I think I am defeated by this creature

July 27, 2015
 I used to love them.
Not anymore,
Or so I thought.

A strange and wonderful creature in my own back yard

When we lived in Colorado, Each year I’d plant a vegetable garden and each year, I’d try a new device or method for keeping the deer off. I came to the conclusion that only a 12 foot electrified razor wire fence, with motion sensing poison darts would keep them at bay. 
Since I never had such a home security system, I contented myself with a 5 foot fence, (read “edging” for a deer) and a big barky dog. That worked for everything inside the fence, but merely turned their grazing habits to my rare and wonderful delphinium. Strong-smelling soap (like Dial or Zest) keeps them off pretty well. But it dissolves and tends to detract fromt he point of a flower garden, (It’s hard to please the eye when every plant has a soap necklace dissolving all over its leaves.) But the soap does work fairly well, if aesthetics are not important.  They apparently use their noses to determine which plants should be devoured. 
Here in Oklahoma, I’ve learned that they particularly favor tropical plants and flowers. They’ll walk through a sea of marigolds and zinnias to get to the hibiscus my friend gave me earlier this year. They don’t bother iris or hostas, or any other lilies, but they adore my shade garden Every time it starts to bud, the deer come in and nip off the infant blooms like lollypops on Halloween. 
If you’re suggesting a rifle, you’re not the first. But we have laws in Oklahoma and I suspect it’s illegal to shoot a rifle within a few hundred feet of another residence. 
But it seems to me that the deer are resorting to the highly effective method most of the world has adopted on facebook. Those does (read doughs not duz) trot out their spotted newborns and in full view of the Planter of Fruit Trees, show their sweet little bambinos where to graze and introduce the delights of apple leaves. 
But lest you soft-hearted women go into cardiac arrest, I reached for my camera instead of my gun. I have to admit that she’s too cute for words. She already likes apples.


I think I’d rather have these in my yard than hibiscus blooms. But I’d rather have apples than fawns. And the squirrels that aid and abet the other creatures by picking the unripe fruit and tossing the second half into the grass before starting another are not in the contest. And I don’t think the distance from a residence law applies to BB guns.
The metal collar you see on the tree behind her is to keep the squirrels out of the tree. It doesn’t work.
I’m told that squirrel is a tasty, tender little snack.
But for now, little spotted Bambina, you’re safe from everything but exploitation with my camera.

Fostering to adoption, Things only got harder when Marie grew into a teenager

July 25, 2015
Hard Times
High school was especially hard for me, as no one else in my family had ever been through all that I’d been through. For example: Unlike my siblings, my body was constantly being grabbed and groped in crowded hallways on my way between classes. Rumors began, even by those who were supposed to be close friends. Boys got the wrong impression because of my naivety and ignorance. Add in a dash of feeling lost and not knowing whereI belonged I soon became defensive.
This only made me feel the great divide grow even bigger. I was different. I was adopted. No one else understood. No one else around me was adopted. No one else understood the missing puzzle pieces that began to form as I felt more and more lost.
Needless to say my mind often wandered to my birth parents, their flaws, the flaws I must’ve inherited, how not to be like them in any way shape or form, and how to live up to the high expectations of my parents.
Comparing. Daren went to school to be a veterinarian. Morgan got her doctorate in Psychology a few short years ago. Carol got a degree and worked as a Physical Therapist at the Denver Children’s Hospital. Jarod… well, he got lost in alcohol, sex, drugs and lies when he decided to take a different path (I don’t know if it was his junior year or senior year, but it was in high school) than what our parents wanted for him. Had things been different, I imagine he’d be in the NBA.
That leaves Chad and me. Though he can’t remember anything, the emotional damage was done before we were taken from our birth parents. Chad rarely ever spoke about being adopted. He merely accepted it and didn’t even try to fit in.
I didn’t know until our senior year, but he often reflected on the fact that they wanted him. They had even tried to kidnap him once in broad daylight back when we were still living in Ohio (I didn’t even ask how old we were, but I think he was about five or six, because I think we were already sealed to our family).

