A New Perspective: How Adoption Gave Me Mine (by Super-Spouse)

November 30, 2018 Michelle Cuthrell

For National Adoption Awareness Month, we asked adoptees and their families to share with us their thoughts, feelings and experiences regarding adoption. This is one adoptive father’s perspective about what changed HIS.

Written by Super-Spouse, my favorite guest blogger of all time

I am not quite sure how the topic of adoption always seems to come up when I meet new people, but it seems that I have had the same conversation hundreds of times about being an adoptive father.

I never mention that I have adopted sons because I don’t think of them as adopted. They are just my boys, no different than the two biological children we have. But somehow, new conversations frequently turn to them.

Sometimes the conversation starts when I show a picture of the family.

Other times it may begin when I mention our time in China or that we purchased a large van to haul our boys and their medical equipment.

Regardless of how the conversation begins, I always enjoy the opportunity to talk about our family experience with adoption. But when I was thinking about what to write for this post, I started to wonder why the same questions and comments generally come up during each conversation.

The closest thing to an answer I could come up with was PERSPECTIVE.

We Can't Adopt a Child With Special Needs: How Will We Ever Take Our Family to Disney?

November 15, 2018 Michelle Cuthrell

In my time as an orphan advocate, I’ve heard a lot of reasons why extremely blessed and well-equipped-with-medical-care families right here in our state and our country “can’t” adopt a special needs child.

They don’t have the time.

They don’t have the medical knowledge.

They worry that a child with “special needs” will be detrimental to the children already inside their family.

(Want to know what children with adopted siblings whose special needs are just superpowers in disguise really think? Check out our World Adoption Day video HERE.)

My favorite, though, is the line that I’ve been given not just one time in the last five years but TWICE.

“We can’t bring home a child with special needs,” both families told me very seriously. “We love to travel. How will we ever take our other kids to Disneyworld?”

Last week, our family with two “special needs” children learned how.

By getting in the car and driving there.

Unachieved Goals and Life's Greater Gains

September 3, 2018 Michelle Cuthrell

We had big plans for this summer.

As a Type A, list-making, laminating-obsessed goal setter, I’d asked each superhero to set at least one personal goal for the season, and then I’d printed out our family’s list, laminated it and posted it to the fridge, where each day, we could remember just what we wanted to complete before the summer of 2018 ended.

I love hard goals. They give me direction when this easily-distracted girl wants to pursue 50 things at all times. And I love that they give our boys something to work toward. Something to focus on.

Other than Lego ships and light saber fights.

I’d learned through many summers of failure to set just a few big goals for myself instead of 5,431 smaller ones I would never complete and would cry in the corner about not crossing off my list by Labor Day. And this summer, I thought, was the summer I would actually tackle those things that had been on my list for years.

To run daily.

To complete four summer reading books. (And not the kind with pictures of Mickey Mouse and dinosaurs on the front.)

To cherish and make the most of family time.

Simple, fun, easy goals.

And although my body and book-lover’s mind could use a bit more TLC, for the first time, I have no regrets about abandoning them for the most important thing I got to enjoy this summer.

This team. <3

The Adoption Day Post I Wanted to Write

August 15, 2018 Michelle Cuthrell

Although I’ve been on a bit of a blog hiatus this summer to be more present for our superheroes, I really had intended to write a full Adoption Day post.

Yesterday, we celebrated the one-year anniversary of the day we met the crazy and charismatic boy we now just call “Superhero 4,” and today, we celebrate one full year since that day when that boy we now can’t picture our lives without became legally, officially, forever and ever our son!

We’re all about making special days special in this celebration-loving home, and besides celebrating our one-year mark as a family of six with ridiculous matching shirts and Chinese take-out and a day full of fun and family, I was planning to post a million words and five bajillion pictures showcasing the progress that this spicy-as-he-is-sweet superhero has made just one year inside our [terribly, extremely, Jesus-take-the-wheel-because-we’ve-got-us-nothing] imperfect home.

I was going to brag up and down (because bragging is a whole lot more socially acceptable when you clearly didn’t contribute any genes to the subject of your boast) about this boy’s drive — both the literal and figurative kind. About how the once 3-year-old boy who came to us as “immobile” — the one who we were told “might never walk” — now races through grocery store aisles and even, without his walker, once stood and crossed an entire room.

The Handicap That Wasn't

August 7, 2018 Michelle Cuthrell

We never thought of it as a “handicap.”

When we said yes to the file of the preschool-aged boy with mobility issues who stole our hearts and just needed a home and a family to love, we didn’t think of his condition as a “handicap.”

A diagnosis.

A medical condition.

A label, maybe.

But it never crossed our minds that cerebral palsy was a “handicap.”

So when I opened my mail eight months after returning home with the angel who could laugh and sing and communicate and talk — who could count and joke and fill an entire room with his big personality — who could do more than we ever asked or imagined in only eight short months at home but who was still fighting to learn how to walk — my heart sank for a moment.

It was a new tag. For a new walker-holding van. With a picture of a wheelchair and the initials “HD.”

A handicap tag.

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