, because both songs represent my children. To group them into the same post just wouldn't do either of them justice.

The first song that has special meaning to me is No Doubt’s Hella Good, which in Utah I think you are required to pronounce as Hecka Good. I remember the first time I heard it. I was at work and a co-worker who sat directly behind me heard it come on the radio and cranked it up loud for us all to hear. We got up on our feet and danced. I loved it instantly. From then on, I would scour the radio dial on my commute in the hopes that I would hear it.

A month went by and I began hearing that song more and more. I was in the car more often then. It was during the spring and summer of 2003. Jeremy and I were driving two hours a day, ten days a month, to visit with an infertility expert. We had been trying to conceive for a few years and nothing was happening. During this time, we were in the middle of our many, many Artificial Insemination treatments. Some days Jeremy and I would get up before 4:00 am to get to the doctor before work to track my body’s schedule. Other days, we would leave work-mid day to perform the AI. Thankfully, both my doctor and employer were wonderfully flexible with our schedules.

It was those days when we scheduled the AI that I stressed the most, and understandably so. We only had a window of about 45 minutes to make what was regularly a 60 minute drive. So there we were, the three of us; me, Jeremy and his cup full of ’specimen’, weaving in and out of traffic listening to the radio and Gwen Stefani belt out that funky, groovy pop song. On the way to the doctor’s office, I usually had high spirits. To hear that song, gave me hope and promise. I would loudly sing along and soon, I knew every word. But those high times would only last a few weeks. Month after month, when my period arrived, my hopes were dashed and I was often inconsolable.

It was around mid September when I decided my body and my mind could take no more of those adrenaline filled dashes to the doctor. I had lost hope and a piece of my heart as well. I shut down and kind of unplugged myself from everything. I refused to listen to that song if it ever crossed my ears. If it came on the radio, I would immediately turn the dial. One time while while at the grocery store, it came on. I set my cart aside and walked out. It represented my body's failure to hold on to a pregnancy. It only reminded me of the stress I associated with all those doctor visits.

During the winter of 2004, Jeremy and I both agreed that it was more important to us to be parents than to be pregnant. We applied for adoption. Strangely enough, nine months later, Henry, our son, arrived via his beautiful birthmother, Bailey. Odd how things work out, isn't it?

Around Henry’s six month mark I began listening to a lot of music. His birthmom was a hip-hop dancer and it was evident that at six months he had inherited her rhythm and love of music. On one of my days home with Henry, I was holding him in the kitchen and dancing and singing to him along with the radio. Hella Good blared out of the speakers. On instinct I went to the radio dial to change the station, but before I made it there, I heard Henry squeal in delight and he began bouncing around in my arms. I watched him, amazed by how much he doesn’t look like me at all. He’s the spitting image of his birthmother. He has her big, blue eyes, her wide smile, her ski-jump nose. He has her hands and he even fiddles with them like I remembering her doing on those days we were with her before he was born. When Henry laughs, he often times makes the same breathy sound Bailey would make when she laughed.

So there I stood, looking at my son, his smile was bigger than I'd ever remembered and his little arms were flailing in the air to the music. It was in that moment that I fell in love with Hella Good all over again. From then on, that song would represent a wonderful time in my life that I had to experience. Now when I hear it, it takes me back to those early morning trips to the doctor and how they gave me and Jeremy time together as a couple. We'd talk about important things like our future plans and goals down to the little things like what movie we were hoping to see that weekend. I think we a little grew closer then. But mostly, when I hear Hella Good, I think of Henry and his birthmom, Bailey. I think about how lucky we are that she picked us out of all the other couples waiting to adopt. I think about the first time I saw him through the nursery window and how even though I didn't recognize him, my heart recognized him. And I think about all the times Henry has shaken his little groove thing to that song and shouted the lyrics as his ears hears them, "I'm gonna get that wood and I keep on dancin!"

Super Hero

Being a Super Hero is hard. Being a three-year old Super Hero can be even harder. First, you have to convince your parents that you are Super Hero worthy. Say perhaps, that your current Super Hero suit, a Spidey suit, has just grown too small. It's embarrassing to be out there fighting crime in flood pants, you know? So when you accompany your parents to the WalMart, you convince them that you have been so good that you deserve not only a replacement for your current red/blue Spidey suit, but that you also need a "way cool" black Spidey suit. You know, for the days when you're feeling a little darker.

Witness the happy Super Hero in the making.

Being a Super Hero doesn't just automatically happen like they show it in the movies. It takes preparation, planning and the knowledge of how to work velcro.

Whoops. Something's odd about this new Spidey suit.


But every Super Hero just makes the best of it. Totally. Pulling. It. Off.


Ah, that's better. Now the Super Hero works on his web slingers to make sure they are in top condition.


Sometimes Super Heros break for awesomeness.


And to apply the head gear that comes with the new suit.


Head wear? Check. Flashy sandals? Check. Conspicuously placed rope that will definitely result in rope burn? Check.


Ladies and Gentlemen, you have just witnessed the emergence of a new Super Hero. Consider yourselves warned.

Miss Maddy

Meet Madeleine. She is the daughter of Sara, one of my best friends in the whole world. Maddy recently had a birthday party to celebrate her two years on earth, her beautiful blue eyes and all that hair. Oh, my that hair! You should see it in person.

Here's what Sara and Maddy look like when they see something interesting located just to the left of me.


This is Abbey, Sara's other little one. She is almost exactly two weeks older than Reese. The two of them played together and snatched food from one another throughout the party.


Henry was so excited to go to Sara's house because she has a 'woof' named Lobo.

This was Reesie's face when she laid eyes on Lobo. She mauled him pretty much the entire time.

See how happy she is about the 'woof'?

Umm... this picture has nothing to do with the story line. It's completely gratuitous. I just really want you to see the full awesomeness of Maddy's hair.

Miss Maddy's party was water themed, so you can imagine how stoked Henry was to find a small wading pool. Here he is with his little friend, Murphy.


What did you find there, Henners? Water balloons? Henry and Murphy would engage in a wicked water fight later with these later.


Here's a picture of Murphy while he's still dry. This was not to last for much longer.


Henry raced Maddy down the slip-n-slide....


...and he raced Morgan.


Reece, Maddy's cousin, raced too.


While all the water fun was happening, Reesie and Abbey had a staring contest.

Oops. Abbey flinched first. Rookie.

Maddy and all her hair just kept on cruising the crowd.

Henry played 'fish'...

... and scored some sweet take home gear. Reese snatched up the sunglasses he won and claimed them for herself.

Murphy and his mom, also my good friend, Sarah, enjoyed their last few moments as dry guests at the party....

...because just behind them, this was starting to happen.

Oh no! Henry has soaked Murphy with a bucket of water.

The boys all gathered round the wading pool to load up on more water.

Henry surprised Murphy with another pail of water.


But revenge is sweet...and often wet. Murphy totally hosed Henry.


Umm...just another shot of Maddy's hair, this time with a Sara added.

While all the water fighting and Maddy watching was going on, something near the shade tree was going down. Let's investigate.

Aw. It looks like Abbey and Reese enjoying a game of peek-a-boo.

Abbey tried to fresh with Reesie and snag some of her food.

To make things even, Reese snatched up Abbey's binkie. Girl fight!

These two actually got along so well with each other. It was fun to see them play and interact with one another. Sara and I had a little 'mommy moment' watching them have so much fun together.

Pretty soon it was cupcake time!


Henry dug right in.

So did Miss Maddy.

Thanks for inviting us to your party, Maddy. We had the best time!

To see even more pics of Maddy's party click here.