When the Shadows force you out

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Kids, Parenting, Young Family in NYC October 7, 2019

There’s a type of healing that begins in the shadows. In the dark night of the soul. In the hidden corners and lonely rooms. When inexplicable light carves out a home in those places, they become a sort of comforting that doesn’t make sense.

But at some point, we have to face that thing which threatened to overtake us.

In short, we can’t stay hidden forever. The healing that has only just begun, kind of demands it.

In January of 2019, after a very, very difficult fall semester, we finally gained some clarity and discovered that our oldest had been bullied at school basically since the year began. This had triggered his anxiety / trauma to put his body into hyper drive. A home which was formally peaceful became chaotic. Tears and anger ruled and threatened to overtake each of us in different ways.

Some days felt like a sort of hell had entered and refused to leave.

We retreated, because sometimes that’s the only option. We brought our sweet boy home and homeschooled till the year was over. In an effort to take care of the four of us, we withdrew from everything around us. Isolation took over. Loneliness set in.

But, then, so did healing. When there was nothing else around us, we began to watch kindness seep back in. We watched hearts and minds begin to heal. We saw new and healthier patterns be formed in each of us. In short, we saw hope.

Don’t get me wrong, many days these things were only glimmers, easily missed in the chaos of parenting through trauma. But they were there. In the long snuggles, the forts, the early morning park days.

Last month, we started a new school for both kids. J’s third school in as many years, E’s first year of kindergarten. We walked into school that day weary and worn out. We felt confident it was the right place, but I couldn’t have predicted how it would go.

Healing that had only just begun in isolation started to flourish in the light. We watched our children face a new school with bravery we didn’t know they had. There were tears, yes. There was overwhelming exhaustion at the end of the day. But there was also goodness. Pride. Kindness. A kind of rest. Hell was being pushed back, hope was coming to reign.

But, then. Then I held my sweet 5 year old as she kicked and screamed because kindergarten is hard and exhausting.

Then I counseled my 7 year old as he shared mean words from other kids at school directed at him.

And for a moment I wanted to run and to retreat and to go back to the quietness and privacy of our home.

But, then. Then, I saw all that we had been striving for begin to come to fruition. I watched a 5 year old cry but then choose snuggling and joy. I watched her blossom with incredible new found knowledge. I watched my brave boy speak boldly to those classmates and to his teachers.

I watched as brave children walked into school, tears and all, and chose to connect. Chose to express. Chose to advocate for themselves and for each other. I watched as they greeted each other with joy at the end of each day.

I mean, sure, they had literally moved furniture to barricade themselves inside their room to keep from going one morning (at least they used teamwork), because isolation can sometimes seem very appealing. Partial light in the comforts of home, can pull us back so easily. Healing is work. Sometimes fighting for it can seem just. too. hard.

But they also walked out of that room. They got dressed and brushed their teeth. They walked to school and used their words.

But, then.

There’s a type of healing that begins in the quiet, in the dark, in the ordinary, yes. But that beginning is nothing compared to the solidified healing that happens when we re-emerge.

Part of me wanted to cut and run when I heard of more mean comments on only the 4th day of school. It triggered all the trauma in us from the previous year. But then I watched as I saw what the Father had begun to weave through my children: A kind of strength that isn’t free of tears, but also isn’t bound by them; A kind of strength that fights for good and for hope, even when a loud voice is telling you to retreat; A kind of strength that is uniquely forged in pain. A kind of strength that is teaching me, daily.

Friends, this is a new season for the O’Brien 4. We’re still adjusting. Somedays, if I’m honest, can seem impossibly hard. Our oldest is gripped by a pain that he didn’t choose and anxieties he didn’t create. These things don’t get better so much as he gains tools that help him manage them more effectively. We are all a special kind of tired.

But, then. Then I see goodness emerge amidst impossible odds. Through my tears I watch mercy and grace come crashing in. And even while completely and utterly exhausted, I can’t help but be thankful.

All of these pictures by the very talented Priscilla Perumalla. We took them a year ago in October and they continue to be my favorites we’ve ever done. If you’re in NYC, book her yesterday!

Before the year ends…

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, Just for Fun!, Kids, Simple Living, Young Family in NYC January 3, 2019

I started writing this shortly before the New Year on December 31. I knew then that I probably wouldn’t publish it in 2018. And I feel good about being right about that. But I kind of want you to hear it, the way I wrote it when it was still 2018. So here you go.

Right now it’s 10:33 p.m. on New Years Eve. My kids are asleep, my husband is in bed reading, I’m watching one last episode of Parks and Rec before I head to bed. It’s all perfectly normal. One wouldn’t guess that in less than two hours the New Year will reach our time zone. Or that we actually live just a few miles away from the biggest New Years Eve party happening in the world. (Not to mention that it’s also our 13 year wedding anniversary.)

