I've been meaning to tell you about this

Hey friends, it’s been a while. How are you?

I didn’t plan to take such a long break from writing—especially after over three years of writing at least once a week, if not more. My body and my brain surprised me with a big old NOPE when I tried to get back into the swing of things this year.

If you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, then you know that my husband and I have been fostering for the last year and a half. Back in September, three new little ones (at the time 3, 2, and 1) arrived to stay with us.

Here’s what I didn’t tell you.

It was late September. We had said goodbye to our older fosters the week before, had finished celebrating the launch of Hungry Authors. We were still skeptical about fostering after our first two fosters left us very suddenly, now almost a year ago—but that’s a story for another time. I was daydreaming of possibly just giving up on having kids and moving to Italy like Kirsten Powers (I still dream of the moving to Italy part!).

We got a call from our placement worker, who thankfully really liked us. We had helped her out with some emergency placements, and she knew that we were looking for kids to adopt, because we couldn’t do the heartbreak anymore. Well… another placement worker from a rural county three hours away had called her asking if she had any families who could possibly take an adoptive placement of three little ones. We were at the top of her list. She sent pictures, and my heart just burst. They were (are) ADORABLE. And I will forever be thankful to her for vouching for us!

For me, this wasn’t a dream come true—it was better than I had dared to dream. Three kids!!

But for my husband, it was… very intimidating. THREE kids?!

We talked about it for hours. As much as I wanted them, I knew that I couldn’t pressure him to say yes in any way. Any kid is a massive commitment—let alone three! I knew that if we were going to do it, he would have to decide for himself in his own heart that he was ready and willing.

After a day, he came to me and told me he couldn’t do it. I was disappointed, but I understood. After all, he had always said he wanted two kids. I didn’t try to change his mind. I just called the placement worker and let her know, and I started the mental process of moving on (probably to Italy).

And then… 24 hours later, he called me on his way home from work.

“Babe, we have to go to Walmart tonight to get some things.”

“Okay, like what?”

“Like toddler beds.”

My heart stopped. I didn’t say a word.

“The kids are arriving on Friday,” he continued.

Can I express to you the joy of that moment? I will never forget it.

Suddenly, we were thrown into a vortex of potty training and kids biting and constant screaming and cleaning up spills and getting up 10,000 times during dinner to get them water or pick up the fork they dropped and doing eight loads of laundry every week.

And for the next five months, I worried. I was afraid to tell too many people that we were adopting them, just in case something happened. Something happens all the time in foster care. We had already experienced that. We knew how fast heartbreak could sneak up on us. So I was superstitious and guarded. At first, we were told the adoption would happen in December. Then it got pushed back; there was an administrative error on the paperwork, it needed a court order to fix, the judge was having a dispute with the lawyers, etc….

It was very hard to relax with all of that worry on my shoulders. Plus, you know, taking care of three small children and trying to bond with them.

Getting to Christmas break felt like collapsing at the end of a long hike. I just couldn’t get up again, no matter how much I wanted to. Everything that was not day job or children just had to wait. Including Hungry Authors and our cohort and this newsletter. I was happy, but I was also depleted.

January was one of the longest months of my life as we waited to find out when the adoption might take place and also tried to keep the kids busy with all of us shut inside from the cold.

Finally, in early February we got a court date: February 19th.

The day itself was a lot of waiting around trying to keep three bored kids entertained and somewhat contained in one space. And then a lightning-quick presentation from our attorney, the judge’s silent and industrious signing of the adoption decrees, and BOOM—there we were. A family.

The Currys.

Inside the change

It still feels surreal. I’m happy. I’m overstimulated. I’m proud of how much we’ve all grown in the last six months. I’m touched-out. I’m in love. I’m going insane from the constant cycle of dishes and laundry. I’m deeply grateful for the church friends who have supported us with meals the last couple months. I need help. I’m learning to rest even when there are still a thousand things that need to get done. I am mourning the sudden loss of the freedom I used to enjoy. I am celebrating the wondrously full life I now live.

All of these things are true.

The sea change I wrote about in my life a year ago more often now feels like a category-three hurricane (some days, it’s category five).

Since adoption day, the anxiety I have been carrying has slowly been melting away. It happened. We made it. After seven years and so, so many losses, we found each other. Parents who needed children and children who needed parents. What a miracle.

A couple weeks ago, my coauthor Liz and I met for the first time in a while to catch up and work on our presentation for the Power of Narrative conference in Boston.

Both of us felt it—the soft hum of energy as we refined our slides and practiced our talk. We had new ideas for Hungry Authors. In Boston, our session went phenomenally, despite both of us being a bit rusty. When it was over, we knew. We’re back.

So hey. I’m back.