Jody Cantrell Dyer's Blog: What's your story? Maybe I can help you write it., page 11

Immersion

Friday night, at dusk, my seven-year-old son and I put my chair, his fishing pole, a box of night crawlers, and my insulated wine cup in our orange wagon. I pulled the our simple treasures to the "Little Beach" in our tiny neighborhood on Litter River in Sunshine, Unincorporated, six miles from a quiet entrance to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
I bounced the worn wagon all the way down the steep riverbank onto sand before I heard her.
She saw me first and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I hope it's okay that I'm here."
I laughed and said, "Oh, I don't own this place. I live up the road."
Likely half my age, she appeared twice as old. Her marbled teeth and Appalachian tongue offered immediate friendship. She has a son—a toddler. And an "old man"—a husband.
"Well, you seem nice. I'm never off work on Fridays, but I am today. So, I thought I'd come to the river. I hope it don't trouble nobody."
"It's fine. The lady who owns this lot lets locals use it. She says it's too pretty not to share."
"I just wanted to come to the river. It's really hot in Maryville. Have you ever been to Maryville?"

"Yes, I work there. These mountains are better, huh?" I asked.
"Yeah. I grew up on the river. My high school sweetheart drowned at The Sinks in '07."
"That's tragic," I said. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
"The current there settles in July. Did you know that?"
"No. I don't really understand how all that works."
"He died June 4th. I come up 'round this time every year and go to The Sinks. I throw roses over the rocks into the rapids."
I said, "That's a sweet tribute. I'm sure you miss your boyfriend."
"Yeah. We didn't know about the current not settling 'til July. He died instantly. Slipped. There's a sign up there now that warns everybody. It says people have died there."
"I saw that sign two weeks ago."
My son cast his rod and caught her attention. She looked at him, then quickly at me, and said, "Oh! Sorry. I shouldn't be sayin' all this in front of your boy."
"It's okay. He lives here. He needs to learn to respect the river."
She made her way across the sand toward the bank and her car above it. "Well, it was nice meeting you all. Maybe my son and your son can play together sometime."
"Absolutely. Nice to meet you, too."
As she climbed rooted, muddy steps, she said "Thank you again for letting me barge in on your place."
I laughed and repeated, "It's okay. We are all trespassing, really."

~ ~ ~

When I first stepped on the sand that night, heard her greet me, and looked up, I saw that she had just come out of the water. She wore clothes, not a bathing suit. She was completely wet from hair to shoelaces.
Immersed.

It's here!!!

The BOOK version of Theories is here!

Go to Amazon.com for the paperback.
The Kindle e-book will be available within the next few days.
Many thanks go to my friends and readers, editors Donna Cantrell, Christina Drill, and Linda Albert. Cover concept by Debbie Boles. Cover design and illustrations by Mary Balas.

Ain't it purty, y'all?
 

From the back cover

I'm giving myself a few days off to dodge lawsuits and furious bicycle guys. Once I feel like the coast is clear, I'll begin revisions on the NEXT book of Theories. Whoooooooooooooooop!

Love,
Bug


p.s. If you even think about suing me, don't bother. Just take your pick between my broken clarinet or Tall Child's leaf blower.

                           


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Coming soon to a computer near you...well, in front of yo...

Coming soon to a computer near you...
well, in front of you, actually:

THEORIES: SIZE 12
THE BOOK
WHOOOOOOOP!
Launch date - October 2016


If you stumbled across my last post, you saw that I had to suspend my blog because the financial company I work for now doesn't allow its officers to have blogs. I don't even tell where I work on my Facebook, Instagram, and Google pages. Most writers have "regular jobs" which offer some pretty good perks for us controversial author weirdo types. 1) Health insurance, 2) Places to hide, 3) Content for our books, 4) Characters for our books, and 5) Money.


Photo credit: Google Images

Shhhhhhh. If you DO know my human resources manager, don't tell him about this book. He's already mad at me for some other stuff. I suppose I don't belong in a corporate American setting. Or high heels. Or behind the wheel. Or in any formal setting, really. So, I purge with words so I can tolerate all the daily restrictions. I write in the morning before I even slap on my Maybelline. I write at night while Tall Child watches vampire shows and Sharky and Gnome wreck the house.

To explain: This blog was originally a rough draft, one chapter a week. I used the blog to meet readers, test topics, and gather feedback.