This broke my heart. He wanted to find them. Did he not understand that his anger issues stemmed from their physical, emotional, and verbal abuse? He’d seen every type of professional and they all came to the same conclusion. So why did he want to have anything to do with them? 
Why? Because he too felt so different, to the point that he was alienated from our real family. Did they know this? No. Why? Because they simply couldn’t understand. It was easier for him to clam up and go on his own path than to try and live up to another’s view of what his life should be like.

What Does a Beauty Pageant Convey to a Girl?

July 20, 2015
Last evening, something slipped out of my mouth and I immediately wished it back in. It’s not politically correct. I’m a Public Affairs worker! I shouldn’t be controversial!
But today, I don’t mind that my opinion launched itself into broad daylight. In fact, after considering, I have decided to muse on the subject on CCC.
I know some are going to bugged, annoyed, irritated and possibly insulted.
Can’t help it.

I’m speaking of beauty pageants. I said last night that I think they’re glorified prostitution.
Strong language, I know.

Image result for miss america pageant contestants
Pick out a hair-do! 

Image result for miss america pageant contestants

I counted about 15 different pageant winners in our local Independence Day Parade. Lot’s of sequins. Lot’s of makeup. I hope there was lots of sunscreen, too. I can only imagine the amount of body makeup it would take if those lovely lasses were freckled by the unforgiving Oklahoma sun! There were so many “Miss-es” that we pretty much stopped looking to read their banners. Who cares what girl won what contest?Image result for miss america pageant contestants
But if I think about it, I recognize a tragedy.  Here’s why.
Beauty pageants has a lot in common with prostitution. Money is given to the girl with the “best” body and “most” talent.

Image result for miss america pageant contestants
There’s slim and then there’s starvation skinny. 

Pageants quantify a human being’s value based on external factors. Often entrants pay a very high price in money (entrance fees, costumes, personal trainers,
photos, hair, makeup manicures, pedicures, cure-alls and curlers). The higher price is in over-exercising and the long term effects of starvation to fit the mold of a bikini-worthy body.
Then there’s the price in self worth. I can’t imagine a woman enjoying strutting down a runway in a skimpy bikini or revealing evening gown while judges write their comparative comments and rankings. If she does enjoy it, why? That’s the stuff of nightmares!
What message are we giving our young women when we create a contest that determines the “best” girl. What must her priorities be if she is to win the prize? She only succeeds if all the rest fail. Isn’t that the exact opposite of Jesus’s teachings?
I’m not speaking of the contestants.  I’m condemning the concept of a beauty pageant. It’s degrading, disrespectful and most of the priorities it promotes are opposite of what I want my daughter and granddaughters (and sons and grandsons) to value.

What if we get to the pearly gates and find out that the final judgement is really a competitive point system. How would we earn our points here on earth? We’d step up to the menu and read the rules.

Rule 1. Only the top 6% get to come into heaven. 
Rule 2: You compete only with those of your generation. Don’t ask if you can be judged with Noah. 

Rule 3: If you’re literate enough to read this, and lived after 1700 A.D. you had sufficient access to the rules as printed in the Scripture. No claims of ignorance will be heard.

Rule 4. Your scores are already tallied and posted in The Book.. . written in stone.

Rule 5 Even if in the top 6%, if you have a score lower than 500, you will be entered into a singing and harpist competition with slackers from other generations to determine access. 

Rule 6 Life was tough for all of us. Get over it.  