But tonight, it’s quiet. 2018 has been a year of lots of new for us. Learning to know (and continue to love) our city, new school for the kids, new conversation patterns, one more new book released for Brandon, another one written, a joint book contract for the two of us…lots of good.

But I think, if we’re honest, there’s also been a sort of dark cloud in our home. As we learn to shepherd and to steer a child with anxiety, I think we’re all learning a new way to function together. And it can make coming into the new year a little hap hazard.

But here’s what I know. Tonight we had cheese dip for dinner, we snuggled on the couch, we watched fireworks (from Singapore and London…thanks YouTube) with the kids, we laughed until we cried. It wasn’t all beautiful. Truth be told, we were all sort of crabby today, and I’ve got a terrible sinus infection. But it was simple. It was us in our purest form and I got a glimpse, a stand-still moment of what I love about us. We’ll celebrate our anniversary this weekend, in coming years we’ll stay up till midnight…but for tonight, we’re resting in the simplicity of quiet.

In the end, that’s what I hope for in 2019. More of the simple. More of the sacred. Simply put, more of the quiet that leaves room for Jesus.

So, as I go to bed having taken all of the medication, with a few dirty dishes in the sink, and too many shoes by the front door, I’m also deeply thankful. Hopeful. We’ve got a lot of learning to continue to do in 2019. Big decisions to make and such. E will start Kindergarten in September, and J will run full force into 2nd grade. We’ll continue at the church we have come to love deeply. I am hopeful about a possible freelance project, and Brandon & I will write a book. Not to mention the fact that Brandon will continue to devote his time to the mission and vision of City to City.

So, Happy New Year, friends. May you and yours be blessed. May you find joy in unexpected places, hope in the midst of the mundane, and true beauty along the way.

This is us on New Years Eve. E with the messy hair, me with the puffy face, J with the Ninja pose, and Brandon holding it all together like an actual person.

My name is Amy and I’ve never been pregnant

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Infertility, NYC, Parenting, Spiritual Formation, Transitions, Young Family in NYC September 14, 2018

The moment completely caught me off guard. I was sitting in a room full of 50 or so moms in a Manhattan church classroom.

I had known these women for only a few months and had already enjoyed getting to know them each. They came from different areas in the United States and abroad. They had different stories. But we were all united in the fact that here we were…moms of young kids doing our best to raise those littles in New York City.

Each meeting started the same: after a time of fellowship, we would all sit down and answer some sort of ice breaker question.

“Since all of us have been pregnant, why don’t you each give me your best pregnancy advice,” one of our group leaders (newly pregnant) said.

All of us have been pregnant?

And before I had much time to think of it, tears rushed to my eyes. As discreetly as possible, I looked at my phone with urgency and then left the room as if I had a phone call. Nobody thought anything of it.

It was more than 11 years ago that I had found out getting pregnant might be difficult. And for so long I yearned, I longed, I obsessed over that biological child.

But now, I had two beautiful children at home and had begun to rejoice and delight in the way God had written our story. If you’ve read anything I’ve written over the past few years, you know that I have experienced God’s incredible healing deeply in the midst of my brokenness.

And here I was crying over that infertility that I hadn’t given thought to in years.

But this time it wasn’t that I was crying over the lack of a biological child. I wasn’t weeping the same tears I had many years before.

No, these tears were new. But their source has been my constant companion: Barrenness.

Barrenness.

This morning I was reading Psalm 113 and I saw something I’d never noticed before

He settles the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children. Praise the Lord. (Psalm 113:9)

I have become a mom in a very different kind of way. A way that runs straight into the brokenness of our world and embraces the redemption inside of it. A way that walks the tight rope of that brokenness almost every day.

A way that strangers around me have felt free to question. A way that not all of our family members have understood.

A way that has created a very different sort of woman than I was 12 years ago.

A way that, yes, sometimes makes me feel odd and misunderstood when surrounded by more “normal” moms.

And a way that asks me to embrace my brokenness instead of denying it and allow it to be used for the good of others. And, if I’m honest, that sometimes stings.

I cried that day not for the biological child I cannot have. No, I cried that day because I didn’t want to be defined by my barrenness. I wanted to exist outside of it. But, I’m beginning to think God is asking me to instead embrace it. Live in it.

When I walked back into the room that day, I chose not to share what I had just experienced. And I think that was a mistake. Over the last year this group has become a significant source of encouragement for me. Many of them have become dear friends. I should have trusted them then but the truth is, I didn’t want their pity.