The book coming in October 2016 was a blast to produce, thanks to many of you! Thank you for contributing via Facebook, Twitter, BlogSpot, email, and back row bleacher conversations. You'll enjoy the first twenty theories in this book. I have already started revising and expanding the next 25 or so theories for the NEXT book.

I care about my readers, whom I consider friends, and want you to be part of my projects. Reach out to me on social media. I often pose questions and toss out ideas to get your input. I respect what you have to say.

Once the book is live, I'll post announcements on social media and this blog. Thanks for sticking with me and supporting me as I write to encourage, enlighten, a

Think outside the barn!

Love,

Bug

Photo credit: Dorothy Maxwell Kirkland, a.k.a. Dot

Work in Progress: Contribute at will!Long time no see, re...

Work in Progress: Contribute at will!

Long time no see, readers! I've missed you. If you stumbled across my last post, you saw that I had to suspend my blog because the financial company I work for now doesn't allow its officers to have blogs. I don't even tell where I work on my Facebook, Instagram, and Google pages.

But, I'm taking a huge chance and publishing a book this spring, that will spring from this very blog. Stay tuned...you may see me in an unemployment line about June.

I guess if I'm taking such a risk, I should at least involve others in my misdeeds, right? So, I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU! I'm writing this book for you, and I want you to be part of it.

To explain: This blog was originally a rough draft, one chapter a week. I used the blog to meet readers, test topics, and gather feedback. The title will be (flipped), Go on and get mad, but you know you agree: Theories, Size 12.

Here's what you can do:

Read the posts. Now, some are about adoption. Those are not part of this collection of humorist essays, though I'd love for you to read and pass them along. I want your input on the ones tagged "Theories."  If you have advice, feedback, commentary, ideas, or anecdotes, please friend and message me on Facebook. Just find my Theories page or click the link on this blog. Reach out to the Theories page or just friend me personally - Jody Cantrell Dyer.

I also need ideas for the cover. I'm stumped.

I care about my readers, whom I consider friends, and want you to be part of this project.

Think outside the barn!

Love,

Bug

Photo credit: Dorothy Maxwell Kirkland, a.k.a. Dot

Theory 54: Good-byes are simply bittersweet beginnings.