500 points for kindness, meekness, long-suffering, generosity, faith, honesty, virtue, modesty, wisdom, compassion and integrity.
200 points for skill, creativity, curiosity, determination, prudence, work.
100 points for humor, good cheer, charm, cleverness.
10 points for good grooming, a sense of style, and good sense.
Subtract points for the following
500 for cruelty, hatred, vulgarity, vanity, unforgiveness, bloodthirsty, greedy, robbery, and self-centeredness
200 for drunkeness, dishonesty, cheating, lying, unfaithfulness, truth-twisting, laziness, pride, loquaciousness.
50 for comb-overs, zits, freckles, general ugliness.
IF YOU FIND YOURSELF WITH A DEFICIT IN YOUR FINAL TALLY, MOVE TO THE LINE TO THE LEFT OF THE GATE AND WAIT TO SPEAK TO A MODERATOR!

We’d wait in line for what seemed an eternity. When we finally got near the front we’d hear the person ahead of us saying, “When did I see thee hungry and fed thee not? When did I see thee naked and clothed thee not? When were you lonely or frightened and  I failed to comfort you?. . .

Step right this way if you have a deficit to discuss!

With all that’s going on this world, I feel safe in saying, it’s almost curtain time.  This isn’t the rehearsal, this is the real event. Let’s make it count!


From a Young Man Who Was Adopted As A Toddler: He’s a missionary now.

July 17, 2015
As I’ve written before, after little Charlene was adopted through the foster adopt program, several other families in our Black Forest Colorado Church family followed suit. The Duffins had three girls and one boy and had always wanted a larger family, preferably at least one more son to balance out the numbers. So one day when they showed up at Church with two little boys, one an infant and one a toddler, we all celebrated with them.
They were worried especially about the toddler’s attachment. The kids had been seriously abused and neglected, (which usually goes without saying when a pair of children go directly into the classification of likely being adoptable.) I remember carrying my youngest out of Sacrament meeting when he was making noise and hearing a child howling and screaming in such an alarming way that it warranted checking out. I’d open the classroom door to peek in and there’s be Matt Duffin with toddler Aaron on his lap, clutched tightly in his arms. Since we were foster parents in training too, I understood that he was employing “holding therapy.” When children have failed to attach to a caregiver in the earliest months of life, (up to two years), sometimes they benefit from a diligent adoptive parent holding them tightly enough that they can’t get away until they settle down and stop fighting. It is thought to teach them not only that the adult has authority over them, but that they will be protected and provided for by the adults.
Fast forward 16 years.
By a strange coincidence, the Duffins moved twice when the boys were still little. We moved once several years later and ended up in the same ward in Oklahoma. Our children reestablished their friendships and by then, the boys were in scouts and cub scouts. The older boy seemed happy and well adjusted but the younger was showing lots of behavioral issues. He has continued to struggle mightily through his teen years.
But Aaron has indeed thrived. He’s currently serving as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Here is a letter he wrote to his family with the intention that it would be forwarded to ChocolateCreamCenters for this series.
I’m taking the liberty of editing it for grammatical punctuation.

Hello everyone! This week was really good. We had a lot of stuff
happen, from meeting with a lot of people to being sworn at in the
parking lot. But it’s all good. We had a really good week this week.
Our neighbors have been fighting a lot and keeping us up at night but
hopefully that will stop. They’re still both super nice but I don’t know
if they get along with each other so that makes it kind of hard for
them.  I think they can get along if they just work at it.
 That is cool to hear but she wants to hear a little bit about my story. I
think that’s crazy to hear that a lot of kids that were adopted
struggle when they are teenagers. For me the reason why I tried so
hard in school was because I realized that it would be my own
future, even if I was struggling with feeling that I was loved at home.
I knew that it wasn’t my parents future at stake, it was my own future. If I
wanted to have a family of my own, I needed to have a good job to
support them. 
I think one of my biggest struggles in high school was I
wanted to feel accepted. I wanted to feel like I could hang out with
the people I wanted to and I wanted to be cool. But I came to realize
near the end of my high school that it didn’t matter what all those
kids thought about me because when I went away to college, half of them I
wouldn’t even see anymore.
 When I moved away from home after high school and started to have to take care myself, I  realized really how much of work it was.  I came to realize that my parents wanted
me to be able to succeed in life and learn how to take care of myself.   I would have people around all the time. I came to love them more
and came to realize really they wanted the best for me. It makes me
wish that I was better as a teenager and I should have been more respectful to my
parents as they probably had a really hard time with me. But I love
them so much and I realize that I could’ve been better. So that’s a
little bit about it.  I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done for me mom
and dad. Happy birthday to you Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t get your package
off last week. I’ll mail it today but I want you to know that I love love
you and I hope you had a great birthday. I hope everyone has a great
week. I love all of you so much and I look forward to talking to you
next week.