AmyOBrienphoto (1)

But if I had it to do all over again, I’m thinking I should have stayed in my seat, and when it came to my turn (tears and all) simply said, “I’m Amy and I’ve never been pregnant. And I’m beginning to understand that maybe it’s a gift.”

God’s healing of our hearts began to happen long before we became parents. And it continues to teach me.

My body is broken. But my God is good.

The one where I tell you I’m writing a book

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, New Book, Transitions, Young Family in NYC August 20, 2018

Goodness, gracious friends I’ve got some news.

Brandon and I have signed a contract with Intervarsity Press to co-author our first book together. The topic? Adoption.

That’s right, my editor / writer husband has just accepted perhaps the most challenging job of his career…writing a book with his wife.

We began working on the proposal and figuring out what a book by us about adoption would look like this past spring. Over one particularly long dinner Brandon and I began to flesh out this project and we had that moment of “we’ve got to write this.”

But we still had to walk the process. It had to pass through multiple committees and receive multiple stamps of approval. Even though Brandon has worked with this particular press on several projects, this was no guaranteed deal. We received helpful critique and concerns along the way.

And ultimately they decided to offer us the deal. We put those signed contracts in the mail today.

And it was all business along the way until we got the offer. Then I froze. I’m talking, sat in a chair and stared at the contract for an hour froze (good thing my kids were watching a movie).

Brandon will have his 6th book in print. I will author my first book. And while I am aware that I am totally riding on his coat-tails, I’m also kind of okay with it. And I’m honored because IVP wanted both of us. My husband, the published-brilliant-known author, AND me, the small-time blogger and mom. We get to write this book together.

Now, Brandon and I are the parents of two young adopted children and we are NOT adoption / parenting experts. This is not the book where we tell you how to do it all. Neither is this the book where we share the nitty-gritty details of our children’s stories. No, those stories are their own and we don’t have a right to blast them to the world. There are lots of other stories bound up in ours, and we don’t want to put dear dear people on display.

No, our hope is that this will be a book about adoption that draws in all the people. Because we believe the adoption narrative has something to teach us all. We have been changed as the parents of our two little people and we want you to be changed, too.

And we realize that in doing this we are stepping right into the fray. If we do this book right we will make a few people uncomfortable and we will probably draw criticism. And, believe me when I tell you, I am terrified. But in the we’ve-got-to-do-this-anyway sort of way.

So here we go.

And I have a request: if you are an adoptive family or birth family would you get in touch with us? We will have some questions for you.

And If you are an adult adoptee (or you know an adult adoptee) can you please please PLEASE please contact us? We feel like your voice isn’t heard enough, we want you to be a part of this project.

Friends, this is a heart project for us. It’s close and we want to handle it with care. We want to inspire and challenge and encourage. We want to give voice to the voiceless and we want to correct some misperceptions.

But, mostly, we want to let you in on what God has done in and through our family make-up. Because it’s good. It’s really really good.

Because living with an apostrophe can be tricky…

Posted by baobrien in Christian Thought, Just for Fun!, Kids, Parenting, Transitions, Young Family in NYC June 25, 2018

I love a good laugh.

Almost 9 years ago Brandon and I sat in the office of our reproductive endocrinologist to have the first in a series of awkward conversations about our respective reproductive systems. My husband (God bless him) made more than a few quiet comments under his breath that had me laughing under mine.

Because when words like “sperm, uterus, fallopian tubes, etc” are thrown around in front of a giant model of the female reproductive system, jokes really take the edge of.

And Brandon’s ability to find humor in the midst of the less than humorous has always been one of my favorite things about him.

Our journey to adopting our J and E held within it some of the most painful moments of our lives but ultimately led us to deep-in-your-belly kind of laughter. And laughter for us has become a sort of sacred exercise.

Right now there are lots of things happening in our country that aren’t funny. A human rights crisis on our borders has Brandon and me talking seriously about how to be a voice for the voiceless. A young black boy being wrongfully arrested by police simply because of the color of his skin has us crying as we picture our own beautiful boy. Reading a children’s book about Jackie Robinson forced us to engage in conversations at bedtime with our 6 year old (once again) about the tragic history of our country that at one point didn’t allow people that look like him to do something as simple as play baseball.

All of these things bring a different type of heartache. All of them require courage and conviction. Many of them have us in tears. Some of them produce an angry determination to effect change.

Brandon and I attend a church in our neighborhood that is beautifully diverse. Yesterday we prayed over the atrocities happening across our country. With courage and conviction we asked for justice and we prayed for peace and wisdom. We grieved for the families being torn apart, and for the young men and women losing their lives to senseless violence. We heard a sermon about how fighting for diversity (and justice) is a fulfillment of Acts 15. And at the end of all this we sang Good Good Father in Spanish and in English and I found myself with tears in my eyes over the incredible goodness that our God brings.

