Red Tape, Double Roll

As I type, my phone is squished between my cheek and shoulder, because I'm on hold with a guy named Rich from VitalChek. This, in case you don't know, is where you can order original copies of all sorts of vital documents, like the birth and marriage certificates we need for our adoption paperwork. I really should have these people on speed dial. I thought I had this all taken care of last month during my initial document-gathering frenzy, but I was oh so wrong. I recently learned that the birth certificate I ordered and received for Tony is the wrong one, because it was issued by the county he was born in. Well, the fine state of Indiana (and I imagine this is true for other states, too) won't certify a birth certificate for official government purposes (like adoption, for example) unless it's the state-issued version. Details, details. Really? I can prove he was born, people. If need be, I'm sure I can get my mother-in-law to provide a detailed account of his birth and the alleged "wild look" he had in his eyes that deterred her from breast feeding him.

So now I've just gotten off the phone with the guy from VitalChek. Turns out his name is Oscar. Who's Rich? I think he's the guy from the UPS store that's supposed to be holding the package that contains Tony's birth certificate. But the reason I had to call Oscar in the first place is because I called the UPS office after receiving a message from VitalChek telling me my package was waiting for me there, but when I called them to double check, Rich told me they don't have it because I don't have a regular box there, so they would have sent it back to where it came from, which would be the Indiana Secretary of State's office, not VitalChek, but Oscar says VitalChek has a contract with UPS, so they should have the package, and he was very sweet and apologetic, but I still have to go to that UPS store and call Oscar back while I'm in the store.

And that, my friends, is how you get a phone number for a direct line to VitalChek. I'm on the short list, y'all. Don't even need that toll free number with that pesky automated system. I wonder if Oscar is on Facebook?

Of course, I may already have lost you by now, because you had to take a break from reading through the double roll of red tape in the above paragraph. Sorry about that. I would go back and edit my post into a shorter version, but I have to get my shoes on and head over to see Rich at UPS. That's after I call the doctor's office who did Tony's medical exam and apparently finished filling out the little blanks in ink on a photocopy of the original form that had already been signed and notarized. Yeah, sure. I'll bet the Chinese officials examining our dossier will just breeze right over that.

Seriously????? Have we missed the entire point of having a document notarized, pumpkins????

*Sigh* Yes, this stuff can be more than a little frustrating and overwhelming. But I forget all about it every time I pass by the baby section at Target. :-)

Girly Girl

Below is a transcript of a recent conversation that took place in my van just after we dropped Caroline, a self-described tomboy, off at the community rec. center for softball practice.

Me: Look, Gillian! There's the football field where you'll be cheerleading this fall.

Ellis: Gillian, I know you're a girly girl, but this is taking things a little too far.

Gillian: No it's not. (with head-bobbing attitude) I can take things as far as I want.

And she will, my friends. She truly will.

They call it the "paper pregnancy".

If you're reading this, chances are you already know our family has made the prayerful decision to adopt a child. Specifically, we're pursuing the adoption of a boy from China through their Waiting Child program. This program is for kids with special needs that range from minor and easily corrected problems to severe disabilities and debilitating diseases. Right now we're in the long paperwork phase, the process of compiling our dossier, which is basically a set of documents that explains and verifies pretty much our entire life. Here are some of the things we're required to provide:

original birth certificates
original marriage certificate
police records
employment verification letters
financial statements
medical records
reference letters
certification of online adoption training
family photos (in which we're all looking at the camera and smiling. I'm not kidding.)
elementary report cards
caloric intake record from our latest meal
number of times per day we wash our hands
our personal philosophy regarding cookies as a food group
documentation proving our children at least know what dental floss is

Okay, perhaps I have embellished just a little. But seriously, y'all, this adoption business isn't for the faint of heart. Then again, neither is parenting in general. I would know. I have three wonderful, intelligent, well-adjusted, loving children to whom I personally gave birth. I think we've done a pretty good job with them. The irony is that we didn't have to prove one single thing about ourselves before we had them. We didn't have to show evidence that would suggest we would be good parents, or that we had health insurance that would cover any of their medical needs, or that at least one of us was gainfully employed and earning a dependable income, or even that we had a roof over our heads. No one needed to verify our body mass index or see pictures of the inside of our house. No one asked for letters from our closest friends or for a detailed account of our individual life stories. We didn't have to watch hours of online video segments about the finer points of bringing a child into our home. We didn't have to provide documentation that indicates that we are generally good law-abiding citizens.