Elder Duffin

Hey, Friends, Thanks for reading! The AdoptUsKids website says there are 102,000 children in foster homes right now who are available for adoption. If you have any little grain of interest, here’s a link to the site http://www.adoptuskids.org/meet-the-children  (you may need to cut and paste.)
PLEASE SHARE THIS ARTICLE. YOU MAY NOT BE READY TO FOSTER OR ADOPT, BUT A SHARE MIGHT LINK WITH SOMEONE WHO IS READY. 

Three Cheers for Sexist Okies!

July 14, 2015
It’s 99 degrees to day in Edmond OK. I came out of Office Depot to where my car was parked on the broiling blacktop, only to notice that I had a flat on my passenger rear tire. “Oh no! I have a flat tire!” I said aloud.
Before I could get my trunk opened, a white-headed gentleman was inspecting the tire and as soon as I opened the lid of the spare tire cover, he was lifting it out. By the time I had the jack and lug wrench in hand, a younger man was taking it from me, setting it up while the other helped get the lug nuts off.
They seemed to have it well in hand, and I stood back and watched them.
It only took five minutes before the donut was placed and the damaged tire stored in my trunk. The second man had done more of the work and he admonished me to take the brand new donut straight to a gas station to add air, since they are never properly inflated from the factory. (Mine had never been used).
So I obediently added air at a nearby gas station.
When I got home, I removed the chunk of metal from the tire tread with pliers. I got out the tire plug kit and  repaired the hole in the tire. I revved up the air compressor and inflated the tire, tested it for leakage and finding it well-sealed, I removed the donut and replaced the tire on the rim hub. I carefully tightened the lug nuts, finger tightening opposites so it will be even, and finishing up with a little more tightening with the wrench. Whew, good as new.
It’s currently politically correct to call any male that assumes it is his role as a member of the stronger sex to aid a woman with her car, sexist. How dare they assume that just because I’m female, I needed their help? WHAT?
On the other hand, it was so kind and gentlemanly, it made my day and affirmed my love of people of Oklahoma and the culture that survives despite a more hostile world. May God bless those two fine fellows!
They never need to know that I took care of the repair and replacement by myself. Their act of kindness and gentlemanliness is not reduced because I was capable of doing it myself.
GOD BLESS THE GENTLEMEN! 

Foster to Adopt: Marie continues her narrative.

July 11, 2015
Pros
I knew with all of my heart at an early age that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is true. This became my rock, my foundation, and the light and hope that I desperately held onto throughout the lows in life.
Despite my parents repeating over and over again how much they wanted and loved me, I couldn’t get over the fact that the woman who gave me life, didn’t.
I had a chance to go away for college. I ended up going to Greeley Colorado. Since my mom had taken in her aunt there would be very few, if any, visits from her or dad. Having an old person with Alzheimer’s in the house = sooo not fun and tons of responsibility!
College, where my life took a huge turn. I experienced the regular culture shock of being on my own, away from any family, to make my own choices, to learn, and to grow. Thank goodness for phones and phone cards (I didn’t have a cell phone yet, but dad got me one for my eighteenth birthday).
I was sitting on my bed playing cards with two of my friends when I got a phone call that would change my life. My oldest sister, Morgan, was so stinking excited. She discovered that my brother had received a letter from our birth mom. He’d been hiding it for I don’t know how long. She’d found it on the basement stairs where he stowed some of his belongings (his room was in the basement). There was a number.
So Morgan dials the number and hands the phone to Chad. Candace picked up. I was terrified, excited, nervous… Too many emotions for one to use any ounce of logic or reasoning.
She verbally reiterated that she didn’t want me. Never did. Had she found out about me in time she would’ve had an abortion. No hard feelings. No love. Just matter of fact like.
She’d contacted us because of our little sister, Misty, who wanted to meet her older sister, mwah. She’d been through a lot and thought that I’d certainly been through what she’d been through, especially since she too was adopted.
My chin hit the ‘Talk’ button, hanging up my side of the conversation. I tried to call back my brother, but he didn’t answer. Turned out he wanted to talk to Candace alone.
I knew about Misty. My social worker had called my dad just before we moved to Colorado. Misty was in the hospital for the same reason I was. There was just no way we could stay. My dad was in the Air Force. He got a job in Colorado. He’d found a place for us to stay.