Boyz to Men sang it so well. “It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday….”Before that, Orphan Annie sang, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow….”And, our girl Scarlett (whom Delicious quotes at a minimum weekly), professed, “…after all, tomorrow, is another day!”
If you’ve read Theories 52 and 53, you know that I was considering a huge job change —from teaching freshmen in the world’s best junior high to managing a retail branch for one of the nation’s largest banks.
Well, as of December 1, I am a branch manager and assistant vice president for “the bank.”
Let me explain. Let’s re/visit each point of consideration ending with the questions I asked myself as I labored over this decision for the entire month of October.
PEACE OF MIND: Health insurance is my unintended “boo.” It’s a necessary evil, a must-have in a family of four. Unless you are cool with bankruptcy. One bad pap smear and you’re broke as a haint. By the time your credit recovers from that episode, it’s time for a colonoscopy or mammogram you can’t afford. Rinse and repeat.
Question: Is there a difference in benefits?
Answer: While the school district takes great care of its employees, the bank’s benefits package wins. I can finally promote Tall Child from Dollar Tree reading glasses to, IF he’ll go, a real prescription. Then again, Bop had cataract surgery and said, “Why didn’t you all tell me how many wrinkles I had?” Maybe I should look for a Botox clause in the bank’s enrollment package and THEN send Tall Child to the eye doctor.
TIME: Time off is every teacher’s favorite work benefit and I assure you that teachers NEED breaks.
Question: Will Sharky and Gnome forgive me? Will they understand? Will they even notice that much? It’s funny that, as I debated my decision aloud to friends and family, the women always challenged me, asking “How will this change impact Sharky and Gnome? How can you work that schedule AND take care of them?” Ironically, the men said, “This is a no-brainer. You have to take care of your family. Take the bank job.”
Answer: I used my gift with gab (sales and negotiating skills) to persuade the bank to grant me an extra week off, so each quarter of the year I can enjoy a week with my boys. Luckily, I have help. As I type this, Sharky and Gnome are chillin’ on The Crippled Beagle Farm with Delicious since they are out of school. She said that Gnome spent yesterday afternoon taking his clothes off and shaking his behiney in front of the television. See? Everybody wins.
FRIENDSHIP: Friends are the best part of my teacher workday. Gallup Instititute claims that “having a best friend at work” is an indicator of job satisfaction and performance. Question: How could I ever say goodbye to my work wife Red Hot Backspace? Must I also divorce my work husband Sugar Bear? At least the separation will be easy for him since he doesn’t know he’s my work husband.
Answer: Some friendships just “stick” and my friendship with Red Hot will. I know it. I’ll make sure. She’s seen and heard too much, so I have to keep her close to the denim teacher vest. Plus, I love her. Sugar Bear, parting is such sweet sorrow. Plus, I heard you only missed me a “9” on a scale from 1 to 10. Whatev. Truth be told: I taught with some incredibly gifted folks (at the worst middle school AND the best junior high). Teachers are strong, resourceful, entertaining, down-to-earth, dynamic characters. I’m thankful to have had such SMART co-workers and such wonderful administrators. I look forward to making new friends at the bank. Fortunately, I worked there ten years ago, and many of my old buddies are still around. A commercial banker asked me last week, “Jody, has much changed since you left in 2004?”
I answered, “YES! Your font has gotten tiny.”
HUMOR: How do I abandon my work children? Those 215 souls mean a great deal to me, and, dang it, I was just about to learn most of their names! They were my focus group, my research lab, my fodder for entertainment and fulfillment. I am convinced that, other than a sitcom writers’ room, no other professional environment offers as much humor on a daily basis as a school classroom does. Well, except for a restaurant kitchen.Question: How will I find humor in every work day?
Answer: As the Croc would say, "No worries, mate." My first day, a companion dog did #2 in my office. Well, if the pigeon maxim is true, and I use proportional reasoning (a math formula that I swear by, taught to me by my bud, Certified Genius), 2015 will be a record year for my bank branch! Attitude is everything, right? Oh, also, the dog's owner, a German Jehovah’s Witness, told me I’m sexy.
FINANCE: It’s no surprise that the teaching profession pays substantially less than other professional posts. Question: Is extra money worth sacrificing the time off and taking on a boat load of stress?
Answer: We’ll see. Money does bring peace of mind. And, since Big Red burst a tire (her fault, not mine), and she's rolling on a hubcapless spare, extra dollars mean safety. For all you readers in Farragut, if you see a hubcab gleaming from a grassy curbside, email me. You know, now that I think about it, this has been a very spiritual few weeks, too. I, a Presbyterian, was headed to St. John Neuman School (Catholic) to watch Sharky play ball. Big Red lost her wheel, I prayed (and said a few other not-so-spiritual phrases), and some nice Mormons helped me find the spare and put it on. Is that what that bumper sticker COEXIST is all about? NOW I get it!~ ~ ~
October 31, Delicious and I snuck off to a lawyer’s office to sign mortgage papers. We closed. We bought a tiny house, which cost about what a nice new car costs (not that I’ve ever bought a new car), near the Little River in Townsend, TN.The timing was nerve-wracking for two reasons. 1. I was still a teacher, not sure what the bank would offer me or if I would switch careers. (In other words, I wasn’t sure I could actually affordthe house I’d just purchased). 2. Tall Child didn’t know about it. At all. I bought a postcard with a Smoky Mountain black bear and stapled it to a bag full of Halloween candy, and gave both to Tall Child when I got home. First, I told him how much I loved him. Then, I instructed him to read the back of the postcard, where I’d written:
“Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of an old house near the Little River. I can’t wait to have all kinds of adventures with you, Sharky, and Gnome. I love you.”
He took it well. Whew. Halloween is his favorite holiday, so that helped. Actually, I think he had a sneaking suspicion. Surely he caught on a month before when he held the door for me as I carried Gnome's changing table to the backyard to paint it? (I took the side rails off and now the changing table is a cute little shelf).
Riverdance—banking—Mama in the mountains: meant to be?
Delicious, Gnome, and I spent the weekend at our river house. We happily cleaned (and froze in 29 degree mountain air) and laughed in shock at our risky behavior. Good times. More good times to come. I was still so preoccupied with the big job change debate that I couldn't really "let loose"…until the following Monday. Sunday night, I called in sick to the school substitute hotline, so I had Monday off to work on Riverdance with Delicious. We were about to go home Monday afternoon, and decided to take a walk along the river to the historic swinging bridge on Walnut Loop in Sunshine Unincorporated (Speed Limit 10). Neat, huh? Gnome threw rocks in the river and Delicious prattled on as we walked onto the bridge.
My cell phone rang. On the line was the human resources recruiter for the bank. He asked, “Are you somewhere you can talk?”
I laughed, “Yes, I am. Actually, I am standing in the center of the swinging bridge over the Little River in Townsend.”
He cast his line. I happily swallowed the hook. You see, I’m a Christian. Christians see things. Wasn’t it obvious, from all the surroundings and timing, that I should say "yes" to the bank's offer?
Don’t you think it’s meant to be, since the branch I manage is called the Walland Branch and that it is only 14 minutes from Riverdance? Oh, and the address for Riverdance is Old Walland Highway? As Downton Gams might say, “How about THAT? That is that. Done!”
~ ~ ~