And an application?!! Are you kidding?! We didn't even have to mean to get pregnant!!

But to adopt a child . . . a boy who has no parents and little hope for any kind of bright future, a boy who has some problem or imperfection in his little body that makes him undesirable or simply unmanageable to so many . . . to bring him to our home and make him a part of our loving family and allow God to weave him into the fabric of our hearts, we have to explain ourselves and everything about us.

Honestly, it sometimes seems just a little backwards.

But when I stop to think about it, I understand why it makes sense. After all, I suppose the reason why official government entities both in the U.S. and abroad require so much of prospective adoptive parents is because, well, they can. Maybe our world would be a better place if there were some way to ensure that people who are going to have babies of their own are in a "good position" to love and care for them. For that matter, maybe the first prerequisite to having a baby should be wanting one. And then if you can convince the powers-that-be that you truly want a child, then you can begin the painstaking and tedious process of documenting your life to prove that you should have one. If this were the case, certainly there would be far fewer orphans in the world, and fewer suffering children in general.

Now, before you get all weirded out and start thinking I'm actually suggesting some kind of sick Big Brotherish society, don't worry. That would be crazy, and I would never suggest it, and it would probably cause as many problems as it would correct. There are societies in our world today that come dangerously close to this kind over-reaching control, and they are generally regarded as bad. I guess I'm just saying that I don't blame China for wanting to make sure that the people who are taking their precious children to the other side of the earth really are going to give them a better life than the one they would otherwise have to look forward to if they were never adopted.

So we will continue to prepare. We will open up our lives to complete strangers who will examine and evaluate us. We will pay thousands of dollars to obtain, certify, and process various documents and applications. We will spend countless hours researching medical resources that can help us address any number of special needs our future child might have. We will slog through the "to do" list in the 3-ring binder where we keep all our paperwork and reference materials. We will pray for guidance, wisdom, strength, patience, and perseverance.

Then we'll wait.

And then we'll go.

And then we'll have a new son, and some sweet little boy will have a mommy and a daddy and two sisters and a brother, and it will all have been so totally worth it.

A New Look and a New Focus

So it's been well over a year since I've posted on my family blog. Ridiculous. I'd kinda like to beat myself up about that, but it's true that I've had a LOT going on. There are, after all, only so many hours in a day, so many days in a week, etc. But now it's summer, and I've decided to make a new commitment to my blog. Especially in light of the fact that our family has decided to adopt a little boy from China! Woohoo! So I plan to post regularly to chronicle our experience, as much for ourselves as for anyone else who might be reading.

And I'm changing the focus of this blog just a little. In the past I've posted family updates and stories about the goings on in our little flock, complete with pictures, but I've also blogged about my own reflections and musings and random things that have nothing to do with our family. I've used this blog as an outlet for my little sparks of writing. That's going to change. This blog will be dedicated to our family, to the more personal parts of our life together, and people who know and love us can keep up with us by reading it. I've given it an updated look, because Blogger has some more options now (yea!), and I'm clearly going to have to think of a new name. "Flock of Five" will be outdated soon, and "Flock of Six" just doesn't work. Besides, what if it turns into seven some day? :-) So a few more changes to this blog are coming.

But I still need that outlet for writing, and now there are more than just little sparks. A full-fledged flame has been ignited, and I have a new determination to write more, just for the sake of writing. Sooooo, I created a completely separate blog, just for that purpose. It won't include more personal family things. It won't include the latest pictures of my children's antics. It probably won't even include their names or Tony's. And to tell you the truth, I'm a little nervous about it. I'm using it to force myself "out there" as a writer. I've always wanted to be a real one, and time's a wastin'. I am, after all, forty years old. Sheesh. Can you say, "late bloomer"?

So there you go. I hope my friends and family will continue to read this blog, and I hope you'll read my new one, too, and if you like reading, tell other people to read it. My new one, that is. Random folks who don't know me at all. The gal who does your hair. The guy who works in the next cubicle over. Your boss, your neighbor, your mother, your friend from high school with whom you recently connected on Facebook (unless, judging by his photos, you think he might have turned into some kind of psycho since graduation all those years ago. You know the one.).

So here's the link (can you hear my heart? It's almost beating out of my chest as I prepare to publish this post. Weird, I know, but this is kind of a big deal for me.):

www.heatherconnbyrd.blogspot.com

Happy reading!