So how are these pros? Candace, unlike my mom, was devoid of emotions. This put a piece of the puzzle firmly into place. My family LOVES me. Every positive thing my mom and dad had ever done for me was solidified.

The Truth of Gender Identity is NOT Hate Speech!

July 8, 2015
This little boy is pretending to be a pirate. 

These women (Jan Larsen and Beth Stephenson) are pretending to be cowboys

Now he’s pretending to be Robin Hood

There’s something exciting about a costume. It sparks our imagination and makes us feel like we really are someone or something different.
Uniforms facilitate the same reflex. When an officer is in uniform, he feels more officer-like. When I’m wearing a cowboy hat, I feel more like a horsewoman. (I bought one right after the above picture was taken in 2013)

Captain America and Sidekick
Captain and Mrs. Scott Stephenson before the Officer’s Ball 2013

But the costume doesn’t make my little grandson Captain America, or Robin Hood or a pirate. Riding a horse and herding a few cows doesn’t make me a cowboy (or cowgirl, if your politically correct), and even dressing up for a ball doesn’t make Kimberly Cinderella, or Scott Prince Charming. (Though they do look spiffy, don’t they?)
I’ve seen pictures of people who have mutilated their faces to resemble a cats.
But they’re not cats. They’re humans with mutilated faces.
If my grandson wants to be a pirate and decides to poke out his eye to justify the patch over one eye and to saw off a leg so he can be even more convincing, should his parents allow it? What do you think would happen to parents who allowed their child’s pretending to go to the extent of self mutilation?
What would you think of parents that bought their suicidal child a lethal weapon? It’s their life, shouldn’t they be allowed to destroy it?
The answers to these suggestions should be entirely obvious.
So why are we pretending that a man who has mutilated his body so that he appears more like the opposite gender really is the opposite gender? Every bit of tissue, every cell other than blood in every human body knows which gender it is.
He has fathered children. No matter how much he pays a surgeon, he will never be their mother.
The idea that because a man has donned a costume surgically we should now call him “she” is just plain ol’ silliness. Just as to suggest that since my hysterectomy, I am no longer a woman. Of course the parts that were removed were not the visible parts, but they were certainly critically important to my role and life as a daughter of God.
Bruce, you’re a man. You may have fantasies about being a woman, but you’re not. No amount of wishing or dreaming or pretending will change the truth.
TRUTH is not hate speech! Gender is decided at conception.
But it’s more than the physiology of femininity. Gender is part of our eternal souls. To suggest that if you look like a woman and you want to be a woman, you are a woman is ridiculous. He says that he’s always felt “more like a woman than a man.” But how does he know? Does he feel more prissy than most men? How does he even know how most men feel?  Does he like the feel of silk on his skin? Can a man, any man know what it feels like to be a woman? Like all the rest of humanity, he doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.
I take a teeny tiny testosterone supplement in my HRT. At first, it was too much and I experienced the “side effects” of too much testosterone for several weeks. I had a glimpse of what it feels like to have a masculine sex drive. But I still don’t know what it feels like to be a man. I only know what it feels like to be a woman with too much masculine hormone. That’s because gender is far more than chemistry or appearance.
He has no idea what it feels like to be a woman. He’ll never have menstrual cramps. He’ll never have menstruation, He’ll never yearn to carry a baby in his body. He’ll never understand the spiritual delight of nursing an infant at his breast. He’ll never hear those magical words, “Just put your feet in the stirrups and slide down the table a foot or so.” He’ll never be anybody’s sister.
I’m not scolding Bruce Jenner for his gender confusion. I’m scolding all the rest of pop culture that is pretending that a surgeon can alter gender.
If he is convinced that he is now a woman, why did he tell his kids to call him dad? Women don’t use that appellation.
To those who hold to the concept that people can choose their gender if they have enough money, I have bad news.
The pictures you see on TV aren’t real.
You need to check out a computer program called “photoshop.”
Halloween night doesn’t transform you into a pumpkin or  a princess.
There is no ranch house on the Ponderosa. It’s a two-sided set. The stairs don’t lead anywhere.
Captain America didn’t really go from being a 98 pound weakling to a buff, handsome superhero by use of a radical medical treatment.
AND THE EMPEROR HAS NO CLOTHES!  