More bittersweet news in a bittersweet chocolate time of year:
I don’t feel like I should give the bank’s name. I’m nervous. The employee conduct policy was 80 pages long and pretty stern. Thus, not only am I saying goodbye to the world’s greatest (no, not oldest) profession—teaching—I am also saying goodbye to Theories: Size 12, Go on and get mad, but you know you agree. Well, at least the tongue-in-cheek blog posts, a.k.a. Theories, you all enjoy week to week.
You see, I have a big mouth. Remember? Tall Child calls me large mouth bass. You have all delighted in my anecdotes from Lab 211, faculty meetings, in-service, etc. My writing style, or “voice,” if you will, is so wide open, that I fear I would damage the bank in some way by telling too much. Listen folks, some crazy stuff goes down in a retail bank branch. I am basically a bar tender, except I serve up financial cocktails to cure problems and make dreams come true. You wouldn’t believe the customer stories I have already heard after only two weeks. Plus, remember, I was a bank branch manager for several years before Tall Child promised the moon, I quit, Sharky and I enjoyed a few years of blissful housewifery, the recession landed on my front porch, I went back to school to be a teacher, and I taught for five years. What a journey. Anyway, back in the late nineties and early 2000’s, I managed three branches in downtown Knoxville. In those years, I made a good bit of money. I also narrowly escaped getting the helk beat out of me by a redneck woman in the drive-through. She didn’t have a car, but she had a mission: to cash a forged check or kill me trying! It was so rough in a couple of the branches that we had security guards. Unfortunately, I had to fire one of the guards because he banked with us and bounced checks constantly. He asked me, “What’s the big deal?”
I explained, “You have severe financial problems. And a gun. In a bank All day long. With me.”
I “managed” a 98-year-old employee who thought she managed the “CD Department.” There was no such department after 1978, but she managed it just the same from the corner of my downtown branch. If I saw one of her “CD customers” come in the door, I had to quickly call her extension. To wake her up.
As Tall Child might say, the bottom line is this: I write from my core, and I write from my every day experiences. There is simply too much good material in a bank branch to ignore. Basically, as a writer and storyteller, it would be personally impossible for me to NOT write about customers and employees. Look at all I’ve told you about life in a junior high? And, those are some of my most popular posts. I have to stop the humorous descriptions of everyday life because my wild typing could get me unemployed. I don’t trust myself. It is for the same reason that I don’t buy Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. If someone gave me a case of those bad boys, I’d  swallow them like a coon dog chokes down a hot dog until I emptied the box. Well, that dog won't hunt. I need a paycheck.

Seriously:
I will (already do) miss teaching.I am excited to start a new career, practicing what I’ve been preaching/teaching.I am terribly sad to quell my Theory writing.I am excited to prepare the Theories BOOK for publishing.I am thrilled to take on a new challenge: a fiction series (I'll have a bit of time on weekends for that without the weekly commitment to Theories).
I want my readers to know that I appreciate you and enjoy our back-and-forth more than you can imagine. I don’t want to miss you, so please “like” my Theories Facebook page. Also, don’t unsubscribe here (if that button ever did work). I will post publishing news and may write articles from time to time. I just can’t afford (figuratively and literally) to pen sarcastic diatribes about daily encounters on a weekly basis. Dang it to helk.