Home from Hilton Head Island

Well, y'all, the vacation is over. I'm back in Land O' Lakes, safe and sound, in this home I love, but I have to admit I'm still wistfully thinking of the place we just left. I don't know why I'm particularly melancholy at the end of this trip to HHI, as opposed to those in years past, but I am. Perhaps it's because I just got so relaxed there. Or maybe it has something to do with how grand the house is where we stayed. It was particularly enchanting, and it's not as though we've been slummin' during other stays. Every year we've been tremendously blessed to stay in a huge, beautiful oceanside home . . . for free . . . and every year I come away with a profound sense of gratitude. But I feel extra blessed this time.

So here are a few more photos from our week . . .

Ellis and Jacob at Pirate's Cove Miniature Golf. We had so much fun there.

Tony's parents left with Jacob, our nephew, on Friday evening, to head back to Augusta where Tony's sister Kelley and her husband Matt (Jacob's parents) live. Don't know why we didn't snap this photo while his little brother Nathan was still there.

After they left, Tony and the kids and I headed down to the beach one last time. The kids skipped and played and dug and splashed, and the two of us just sat there chatting and feeling really thankful. I took my other camera, only to discover the batteries were dead. But after we came in, I grabbed my smaller one and took a couple of Caroline and Ellis coming up from the dunes.

And then there was this morning. I actually set my alarm so that I could wake up extra early to see the sunrise. How could I not? I spent an entire week with an eastward Atlantic ocean view stretching as far as the eye can see in both directions. And it was clear and beautiful, and I know from experience that even though the sun comes up every single morning, actually watching that happen on any given day is a miraculous experience. Seriously. It's hard not to get a little emotional when I witness this daily phenomenon. The scope of God's creation is impossible to ignore, at least it is for me. And this morning did not disappoint. The pictures below, of course, don't come anywhere close to capturing it . . . so I encourage you to make a date with the God of the universe some morning in the near future and just sit back and watch Him start a new day. Literally.

Just before the sun appeared . . . See how it's already lighting up the sky into those muted shades?

First peek . . .

And there it is . . . wow. Coming to a horizon near you, starting tomorrow, every day for the rest of your life.

The Masters, Volume 1 - A Few Thoughts

Just when I thought my relaxing vacation by the beach at Hilton Head couldn't get any better, Tony and I drove over to Augusta Wednesday night and went to the Masters on Thursday. It's the third year in a row we've done this, thanks to the generosity of our brother-in-law, who has passes his late father owned. It is truly a unique experience, even for one who isn't an avid golf fan. That would be me. Not even a golfer. But you don't have to love the game or even follow it to appreciate a day at the Masters. World class athletes are world class athletes, even if they don't play a sport you're particularly into. And world class athletic competitions tend to live up to the hype. As a result, I'm hooked, and I hope I get to go again next year.

Here are some of the things I enjoy most about going:

1.) Dedicated time with my husband. It's not the easiest thing to arrange, honeys, and I'll take it whenever and however I can. Even the three-hour drive (one way) through backwoods South Carolina towns was a highlight, because that translates into uninterrupted conversation time with my BFF.

2.) Augusta National Golf Club. It's just downright beautiful. Towering pine trees, broad hovering oaks, pale purple wisteria, delicate dogwoods (oh, how I miss those in Florida), and my favorite . . . azaleas, in every imaginable color, individual bushes long ago fused together into massive hedges of blooms. The grounds, as you might imagine, are unbelievably manicured, and not just the greens and fairways. The surrounding lawns are every bit as lush and green and closely trimmed, which is why I purposefully wore my best-loved and most comfortable flip flips instead of the recommended footwear, which is anything you can easily tromp around in all day. I hiked the hilly terrain just fine, and every once in a while, as I stood watching some household-name-type golfer line up his putt, I slipped off my shoes and let my feet rest on the Masters lawn. I'm telling you that grass feels like soft, cool, green velvet, and it was all I could do not to tiptoe and twirl and pirouette out onto the fairway like a ballroom dancer. But I feel quite sure that would have been "bad form". The Patrons would not have approved.

3.) People watching. I love to watch people wherever I go. Some places are better than others, because there's such a variety. Airports are great, because there are literally people from every conceivable walk of life, nationality, background, with countless family situations, reasons for travel and, my favorite, fashion sense. There's not quite the same diversity at the Masters, for obvious reasons. It's a specialized event, you know, and it is largely attended by a specialized kind of people, and when it comes to the aforementioned fashion sense, I'm here to tell you that it, too, is . . . well . . . special.