But you know what else we did? We laughed. We laughed over how some of our members salsa through worship. We laughed over a prank one of our pastors pulled on the other at a recent retreat. We laughed over silly things our children did. We laughed over the mundane. We laughed because that’s what friends do. And because joy in the face of heartache is our special privilege as Christians.

We hope to teach our children many, many things but chief among them we want J and E to laugh. To laugh with joy at the thrill of their life’s adventure. To laugh with humility as they try (and perhaps fail at) new things. To laugh with kindness as they embrace the people around them in the fullness of their uniqueness. To laugh with wisdom (i.e. at the right time) but deep in their belly.

Love that grin!

Because laughter heals. A life of true, deep in your belly, laughter produces life.

(Simply) Laugh is more than just a blog title. Ultimately, it’s a way of life for us. Wont you join us?

It’s not the way I thought it would be…

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, Parenting, Simple Living, Spiritual Formation, Transitions, Young Family in NYC March 13, 2018

…Because sometimes you find yourself living a life that you never imagined.

This past Friday, I had a rare moment alone to get some errands done. As I walked by myself to the grocery store (coat zipped up, hands in pockets, scarf on, head down), I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window and saw a different woman than I used to be.

Not different in a fundamental sense but different in reality. Different in life.

I’ve been working on a project lately that isn’t ready to share. And I’ve been practicing the discipline of writing, and I’ve been learning the art of deciphering what words are ready for the public and what words are reserved for later. (and I’ve been perhaps putting my editor-husband to his ultimate test…editing his wife’s writing.)

And I keep catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A glimpse of a woman with brown hair and no makeup.

A glimpse of a woman prepared for all the city will bring, zig-zagging among pedestrians.

A glimpse of a woman weary and impatient from a day of public transportation with littles.

A glimpse of a woman who is trying her hardest to find the next thing.

A glimpse of a woman with a messy living room and pile of recycling.

A glimpse of a woman who is broken and cracked, but beautiful and whole.

And this woman isn’t exactly who I imagined I’d be. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Because the truth is, despite my deepest heart’s desire, I never even thought of living in a city like New York. I never could have dreamed how being married for 12 years and a mom for 6 years would have molded, shaped, changed, broken, and strengthened me. I never imagined having the confidence that this woman has to fight for her people and (on her bravest days) pursue her dreams.

And I never knew the courage and sacrifice it would take to slow down and lean in to the children God has graciously placed in my care. To choose the unexpected because it provides safety and security for my oldest.

To choose less productivity because it gives affection to my youngest.

To choose being their mom first over the pursuit of the many desires and passions and professional pursuits.

To choose to see my children fully in the brokenness of their stories but not wholly without the hope of their futures.

Being a woman who is driven, determined, opinionated, cautious, kind, and tender…this is how God created me.

Being an adoptive mom who is slow to talk, quick to listen, fully of mercy and compassion…a white mom who is taking awkward and uncomfortable steps to put my white-ness aside and enter into the brown world of my two loves…a wife who is the ultimate partner in the small things and the biggest things…this is how Christ is re-creating me.

Coming to terms with my brokenness, with the cracks in my appearance, with the lines and wrinkles on my face, with the different-than-expected-but-incredibly-beautiful-life that I get to lead…

Well, this is my journey. What’s yours?

(very important side note: this post is in no way meant to communicate that moms must put aside their professional dreams for their children. I know and respect lots of moms who have thriving careers because that is exactly where they should be. This is just my personal journey towards different professional goals than I may have planned a few years ago.)

When a stroller is a sacred symbol

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, Kids, Parenting, Simple Living, Transitions, Young Family in NYC March 2, 2018

So this week Eliza and I walked our very well loved, but still in excellent condition, Uppababy Vista over to a local ministry that serves families of young children in our neighborhood. I was glad to have helped a family in need but it honestly felt like a real loss.
Stroller 1

My bright yellow Vista has served us well as a family. Both our babies used the bassinet as their first bed. Walks with Jamie as an infant and later with both kids helped me keep my sanity in the haze of baby-hood. The roomy basket could hold bikes and scooters easily and I loved taking it grocery shopping or to the farmer’s market. I had researched WAY too much before settling on this stroller and we did our best to use it as much as possible.

Stroller 4

We moved it to NYC knowing that Eliza was close to outgrowing it. With it, the kids and I explored our neighborhood parks and streets. Jamie rode on the rumbleseat and it was, honestly, one of the few places Eliza felt safe when we were out. I pushed it with ease. It served us well.

