Dear adoptive blogging parent, I get it now.
I used to stalk your blog. I read every entry from the day you first mentioned making a homestudy appointment and you began dreaming of your children. I poured over the descriptions of the child with whom you were matched, but of who you were not allowed to share photos. I watched videos of your announcement when you officially became parents.
I read your posts about packing and repacking. I paid attention as you answered everyone's questions about the process of meeting your child.
I held my breath through your flights and travels. I was on the edge of my seat as you shared your report of seeing your child's face for the very first time. I cried when he called you "Mama" without being prompted.
I ached for you as you left your child and returned home to wade through the paperwork of finalizing an adoption. I watched as you prepared a home for your child, in order to keep from missing him too much.
I could practically feel the same joy you felt when you were reunited with your child. I watched as he became your son. I appreciated every picture you posted and every report you wrote of those first days home.
But, slowly, the posts became fewer and further between. You might update on your son's progress occasionally, but certainly not as much as I would have liked. You'd randomly jump in with a few posts that did nothing but make me crave more.
I was researching my own adoption. I wanted to know about life after the airport.
But there was very little.
And, dear blogging friend, I now understand.
I promised that I would be different.
Friends, family, and strangers have stalked my blog. Many have read every entry from the day I first mentioned making a homestudy appointment and the moment I began dreaming of children. I know they poured over the descriptions of the child with whom we were matched, but of who we were not allowed to share photos. My followers even watched videos of the announcement when we officially became parents.
Our friends held their breath through our flights and travels. They were on the edge of their seats as I shared a very personal report of seeing my child's face for the very first time. They all cried (and complained about crying) when he called me "Mama" without being prompted.
My dear friends and family ached for me as I left my child and returned home to wade through the paperwork of finalizing an adoption. They watched as we prepared a home for our child, in order to keep from missing him too much.
My blog followers could practically feel the same joy we felt when we were reunited with our child. They watched as he became our son. They appreciated every picture I posted and every report I wrote of those first days home.
But, slowly, the posts became fewer and further between. I might update on our son's progress occasionally, but certainly not as much as everyone would have liked. I would randomly jump in with a few posts that did nothing but make our true friends crave more.
Adoptive blogging parent, I originally swore I would never become this way. I promised to continue writing and updating after my son was home.
I wanted to keep writing, even after the airport.
But sweet friend, I understand now.
It's not that there is no desire to write. It's not that your child isn't still making progress, or your head isn't filled with words to pen. It's just that blogging is pushed aside.
I get it. I do.
That little boy I used to write about, is now playing on my back porch. He doesn't require the constant supervision that he used to, but he actually desires my company. He continues to thrive, but he also struggles. My, does he struggle. Some of these struggles may be with him forever, and I question how much information to share.
Also, that little boy has a brother. That child requires much of my time and energy, and makes me desire naps with a whole new intensity.
Dear adoption blogger friend, I now understand your silence. In fact, I have spent many days joining you in it.
I get it now.
As for those of you who are researching your adoptions and craving more, be encouraged that the silence is because the process is worth it. Promise yourselves that you'll keep writing after the airport, but know that playing out on the porch will take priority.
And with that, I need to grab my jacket...