So I’ll be bold as well as strong, and use my head alongside my heart, and I will wait, I will wait for you…



Lo, sometimes I just sit in your room and wait.

Maybe in my mind, if I am sitting in a room that is complete, it will happen faster. I know the reality of that is wrong, but I cannot help but feel that if I physically sit there it will tell the universe somehow, “Ok, now she is really ready. Look – she’s even sitting in a completed nursery. She’s a real live Mom now. She deserves this now. It’s her time now. It’s go time.”

Maybe I sit and imagine what it would be like. I let my mind wonder, finally, after having it trapped in a cage of doubt and misgivings – I let it roam free for just a moment. I imagine what it would be like, to hold you in my arms, to feel your little tiny chest heave with every breath, each breath out of your lungs the biggest gift I could ever ask for in this universe. Each tiny movement a signal from the world that it was worth all those nights in the empty room, waiting.

Maybe it is the newness of the room. The smell of the paint and fresh carpet that reminds me of a brand new house, a brand new start, a brand new chapter. The furniture fresh from its boxes assembled and everything lined up perfectly, all brand new. The crib that has never been slept in, the changing table that has never seen a baby bottom, the stuffed animals that are brand new. They are aching to be used, aching to have child spit worn into their fibers and wear and tear marring their perfectness.

Maybe I use that empty room as my sanctuary. Perhaps it is the one place in this world I can sit and feel at peace, because it is a physical reminder that one day you’ll be here, come hell or high water. It’s like a security blanket for my racing mind – a place I can finally feel happy and at peace. The bright walls splashed with yellow the color of a cartoon sun, the rocking chair waiting patiently to hold a new mother rocking and cooing her infant to sleep under the fake tree on the wall gives me a sense of comfort and peace I haven’t had in a long time.

Maybe it’s all of the above.

I feel like if I sit in there, even if only for a few moments a day, I suddenly feel centered.

I feel closer to you, in some way that seems to be slowly slipping away from me lately.

I’m trying so very hard to remain positive, to be the glue that holds this together. But lately, I’m finding myself slipping – wondering if this is real, if it’s going to ever happen. Then I pull myself together, take a deep breath and remember that my job as your Mother right now is to soldier on and find you, even in the darkest of nights.

Today is your Dads birthday. I wish I could get him what he really wants, the title of Dad.

But I know its coming, slowly but surely.


And until then, I’ll be waiting for you.

You can find me here.



Meet you under the owl tree soon, little one.


Love Always,



Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans…

Little one, I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve last written. I am so, so sorry. Mommy and Daddy have been extremely busy. Since we got our homestudy approved, it has been as if life is stuck on the fast forward button, and we can’t seem to be able to hit pause.

The past three weeks have been a whirlwind of setting up online profiles, creating and posting more fliers, and advertisements and handing out our pass along cards and getting your nursery in order. And we’ve only been active on the profile sites for less than a week, but I can already feel the panic start to set in.

What if we don’t get the call?

What if no one likes us?

What if we never get you?

I naively thought that once we had the homestudy approved, the weight would be lifted. But it’s not true. Some days I feel so hopeful that it feels like my heart might burst into a thousand pieces like confetti inside of a popped balloon.

Other days it feels like I’m staring down a dark hallway, and I can’t see where I’m going and I can’t see the light at the end. I don’t know if this hallway is ten feet long or ten miles long, and I can’t just give up and sit and wait. I have to keep moving, grasping for a solid ground, soldiering on even though I can’t see the end of this journey. Even though I’m walking slow to avoid danger. Even though I have your Dad holding my hand, walking with me. Even if I have a whole arsenal of people walking behind us, pushing us ever so lightly and supporting us the entire walk, not caring if they have to stand in this hallway with us forever.

And I feel like I’ve already walked so far. I feel like we’ve been walking for months, though really it’s only technically been a few weeks. But no matter how tired I get, no matter how much it hurts or how frustrated I get, I’m always going to keep walking. Even on days when I feel like I can’t walk any further, I will take a few steps. I will do anything to get to you.

I will be patient.

I will be persistent.

I will never, ever give up on you.

I will wait for you.

With a heart full of courage and hope, I will walk this long hallway for as long as it takes. Even if it takes years.

Not seeing how long the hallway is or if it ever ends but walking anyway is called faith, Lo. And your Dad and I will never, ever lose faith.

Lately, I’ve been staying up late into the night brainstorming ways to find your first Mom and you. What am I missing? There has to be some other ways to get the word out that I’m not thinking about. I wish I could just stand on the top of the highest point in the world and scream loud enough for the world to hear me that we want to adopt, that we would make great, loving parents, that we would welcome your first family with open arms and we’re committed to open adoption. I want to scream that we’re looking for our missing baby.