Lest you think I’m being paid by Uppababy to promote their high quality strollers 😉 I should probably get to my point….

Our Uppababy has always been more than a stroller to me.

When we were waiting to adopt our first child, our caseworkers had been very intentional about encouraging us to wait to prepare for our baby. Don’t decorate a room…don’t buy all the clothes…don’t have a baby shower…just wait. Everything you need, they explained, you can get when you bring your baby home.

I had watched people close to us walk through the heartbreak of situations falling through. And when a decorated and fully stocked room remained empty, I knew that there was wisdom is not fully preparing. In the end, there is nothing certain about the adoption process, and nothing is a done deal until the judge says it is.

But the fact remained that I was an expecting mother. It’s not just the hormones of pregnancy that make a mama nest. Early on in our process, a fellow adoptive mama told me that one of the hard things about adoption is that you are potentially 9 months pregnant for a long time. Because any day your baby could come. Any day our world could change.

I needed some physical representation of God’s provision. I needed something to hold on to. So I bought a few outfits that were particularly meaningful to me and I kept them hanging in my closet as a symbol of God’s faithfulness to provide, even if I couldn’t see that provision yet. I wore a certain necklace almost everyday that a friend gave to me as a symbol of the faith we all had that God would provide.

We purchased a carseat with money from grandparents and when I found a great deal on our Vista, my parents graciously bought it. And I kept it in the corner of our guest room wrapped with a blanket that some very sweet girls had knitted for me. And over the almost two years that followed, it became a sacred spot in our home.

When people came to visit, I packed it away in the closet. But otherwise, I enjoyed looking at it when I walked past the room. I cried over it when situations fell through. I found myself staring at it when life was overwhelmingly hard. When darkness threatened to swallow me up, this was the physical manifestation of ultimate hope.

Stroller 3 And just like the usually-not-so-nice cat that God used to comfort me in the midst of our infertility, this stroller, this tool, this inanimate object, became sacred. After having looked at the stroller for more than a year, when I put Jamie in the bassinet that first night (and checked on him roughly 135 times), it felt as though it was more than a bed. I was wrapping my baby in the longings of my heart. I was placing him to rest, in the prayers of our family and friends, in the generosity of his grandparents. I was, ultimately, laying him on the altar that I had met and worshipped God at for more than a year.

And, of course, the stroller in and of itself, is simply a tool. I always knew, I couldn’t keep it forever. Honestly, I’m glad for the empty space in our apartment, and I can’t think of any better legacy than passing this symbol of God’s faithfulness onto a family in need. Because the Vista is a work horse and has lots of years of use ahead of it.

But, after more than 7 years with it, it feels strange without it.

Raising Little People

Posted by baobrien in Kids, NYC, Third Culture Kid, Young Family in NYC November 3, 2017

This might be one of my favorite spots in Central Park. And those two little people are for sure the best.

It was a year ago this weekend that Brandon and I visited New York City for the first time. It may come as a surprise that neither of us had been here before, and here we found ourselves not only here, but we were actually exploring whether we could LIVE here. Only a few people knew the reason for our trip, so under the cover of “celebrating our anniversary” a little bit early, we came.

On the plane 1 year ago.

At Riverside Park a few months ago.

These two pictures were taken before our first visit (on the airplane) and after we’d been here a few months later.

And what began as an exploratory vacation, turned into a full day of meetings for Brandon and dinner with Brandon’s potential boss that night. We fell in love that weekend and began to walk forward knowing that God was moving us to NYC. And it was totally out of our wildest dreams. We’d dreamed of cities, sure. But never this one. And we knew that God had placed a longing in our hearts for the next thing, but this job carried so much weight and importance and we were a little bit bewildered that Brandon might have the opportunity to use his gifts and abilities this way.

And now here we are one year later. We are in our sixth month. We’ve had dinner with those friends a few times since. We’ve made new ones. Our son has started school. Our daughter has started ballet and become an NYC parks / playground expert. Brandon has flourished in his new job, and I’m (once again) figuring out this whole full-time-stay-at-home-mom thing.

Photo Sep 08, 8 08 25 AM People have asked us what it’s like for J and E in our new home. Yesterday on our way home from picking J up from school, E brought them each a matchbox car. And they rolled those cars on every building and fence that we passed. A three block walk to the subway which normally takes 10 minutes took us 25. Because they were moving at their own pace. And as they passed each person they received sweet smiles and more than a few chuckles. A few people played along with their game. They made it onto the subway where people went out of their way to make sure they could sit together with me. And they continued to talk and laugh.

