the Advent

There have only been a handful of times I've been able to share the story of the adoption from start to finish. I write it to satisfy the curiosity you didn't know you had and because I have to believe that everything that happens when we follow God's leading has a reason. I hope to reread this someday and know what it was.

We had been praying for a girl named Kiara and her soon-to-be-born baby girl, due the same day as Liza's second birthday, November 29, 2010. She had been confident in her decision for the adoption of her baby. She had big plans to leave her childhood life of poverty behind by attending a university to get a degree in business, to make a life for herself. She already had a nearly 3-year-old daughter and the father of both girls was incarcerated. We met her and though she thought we looked too young in our profile scrapbook (yes, I made a scrapbook. Be impressed.) she had decided she liked us. She believed she had the full support of her mother, and the father's mother. The week before Thanksgiving and 2 weeks before her due date, she officially informed our social worker that Joel and I would be the parents of this baby girl.

Friday morning, the day before the other young Fankhauser Family would arrive for the holiday and the first day of Joel's call weekend, Sarah the Social Worker called to tell us Kiara was in labor and was expected to give birth within the hour. With all of the uncertainty involved in the adoption of the child of a teenager, we had held back much hope. Even with the phone call, I felt as though I were watching someone else receive the news. I did the only thing I could think to do next: mop the kitchen. No newborn would enter my household with as many germs as I thought were visible in the crumb and grime beneath our dinner table.

Mid-mop, I stopped holding back. I had been told my daughter would be born that day.

I called Joel 4 times at every number I had available. I took all the children to Target and Sam's Club. I told them for the first time that the baby we had been praying for would finally be joining our family. We bought a portable crib, a car seat, and bottles. I washed a brand new coming-home outfit and blanket. I began to prepare the way for this little one.

The day was stressful. Normally, a simple trip to any store with all 3 children is enough to wear me out for the week. But also included was coordinating with my friend April who would watch the children late so we could visit the baby in the hospital. We had to figure out how the other Young Fanks would get from the airport in Tulsa to our home in North West Arkansas. Joel had to deal with hospital admissions and emergencies since this was his one call weekend in 6 weeks. But none of this mattered much. We were going to bat for our daughter and we were not going to let her down.

That night, after dropping off our children with an excited family in Springdale, we made our way through the cold and dark to the hospital. And there she was, as tiny and precious as she could be. She was 6 lbs, 10 oz, and 21 inches. She had curly hair and a squishy newborn nose.

To be honest, it didn't felt like she was mine. I somewhat expected this but I couldn't wait to get to know her, to fall in love. We took a picture, but I haven't yet been able to bring myself to post it.

The next day, preparations for her arrival- as well as the arrival of many more Fankhausers- continued. I was about to get dressed to go pick her up and bring her home when Sarah called to inform me Kiara was being pressured by her family to change her plan. Time stood still while we waited.

Around noon, about the time I should have been arguing with the nurses why the baby hadn't been discharged yet, Sarah sent me a text with what I what I hoped was not the final word, "I think she's leaning towards keeping her..." It took the entire weekend before I let go of the possibility that she might stand up to her family. But she didn't.

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It's been 25 days since these things took place. We're in full Christmas mode here; we're shopping, wrapping, singing, eating. But with every reminder as to why we celebrate Christmas comes a very painful, joyful sting. The world once lay silent awaiting the coming of a child. Born unto us that day was our savior; only He could save us. Only He can heal us.

This is the part of the story I hear most clearly this year. It describes the baby I embrace. He is so close to my heart.

'Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:

"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss your servant in peace.
For my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel." '

Luke 2. 28-32

No, It's Not Chili in a Shoe Box

It's a walnut brittle experiment gone bad. I have no tips for how to make a successful walnut brittle. But here is a list of things you can't do:

1) Don't change pots mid boil. Just pick the right size pot and then get out your next biggest one and use that.

2) Don't assume your candy thermometer is working incorrectly just because your mixture doesn't get hotter than 250 degrees in less than 15 minutes -- UNLESS you are confident in your ability to use the hard ball test using cold water.

3) After pouring and cooling your walnut/caramel mixture, don't think you can reheat it to correct temperature. The walnuts will sink to the bottom of the kettle, even with constant stirring. They will then begin to smoke. If this happens, find your youngest child and warn them that the smoke alarm will proceed to sound for about 10 minutes because the amount of smoke in your house will be so great you suspect an actual fire somewhere in or around your stove.

4) Don't bother to check for fire under the burner. It's probably coming from your kettle. Turn off the burner and use the actual recipe intended for peanut brittle next time.

5) Don't throw your walnut brittle away in a perfectly good shoe box. Use it to wrap Christmas presents (the box, NOT the brittle) or store toys. You can even use it for shoes.

6) Don't throw your box away in the trash can. This is my biggest regret so far. Put the lid on, wrap it up, and mail it to one of your friends.

When Bad Things Happen to Little People

It didn't start out that bad. Silas woke up a little before six, Micah not long after. I had plenty of time before breakfast to check Amazon holiday lightning deals, my email, and even Halle Berry's mismatched outfit that Yahoo thought was news.

Just minutes before breakfast, Micah began one of his marathon tantrums because I couldn't make his train track fit together the way he wanted. He carried on for 30 minutes or so (on his bed, at my insistence) and comes out to tell me what I thought was "I moved the bunk bed". But I just took him back to his bed thinking he was trying to manipulate my rule for tantrum containment for what would have been the 4th time in the 30 minutes thus far. I set him down, gave him his blanket and a kleenex and told him I'd be happy to talk when he had calmed down.

Twenty minutes later he calmed down enough to talk and I saw the worst black eye I've ever seen on any of my kids. Comfort FAIL. I'd let him cry while legitimately and seriously hurt. He sat on my lap for a while until Liza insisted she not remain in her booster seat any longer.

We worked through school. We had a teary morning but we were making it just fine. Kids started telling me at 10:45 how starving they were. And thinking to myself that it just might work to my benefit to eat so early (because it would have followed with early and extra long naps) I began to fix lunch.

Until I heard the thud.

And then I heard the yelling
"Sorry Liza! Liza! Sorry. Mom I said sorry to Liza!"

And then I heard a slight wail in followed by the cry out that did...not...stop...

I picked Liza up flailing, clutching at my shirt, and still pushing that cry out. She began to look panicked and started to turn a funny color grayish white. Her eyes rolled back into her head, she arched her back and neck and passed out in my arms. It seemed like a long time before she took a breath but now I estimate it was only about 5 seconds. It's interesting what the mind can do in 5 seconds. I had a plan: tell Silas to find a phone, administer rescue breathing, think about who might babysit while in the ER, let the babysitter know there's pizza in the freezer and juice boxes in the pantry, and nap time IMMEDIATELY follows lunch today.

After she started to breath again, it wasn't long before she regained consciousness. I checked for blood and protruding bones. (I found none.) From that point until well after supper she informed everyone "I bonk head." I asked her what she hit her head on. It was different every time: a plate, a bunny, her other head. Now I'm no doctor, but I reckon a lapse in consciousness can effect short term memory.

It got better. After crying for an hour about what a horrible parent I thought I was, Mrs. Oyler came to help clean the house and Joel came home to check out the wounded. The children have all survived the day.