Fostering Friday “Mom” Tami’s story of bring (Angel’s Song) Charlene into their family

July 3, 2015
Hi Beth, so sorry for the delay.  How far into the story do you want me to write ? 


I remember first talking to my friend Christine about how we wanted to adopt a baby from China.  We had put all of our papers in, had a home study etc, but the country was trying to computerize their system and so we were on hold, waiting until they were up and running again.
Christine  asked me why we wanted to adopt from China when there were so many kids here in the united states that were available for adoption.  I told her that I heard that there weren’t many available and that they were all older kids.  she said that she had some at her house right then that were free to be adopted.  She invited me over to her house, and I went.  When I first saw Charlene she melted my heart.  She was 4 years old but so tiny.  She  had long dark hair, and huge beautiful brown eyes.  She was very shy though and didn’t want to talk much, but I watched her as she played.  She played well by herself and was very quiet. 
I went home and talked to my husband and we agreed that we would bring her to our house for several play dates.  She came over and played well.  Sometimes very tearful about not getting what she wanted, she had these huge crocodile tears that seemed to come out of nowhere.  the older kids were very protective of her, trying to get her to come out of her shell.  I had one that was 2 years old at the time, a little girl that seemed to love have another girl close to her age. 
We eventually had her overnight and then for a weekend here and there.  We saw some things that came up, but in my mind, I believed that love could conquer anything. 
As she became more comfortable in our home, I saw behaviors come out that disturbed me. 
Tami D. Hollister, RN, BSN

Sneaking off to the Stephenson Garden

June 30, 2015
Sometimes I steal a secret pleasure and shut down my email, plug in my phone to charge in my front entryway and saunter, unencumbered by technological links, into my garden. 

Today, I invited my grandsons I’m tending this week to join me. 
This is what we saw: 
A Matriarchal Katydid. They eat grasshoppers. Lovely, isn’t she? She’s on a pumpkin leaf.

A pair of daisies

A pair of daylilies

Another pair of Stella-de Oro daylilies

This is a new form of coneflower I found at Walmart.  Cute, isn’t it?

More daylilies

The miniature Zinnias are blooming! So CUTE!

Daylilies!

We also saw that the deer came up onto the back patio and ate up the sweet bell pepper plants and most of the pink-leafed caladiums. I hope they enjoyed my garden as much as I enjoy VENISON!

Friday Fostering: Marie’s story of adoption continues

June 27, 2015

Guest Blogger: Marie writes about her foster-to-adoption Experiences:

“Marie”, I looked up at my mother. Worry creased her brow and filled her countenance.

“Yes?” She couldn’t be in trouble… No. Something bad had happened. Mom only got that look in her eye when a pet had died or something.