Earlier that day Eliza played in a sandbox with a friend (while I had some much needed adult conversation that friend’s mom) and she negotiated sand toys with a few other kids in the box, too. (There are sandboxes everywhere in NYC and everybody comes with the expectation that toys will be shared). Parents sat on the side and taught our little people how to ask politely and share what they had with those around them. We laughed as they snatched toys away. Kids are kids everywhere. But in a large city they have to learn to be citizens from a young age.

Raising little kids in the city has it’s challenges. But every time a person offers to carry my stroller or heavy load up the stairs (9/10 a person of color…but that’s a conversation for another day), and every time the vendors on the street smile and talk to and laugh at Eliza…I am so thankful for where we live. I’m thankful for the way I am forced to teach my children that quiet voices and quiet feet are not only a good idea in general, but they help us show kindness to our neighbors. That our plans have to be flexible as we move from point A to point B. And that you can do more than you think (like stand for 25 minutes on the subway when there are no seats to be had). I love that my children have already learned how to balance their bodies when the subway comes to a stop (without holding on) and that they naturally reach for my hand when getting on or off.

I love the sympathetic smiles and even pats I get when my sweet littlest person is throwing a fit. And I love the proud nods J gets when he pushes his way through a crowd to get off the train (saying a very loud but very polite “Excuse me” the whole way).

Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t love being corrected on my parenting in public (yeah, that’s happened a few times). I don’t always love the lack of privacy when my kids desperately need a private “let’s get it together” conversation. And somedays are downright exhausting as I teach my sensory sensitive daughter to navigate a city that overwhelms those senses on the regular.

But this city has a way of sneaking into your heart. And the charm of our city and our neighborhood specifically does my heart good.

Today is a quiet day with Eliza. Jamie has sports after school, so we wont pick him up till late. So we’ve watched a movie and now she’s quietly playing trains. I’m going to make us both some lunch soon and then play with my baby in her room for a little before rest time.

And then I’m going to read and be lazy because allergies are kicking my tail and after a the food poisoning I had earlier in the week, I’m exhausted and definitely need a little bit of a rest.

Tomorrow we will go explore a new spot with J and E and we will do most of our parenting in front of 1000 of our closest friends. 😉 And it will be frustrating at times but we’re also learning to laugh at ourselves and take it for what it is.

And we will come home exhausted and put our kids to bed early (most likely) and watch a movie and eat something terrible for us. And it will be lovely.

When the story finds you

Posted by baobrien in Christian Thought, Just for Fun!, NYC, Simple Living, Spiritual Formation, Uncategorized, Young Family in NYC October 29, 2017

Fort Tryon park is incredibly beautiful.

Today I got a few minutes to myself. So, I sat on a bench in Fort Tryon park with my daughter’s tulip pen and my son’s hedgehog notebook, and I took a stab at some things.

I’ve been wondering lately if I have anything to say — anything unique to contribute to the blogosphere.

Over the last few years, my self-confidence has taken a beating. Four years ago, I arrived in our new home in Arkansas full of purpose, full of God’s goodness. I was tired and spent but happy. I had a beautiful 18 month old and a wonderful husband. We were greeted by family and community.

We were an hour from some of our dearest friends and we had a holy sense of where God had us.

And the four years we spent there were full of good things. We brought home our daughter, we bought our first house, Brandon launched a huge project. We had college students in our home, we hosted holidays and community group. Our children made sweet friends. Our son learned to ride his bike. We did valuable work. We had the best neighbors ever and made wonderful new friends.

But, dear friends, I was crumbling. I struggled to find my place. And in the midst of a PCOS diagnosis and a few different health issues — I watched myself slip away. I smiled and I made friends–but I couldn’t give my whole self. I taught and I mentored but I felt increasingly alone.

And all the while I lost weight and then I gained weight. My hair began to fall out, my pain increased. I cried (oh, how i cried!!). I cried because I was lonely, I cried because of pain. I cried when doctor’s couldn’t give me answers. I cried when the answers became a little too overwhelming. I cried when my hormones wouldn’t let me do anything else. I cried when I wasn’t invited. I cried when I felt overwhelmed.

I began to forget things. I felt like only a part of myself.

And I resented our home.

And as someone who processes by writing, I was in a hard place because I couldn’t write about it. I didn’t want to wound the people that I loved and I didn’t know how to talk about this all without it.

For many months I blamed that place for my unhappiness.

But while that context brought a lot of hard, it wasn’t to blame.

The last six months in NYC have brought breathing room. And I have begun to embrace the broken pieces of me. In Arkansas I had come face to face with my faults. I sunk into depression. But without a community around me to point me to help, I retreated into myself.

I saw my weaknesses daily. And I felt rejected because of them.