Because that is how it feels, Lo. It doesn’t feel like I’m trying to find a stranger to adopt. It feels like I know you already, like your little soul is already a part of me and your Dad. I have no idea what your face looks like, what color your skin is or how your personality will be.

And yet, I know you. I can feel you. You’re in my heart.

I can’t give you life. That is not my part in this journey. That is your first parents part. But I can find you, I can love you forever and be your forever Mom. I don’t diminish either parts, sweet baby. Without your first parents, we won’t be parents. Without us, your first parents wouldn’t have the opportunites they need to get ahead. We work together in this.

We need them, and they need us. And you need all of us.

But another big part of my role is to find you and first Mom. And I am trying everything.

You’re out there baby. I don’t know where yet, but I am going to find out. This is the biggest journey of all of our lives, but we’ll come out with something so beautiful once we get to the other side.


Looking and searching, searching and looking,

Love always,



One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you cannot utter.


Little one, I apologize for not writing more. It’s not because I don’t care, not at all. We’ve been extremely busy getting everything ready since having the home study back, so that we can get our online profile up and ready.

And in doing so, I’ve hit a road block. I’ve got writers block like you wouldn’t believe when it comes to one thing.


The “Dear Birthmother” letter.


It’s driving me crazy. What could I possibly say to an expectant Mom trying to make the toughest decision of her life? How could I convey how much we want to be parents, or how great we’d be at being the family for the tiny baby growing inside of her body? Knowing the decision she has to make, I’m at a loss for words.

I’ve tried different things to get over this writers block of mine. I’ve tried putting myself in the shoes of an expectant Mom making an adoption plan. I think about what I’d like to see in the family that is going to be, in a weird way, so much a part of me and yet so much not. I’ve done research on the subject, read countless other Dear Birthmother letters, and still I’m stuck.


I want to stand out, but I want to be us. I want to be honest, and I dont’ want sound desperate, but I still want to convey who we are and how much we want to be parents. I want to put her at ease knowing the kind of parents we’d be, but I also know that if I were in that boat, it would take an army of people to attempt to put my mind at ease. It’s the hardest and one of the most important decisions she will ever make, and I want to be there for her. I want her to know that we’re good people, that when we say open adoption we mean open adoption if that is what she wants, and that we won’t just go running to the hills once the paperwork is signed sealed and delivered.

I want her to know so many things about us, and I want to know so many things about her. Her, this woman who will be giving us the best gift in the entire world. This woman who will change our lives forever in her decision. This woman who will place her child in our arms, and have more trust with us than most people trust those they’ve known forever.


It’s a lot of pressure to write to this amazing woman.

But I have to do it. I have to try to muster up my own courage and write to her, and write to her in the way that she needs to hear. I have to show her in just a few paragraphs that we’re the ones for her, that this will work, that she can trust us. It’s hard.


It’s going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever written.


But for you, Lo, it will all be worth it. Every single syllable.


In other news, my birthday was Tuesday. It was the perfect day. I was off of work, your Dad surprised me with a full body massage at a local spa, and then lunch out with him, your Grandma and Aunt Kelly. Then I got my hair cut and colored. It was a pretty perfect day. And when I blew out those candles, I only made one wish, for you.

Today your Dad and I worked on painting your nursery today as the storms rolled through outside. We’re almost done, and I can’t wait to have your room completely ready for you. I just hope I don’t have to stare at it empty for long.

Last week I had to go to the eastern shore of Maryland for work, and your Dad got to come with me since he had leftover vacation time. We took a stroll in the local state park by the water after work one day, and noticed a giant, gorgeous cloud on the horizon. It was big and fluffly, and was mirrored in the sparkly water beneath. We both looked at each other at the same time and said, “…Does that look like a crawling baby to you?” As we walked, the cloud followed everywhere we went. At one point, the trail came to a clearing and growing there with nothing around it was a single dandelion, ready for a wish to be blown upon its tiny whispy seeds.

We plucked it, took a picture (the one above) then made a wish together.


You’ve gotten a lot of wishes this week, sweet baby. Hope they come true soon.


In the meantime, I’m going to go write my letter to put on our profile. We’re going to do our part, hopefully the universe, fate, timing and faith will do the rest.


Waiting for the rest,



To succeed you need to find something to hold on to, something to motivate you, something to inspire you.

Little One, last night we succeeded!

This was in our email:


It was literally the best email of our entire lives.


Needless to say, your Dad and I were over the moon….



All the papers, the interviews, the worry- all worth every single millisecond.


Now sweet baby, the rest of this journey is in our hands. We need to find your bio Mama and Dad, and then we’ll be on a roll. I hope it doesn’t take too long, because I just cannot wait to be your Mom.

For the first time in my entire life, I feel like a real Mom.

It’s no longer a matter of If, sweet baby, but when.

But we’ll succeed- because we have you to hold on to, you to motivate us, you to inspire us.


It’s just a matter of when.



Waiting for the when with bells on,

Love like crazy,