“Could you come into the front room with me? We need to have a little talk.”

Bewildered, I followed as curiosity and fear warred within me.

Mom sat down on the bigger couch and patted the seat right next to her. Morgan sat down nearby, pretending to be disinterested.  I mentally shrugged as I plopped down on the couch and looked at the manila folder my mom held with white knuckles.

“Do you know what the word adoption means?”

“Huh? No.”

Mom nervously explained it. It took a moment, but I got the gist. Mom had almost died when she had Daren. She’d almost died when she’d had Morgan. The doctor didn’t want her to have any more children, but dad had a vivid dream about a boy who told them that he was waiting. So despite what mom had been through twice before, they had another baby, only it was a girl.  They prayed about it but knew that little boy was theirs; that he was to come to them through mom. So they tried again. This time the doctor made sure that mom couldn’t have any more babies.

But they still heard their oldest kids’ pleas during family prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father, please send us another brother or sister.”

The answer for them was to become foster parents. They would take in kids (even teenagers), teach them, guide them, and love them as their own. Then their four children would have more siblings, in a sense.

“Okay,” I remember dragging out the word. So what did that have to do with me?

Mom asked if I noticed that my brother Chad and I looked different than them. I shrugged. Granny had curly hair, so did dad. That’s where I got my curls. Come on, that’s where both Morgan and Carol got their curly hair.

Mom pointed out the color of my eyes; hazel, sometimes green. Chad has brown eyes. Mom has grey eyes that sometime turn green and dad has blue greyish eyes. Oh. Okay. Our older siblings all had light eyes too. Then she pointed out how dark her hair was as well as dad’s. But Morgan had lighter hair, like mine. Mom pointed out that the differences would become clearer as I grew older.

She had no idea when the right time to tell me about being adopted. She’d prayed about it, and although she was scared, she knew she needed to tell me at a young age. I was in first grade.

Now that I understood that I was different, it was time to learn where I’d come from. Morgan made her way over and sat on the other side of me. She grabbed my hand, squeezed it a little too tightly, and gave me her I’m here to comfort you smile. This only added to my confusion.
I turned my attention back to my mom as she stated how much they needed more for their family; that it just wasn’t complete.
With a shaking hand, my mom carefully lifted the top of the folder, revealing a stack of papers inside. She gently picked up the first paper and showed it to me, trying to explain the contents. One by one, we went through the papers and packets. However, my mom had to stop. She was crying so hard that her body shook with each sob. Her voice has disappeared behind gasps, and  hiccups.
Morgan told mom she would continue reading.
Candace, my birth mother, said that I should’ve been an abortion, only she found out about me too late. She only wanted my brother. This was too much for my mom.
My brother, Chad, was the last kid to fill the spot in (our) foster family. However, my social worker called my mom and mentioned me. I was still in the hospital for failure to thrive. Because I wasn’t supposed to live long, it was requested that I spend my last few precious hours on this earth with a loving couple who could share some of that love with me. In tears, my mom had agreed to take me. When I was dropped off my mom was told that I would not survive the night.
She held me tenderly to her, caressing my head, face, and ear as she sweetly sang to me. While she rocked me, dad kneeled down in prayer. They switched off throughout the night. Morning came and I was still alive.
Tears streamed down my own face as I realized that my birth mother had not wanted me to live. That hurt. My mom was so horrified by my birth mother’s actions that she had written an essay for her English class about the condition I was in when I arrived. She read it to me. She wrote about the frail condition I’d been given to her in; how my stomach was distended due to malnutrition, the veins that shone through my thin skin, and how devoid of life my eyes looked.
A few short years later, we went to court. My brother and I officially became members of the family. I can remember going to the D.C. Temple in my adorable plaid skirt, white shirt, black shoes, and cute socks trimmed in lace. I remember changing, though I can’t remember into what clothing, but I will never forget the room I was sealed to my family in.
 

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