Celebrating Spring and Our Risen Savior!

Last week, Miss A's preschool hosted a Spring Fling party! We had so much fun meeting Miss A's little friends and their parents and learning some of the children's favorite songs and dances. And Miss A was thrilled to have Mudder and Daddy all to herself for an evening.

Our girls LOVE to dance with their Daddy!

Yesterday, we celebrated Resurrection Day by attending an early church service followed by an afternoon with friends and family.

Y'all know I couldn't resist an opportunity to doll my three girls up in matching dresses!

Two teeth on the bottom and two more peeking out up top!

See those new walking shoes?!?!? She's going to be taking her first steps any day now!

We hope you had a Joyful Easter! The grave was overwhelmed. . . the tomb is empty. . . our Jesus lives!

Special K

In the months following our referral, we chose a name for our baby girl. It was a name we'd always liked and had previously considered for our older girls. Upon passing court, we shared that name with all of our friends and family and here on the blog, I started referring to our Ethiopian daughter as Miss V instead of Diamond (the name our older girls came up with for their sister while we waited for a referral). We planned to keep our baby girl's Ethiopian name, "K", as her middle name.

A couple of days before we traveled, our friends S and T explained to us what a special name "K" is. Our Miss K was born in Jimma, which is in the Jimma zone of the Oromo Region of Ethiopia. This area was the birthplace of coffee and coffee production is their leading industry today. Amongst Ethiopians, the Oromo clans around Jimma are generally known as a hard-working, persevering and industrious people. It was pointed out to us that some of Miss K's features, such as her big eyes, are characteristic of people from this region. Miss K's Ethiopian name is an Oromo name that means as "mine" in an affectionate, doting kind of way. Another translation that our friends were more familiar with was "one of our own", indicating that she embodies everything good about the Oromo culture.

We appreciated knowing more about our daughter's Ethiopian name and birthplace. The more we learned, the more the name "K" grew on us. It's easy to pronounce (hint: kee-ya) and, like our older daughters' names, has a sweet, feminine sound to it. Her name came up as a topic of conversation as we were in route to Ethiopia, and we were both having second thoughts about "V".

While in Ethiopia, we learned from Almaz that Miss K's name was given to her by one of her caregivers at the government orphanage where she lived prior to being transferred to Hannah's Hope and matched with our family. Someone at the government orphanage must have connected with our baby girl and seen how special she is to give her such an endearing name.

Once we met Miss K, "V" just didn't seem to fit. "K", on the other hand, suited her personality to a tee! We thought about just calling her by her middle name, but "V" just didn't seem to have meaning significant enough to us to justify all of the trouble she'd go through always clarifying in school, business, etc... that she goes by her middle name (Hus-B has always gone by his middle name and has first-hand experience with that). We also thought of switching the names around so that "V" would be the middle name, but that order just didn't have the right "ring" to it. So, we decided to move "K" to her first name and come up with a new middle name. We tossed around middle name ideas for several days and kept coming back to one. The middle name we chose for her is the first name shared by both of her grandmothers. They love that she's named after them! We love that her first name connects her to Ethiopia, and more particularly, the region where she was born, while her second name connects her to our family.

We cherish all of her picture frames, bibs, blankets and accessories featuring her "old monogram". They will always remind us of this unexpected naming twist in our adoption story.

Miss K is so precious to us! We are in awe of the miracle of adoption that made us family. She is so loved, cherished and adored. She will always be our little African Violet. And she will always be "one of our own".

Here are some pictures from Miss K's first professional photo session. We knew we were going to get some unique shots when Garry and Emily decided to use some of our furniture as props--and proceeded to move it out of my bedroom, onto the front lawn and down the road!

Isn't she lovely?

And . . . here's a sneak peek of our adoption announcements:
Front: Inside Left: Inside Right:

Joy and Pain

Thursday morning, I took Miss K to the medical lab to get some blood drawn. Routine stuff to verify some of the medical information we received from Ethiopia and determine whether any of her vaccines need to be repeated.

She made so many friends in the half hour or so that we sat in the lobby. When strangers talk to her, she looks them straight in the eyes and smiles as she shyly tucks her head in against my neck. Melts even the grumpiest old men. If I engage in conversation with them, she seems to interpret that as a cue that it's safe to come out and be the center of attention.

Seeming comfortable with herself and secure in my arms, she smiled, babbled and did all of her tricks for the people in the waiting room: saying "ba-ba" (as she waves her little left hand bye-bye), cheering "yay!" as she claps her hands, saying "uh oh!" (as she drops something), wink eye (I wink at her and she scrunches her nose up and does a double blink in response), and sillily shaking her head back and forth (the first trick she showed us in Ethiopia) when anyone asked her a question.

She's so content, carefree and trusting. The needle stick would be the first physical pain I'd subjected her to. I worried that she'd feel betrayed when I'd have to hold her still to get the required 6 vials of blood drawn.

To the astonishment of both me and our lab technician, little 10-month-old Miss K sat perfectly still while the tourniquet was tightened on her bicep and the needle was inserted in her little vein. No resistance and not a whimper or a fuss. She grinned and babbled away at the technician through the whole procedure. Just making small talk. Like she'd done it a million times before.

When I recounted the incident to Hus-B, he responded "well, a needle in the arm must be nothing to her compared to all she's been through". And he was right.

We get asked all the time whether Miss K ever cries. The answer is very rarely. She is such a joyful, delightful child! Full of life with a personality so much bigger than her chunky little body. And she's so smart and eager to learn! She seems to understand and comprehend conversations and situations at a level far ahead of her age. She's got an extraordinary air about her.

We know very little about her life before the government orphanage. We do know, however, that she's been loved, that she learned to love, and that she's lost loved ones.

Inside our smiley, bubbly baby is a heart that has been broken. Every couple of weeks since we've been home, Miss K has given us a glimpse of a very real, raw and intense grief. They say infants grieve in their sleep. Each time it's happened as I was rocking her at night, just as she started to drift off to sleep. Memories, images, sounds and/or smells must come flooding back to her. She starts sobbing. Mournful, painful, inconsolable sobs. After a few minutes, the sadness turns to fearfulness. Is she remembering the first time she cried for her birth family and they didn't respond? Then comes the anger. She screams, arches her back, stiffens her legs, flails her arms and pushes me away. Then the sad sobs return. I continue rocking her. I do my best to soothe her and love on her. I sing to her. I pray for her. I talk to her softly and tell her I know she's hurting. Sometimes it seems to help, sometimes I feel like my voice and touch make it worse. The cycle usually lasts 20-30 minutes. Eventually she will settle back into her cozy position--with her exhausted little head cradled atop my left elbow as I pat her back with my right hand--she will accept her bottle and drift off to sleep. And there will be no sign of any feelings other than pure joy and zest for life for another week or two when it happens again.

We pray that Miss K's constant joy is not a subconscious defense mechanism to cover her pain. We don't want her to ever think we haven't appreciated the extent of her loss. Or grow up to think we were oblivious to struggles and challenges unique to her. Or that we've swept issues under the rug. We pray that God gives us perception, direction and wisdom as parents. That our precious little girl always feels loved, understood and supported. That her bright eyes and vivacious spirit will come to reflect a heart healed by our Lord. And that He will be glorified in it all.