You may not know this, but there exists a parallel universe where grown men wear pink pinstriped seersucker pants. Pleated pink pinstriped seersucker pants. Plaid patterns you never new existed do, in fact, exist in the form of shorts, pants, and golf skirts on the behinds of the Augusta elite. And do you remember those cable-knit sweaters worn as pseudo-scarves over cotton polo shirts with turned-up collars? In the regular world they were last seen on the evil preppy kids at war with the nerds and losers in any number of early 1980s teenybopper flicks. Well, in this parallel universe, they are all the rage, especially in springy pastels, which means a LOT of people at the Masters are walking around looking like human Easter baskets. And it ain't just Babs and Kipper, y'all. The younger set seems to embrace this look, too.

Then there are the young ladies who are clearly dressed to impress, keeping up with more recent trends, so the strapless sundresses and round-the-neck halter tops abound. From the ankles up, everything works, but it's the footwear that takes a downward turn. Girls, I understand that cowboy boots worn with short, lightweight dresses are quite stylish right now, but let's do consider our venue. In a place where name brand running shoes are the standard, with pricey golf shoes coming in a close second (on the spectators), those boots just are NOT made for walkin'. Or hikin'. Which is pretty much what we're doing as we travel from tee box to fairway to green, traditional egg salad sandwich in hand, climbing up one side of a rolling slope and shimmying down the other. I even saw one woman in heels. Heels! Trust me, the grounds crew does not need any helping keeping that place aerated, so let's leave the Jimmy Choos in the closet, sugar plum.

Sidebar: Okay, yes yes yes, I know I was wearing flip flops. But let's not forget the velvety grass. And my flip flops are very functional and perfectly fine for all that moving around. But cowboy boots? Heels? C'mon, now.

4. The GOLF. I have never considered myself a golf fan. Outside of playing with my dad some when I was growing up (and even then I was far more interested in driving the golf cart) and a round or two as an adult, I don't play the game. I don't watch it on T.V. I don't pay attention to news from the golf world, unless it's on Sportscenter. But watching golf at the Masters, up close and personal, is different. I suppose that's true of any sport, but I've been to many world class sporting events, and this is just not the same. There's something about being right there when these people are doing what they do best, and I've gained a new appreciation for just how good they are. They hit the ball so hard off the tee. They examine the green from every angle before each putt, analyzing the dips and rises in the surface, calculating speed and trajectory. It's intense. And they do all this surrounded by complete strangers - fans and critics alike - many of whom are close enough to reach right out and touch, near enough to hear their whispered commentary. This is not an arena, and there is no nosebleed section.

Consequently, there's not a lot of heckling, either. That's another thing I like about this atmosphere. I think people are a lot less inclined to outright insult a player when he could easily take two steps and and one big swing and shut someone up. When people have something negative to say, it's in hushed tones and generally out of earshot of the athletes. So when a golfer shanks one into the trees, although he has to attempt to save face in the midst of the pine straw flanked by an arc of spectators barely wide enough for his back swing, at least he doesn't have to worry about some idiot with a painted chest leaping up to say, "C'mon, Mickleson! My grandma could keep it on that fairway!" Of course, the biggest reason there's no heckling is the same reason I couldn't dance on the lawn: bad form. Maybe Babs and Kipper are onto something there.

So those are my thoughts about the Masters. It was fabulous. I'm very interested in seeing how everything turns out this year, especially considering the fact that the day ended yesterday with a 50-year-old in the lead at 6 under par. This is big news. And speaking of big news . . .

You didn't think I had forgotten Tiger, did you? Of course I didn't. I have lots of thoughts about him. So he gets his very own post.

Stay tuned for "The Masters, Volume 2 - Tiger Returns".

I could get used to this.

Beautiful, ginormous home right on the beach in Hilton Head. Lazy schedule with nowhere particular to go, nothing particular to do. Surrounded by people I love.

Oh, yes. I could definitely get used to this.

The three Byrdies diggin' a hole in the sand...

Daddy and Gillian creating a sandy masterpiece...

Gillian just being Gillian...


Gillian and cousin Jacob in the pool...


Cousin Nathan ready to launch...


Gillian could get used to this, too...