And while a lot of the hard was beyond my control ….I am coming to terms with my own responsibility.

I made it hard for friendships to form. I made it hard for my husband to love me. I made it hard for people to get to know the real me.

All that to say, here’s the punch line.

When we arrived in Arkansas I had begun to find my voice. And four years later, in losing myself, I am finding my message. And it’s one woven in brokenness. And it’s one that isn’t all for the public.

Some of it is for my husband. Some of it is for my kids and my dear friends and family. And some of it is for you, my dear readers. And I don’t really know where all the pieces live just quite yet. And I’m doing my darnedest not to jump ahead.

Because now I find myself in a city I never imagined but have already come to love… building community with a diverse and incredible group of people.

People who have already challenged and acknowledged my gifts and abilities. People who have stretched and challenged me. People who have asked me to minister in ways I haven’t been invited to in awhile.

I have already stepped out of my comfort zone.

And I’m happy. Not because I’ve found any magic bullet but because I came to the end of myself, I survived, and I am now walking forward in God’s grace towards whatever He has for me.

And I realize that none of that is really a punchline, and maybe that’s because there isn’t one…yet. Because maybe this is when the real adventure starts to get good. Maybe.

So, thanks for reading. You guys are swell. I realize I come to you with a lot of personal revelations and I appreciate your journeying through them with me. And for anyone wondering how the O’Brien 4 are managing…here are a few snapshots.

Oh, and for those who have prayed with me for J and have prayed for our family as a whole…goodness, gracious I am so thankful for you.

So enjoy.

Oh…one more very important thing. I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge a whole lot of people.

To the dear friends formed in Arkansas – I am so thankful for you. For fancy dinners and kid’s birthday parties and afternoons by the pool.

To those girls who came into my home each week and invited me to speak and to love you and to mentor you – I am still incredibly honored and blessed by you. So very proud of the women you have blossomed into an the adventures you have gone on. You were a true lifeline.

To the women who wrestled and talked through Race and Reconciliation with me. I am still learning from each of you. Seriously.

And to Pediatrics Plus. I wasn’t with you for long and sometimes I worry that I did more harm than good. But I am continually thankful for the opportunity you gave me to work and to use my gifts. To mess up and to fix it. To lead and to guide. You deepened my understanding of the value of a soul. And I am forever changed by the good work that you do.

It came in like a wrecking ball…

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, Kids, NYC, Parenting, Young Family in NYC July 24, 2017

Okay, that’s a bad title. I’ll admit to that. But there is something tender I’ve been processing for a while. And, well, I may just be brave enough to write about it. Or, you know, I may not. We’ll have to see.

Brandon and I parent two amazing children. There is not a single day that I am not thankful that I get to be a part of their story. That I get to be the one to hold them and love them and encourage them and direct them. That I get to build never-ending Lego creations and pillow forts. That I get to kiss boo boos and talk about being kind to each other. I love being their mom. So much that it frequently makes me cry.

But, there is also not a day that goes by that I am not acutely aware of the pain with which their story began. Because I was not their first mother. I am their complete mother, but I am not the only and I am not the first. (And I would appreciate no one arguing with me on this point. I don’t tolerate disparaging words about birthparents).

Lately I’ve been having a recurring nightmare that one or both of my kids are taken from me. And it has nothing to do with the “dangers” of the city. No, I feel way safer in a city than I feel out in the middle of the country (just ask Brandon).

And to an extent it is a normal fear for any parent. Except our family was not formed in the “normal” way. If the world was not a broken place, my children would not have needed my home. Therefore, their pain is the reason I am their mother. And more than 5 years in, I can’t even write that sentence without tears.

Now, for our beautiful, spunky, brave daughter we have pictures and stories and actual real people who made a brave decision for her good. We have evidence of love in the midst of the brokenness. We have people she will meet and talk to and hear from one day. And her story begins with pain but it gets to redemption a whole lot quicker. But the pain. The pain is still there. Don’t think for a moment that it’s gone away. She and her birth family feel this pain.

But let me tell you about my J. My sweet, amazing, beautiful boy. His pain is different than Eliza’s. And his pain sometimes bursts forth with quiet intensity that knocks us off our feet.

Our sweet boy left a whole network of friends back in Arkansas. Friends he loved. Friends he would boss around (let’s just be honest about that). And friends that loved him just as much as he loved them. Jamie didn’t lack confidence. He had it in abundance. He made friends out of strangers everywhere we went. He loved deeply and fully. He couldn’t get enough of people. He had a quiet confidence.

And then we changed his whole world. And, guess what? He loved it. Because if you know my son, you know that he LOVES adventure. And this adventure came with more time with mom & dad, and with airplanes and subways and buses…all the things he loves best.

But one day on the playground (the one right by our house) another kid was quite mean to Jamie. And that combined with the total life change was the spark for trauma to come crashing in. Since that day, something has changed in my boy. What was once confidence is now hesitancy. What was once peace is now anxiety. What was once a plethora of friends is now a mom, dad, and little sister.

Now don’t get me wrong, J is still creative and adventure seeking. He is still brave and willing to try new things. But now he does not approach other kids to become their friend. He does not leave his sister’s side at the playground. He meets his world with anxiety.

Photo Jun 16, 2 18 24 PM And on more than one occasion I have rocked my baby boy to sleep while he wept. And this is not my J. Except that it is. My beautiful boy has pain so deep that even his own mother forgets that it’s there. Until it comes in and wrecks us all.

You see, for a child who is formed with pain and trauma…this is how they handle their world. Our job as his parents is to teach him how to handle feelings that are too big to express. Feelings and emotions that 5 year olds just shouldn’t have. And, friends, don’t get me wrong. I know that a lot of this is just the nature of change. I know that boys are emotional. But I also know that this is something deeper. Because our journey together started with pain: My pain, their pain, their birth family’s pain. And there is far too much evidence that shows how this sort of pain totally devastates a child.

And, can I just be honest for a second? Society doesn’t make it easy for adoptive parents. Seriously. Society sometimes makes this all WAY harder than it needs to be. I mean, don’t get me wrong, for the most part, I like society. We get along. But I’m becoming weary of the way our family is so openly questioned. Whether in Arkansas or New York City (or everywhere in between), we are viewed with a little more skepticism. Our motives are suspect. Our methods are scrutinized (down to the type of music we play for our children). We are watched. And don’t even get me started on the comments. Well meaning or not, everyone has an opinion about our family and for whatever reason they feel free to share it. Many are positive. Many are intentionally not and they are said loudly enough for us to hear and to field disapproval. Because of our family’s makeup, we bear the weight of a lot of agendas. And sometimes it feels like too much.

So what do I do? I weep with my strong boy. I weep that he will have to answer more difficult questions than many of his peers. I weep because he won’t even have to question his identity on his own…society will do that for him. He will have to account for decisions beyond his control. And I feel his anger and his frustration. I share it with him. Because that’s my job.

And I trust that this too shall pass? Why? Because we’re facing it. And it’s messy and hard and difficult, but we’re handling it.

So where do we go from here? I’m hoping to write a blog post very soon with a lot more practical advice and do’s / do not’s for people. But, in the meantime, here are my two pieces of advice for two different groups of people who didn’t ask….

Fellow parents of kids from hard places: Stop what you’re doing and grieve with your child. Seriously, hold them and cry with them. Listen to them. Even a 5 year old can tell you what they need (which is why I’m about to stop this blog posting and play Legos). And, reach out to your surrounding community. Emotional breakdowns don’t come up naturally in conversation, so it can become isolating when it happens. Don’t let it be. Text those who get it, text those who may not “get it” but love you best. I waited too long to do this but when I finally did, a flood of encouragement came in. And while they didn’t offer practical “fix it right now” solutions (those don’t exist anyway), and while many of them may not have understood, they made me feel less crazy and gave me permission to just cry it out and then to take the next right step.
Those watching from the outside (i.e. friends or family of those with adopted kids): Listen to the concerns being offered. And just let them be concerns. I can’t tell you how many times well meaning members of my community have tried to explain away my concern by downplaying it…it leads to more isolation, not encouragement. The times people listen, and simply allow me to be worried. Those are the times I leave encouraged. Also, unless you are a very good friend or family member…it’s probably best not to comment. I have never ended a day wishing I’d had more comments from strangers about the makeup of my family. When in doubt, just smile and move on.

And, so, I have full confidence that this story ends well. Because it has already been so good! So today and tomorrow we will take one step forward and rejoice in the small things. We will make cookies. We will stare right back at those people who stare at us and we will speak with boldness (and kindness!) to those who question us. And, above all, we will give grace to all because we all have missteps. We will continue to laugh about the fact that our skin is so beautifully different. We will talk seriously about how Jamie will have to behave differently than some of his friends (not just because of his color but also because of mine).

And we will continue to enjoy our family. We will build forts, visit museums, try new foods, make new friends, and continue to explore this beautiful city we have the privilege of living in.

Because what’s the answer to the brokenness? It isn’t ignoring it. It’s choosing joy in the midst of it. It’s choosing mercy right in the mess. And that’s where Jesus is, friends. Right there in the midst of the mess.

(Simply)Laugh

Living with an apostrophe can be tricky…

Category Archives: Young Family in NYC