All the Theories will stay "active" on the internet, so ya'll can keep reading and sharing. Plus, like I said, I'll post from time to time, so stick with me here and/or on Facebook.
I literally JUST teared up thinking about this because I did, indeed, say “Goodbye” to the teaching profession and will miss unloading my thoughts every Friday. For now. But the memories…ahhh, the memories will last a lifetime. Some posts, some moments (tragic, emotional, hilarious, frightening, frustrating) with my students and readers will stick with me forever. So will the unique folks who gave me those special moments.
But, I must be careful in my new/old career. I told Delicious, “I’m going to ease into banking. I don’t want other bankers to think I’m wild or crazy, so I’m going to watch everything I say.” She said, “Bug, you can forget that. Impossible. Just be yourself.”
True to form, I’ve already messed up. My second week, I attended a consumer banking summit with 119 of my new colleagues. As I mingled my way to the parking lot, a co-worker asked, “How do I know you?”
I gave my usual response: “Were you in the UT marching band?”
“No,” he said.
I said, “Well, Playboy then.”
A circle of bystanders and laughter surrounded me. Then I saw my boss in the circle. Ooops! When I made panicked eye contact with him, I begged, “Sorry?”
To my great delight and human resources relief, he responded, “That’s why I hired you, Jody!”
~ ~ ~
So folks, do you see how little restraint I have, and how I could get myself in a large uninsured, unemployed pickle by writing about my job? Yes, teenagers and teachers are entertaining, but so are bank customers, particularly the ones who come inside. (Unwritten Theory 55: Normal people use the drive-through). 
~ ~ ~
On a sentimental note, students, quite sincerely counted down my last days at the junior high. Every day, throughout the day, students would say, “Mrs. Dyer, you’ll only be with us [so many] more days.” On my last day, a sweet freshmen boy reminded me, “Well, Mrs. Dyer, this is the day.”
I replied to him, “Yes. This is the day that our Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” My school is rich in southern Christian culture, yet it is a public school, so references to Jesus Christ are carefully guarded or avoided. But, as the student noted, that was my last day, so I figured I’d take a chance. He smiled.
Recently, at the end of a day-long meeting with all the branch managers, financial consultants, marketing team, and others, the bank’s area president stood up to make final remarks. He congratulated and thanked and encouraged. Then he said this:
“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
I think I’ll be alright.
I will miss you readers! Thousands of you are my friends now. I've met people from all over the globe, and am humbled and thankful to know you. Theories: Size 12 has given me a wonderful platform to enlighten others and build kinship within and around the adoption community. But, I recently heard a motivational speaker say, “Be where your feet are.” I recognize that it’s time, mentally and creatively, for me to be where my feet are. I must put my size 9's in high heels and head to corporate America—well, corporate America as represented in a sweet little building on the road to my mountains. I received my master’s degree diploma in the mail just yesterday, and cried. Tall Child gave me Bota Box wine and ordered some good spaghetti from a neighborhood restaurant. I reflected on the bittersweet month. Diplomas, dogs, plans put to rest, dreams come true, family, friends, and the future. Bittersweet.

As I anticipated day 1 of my new job, I wondered if I'd made the right call. I'd seen signs of promise and peace, but the final solace, the final internal "yes" I needed came.
That shining moment of sureness followed tumultuous weeks. At 9 a.m., December 1st, I checked in at the human resources desk, and my new boss took me on a tour of the building (the main office where all line of business partners work). We took the elevator to the serious third floor executive offices. We politely greeted and visited our way down the corridor and then walked into the office of my dear old buddy, “RokNVol.” Okay, I can’t take credit for her nickname. It’s on her license plate, actually. I can't top that nickname either. She is a true Tennessean, a die-hard Vol fan, and actually got married at a rock concert in Big Orange Country. She won the wedding package on the radio.

She’s REAL.
She gets it.Always. She just “gets it.” Readers, if you don’t know what that means, then I hate to tell you, you don’t“get it.”
Anyhoo, we stepped into her office and she SCREAMED! She JUMPED! She YELLED, “YAAAAAAAAAAY! JODY’S HEEEEEERE!!!!!!!!!!”
She was a one-woman, All-Vol spirit tunnel.
I was sick to my stomach on the way to work that morning (sad, nervous, tired), but RokNVol cured me with a perfect dose of friendship. RokNVol, thanks for opening the T for me. I love you for it!
I believe I’ll have many great days as a banker. I really do. I will put all my vocational course skills to work for a personal and corporate profit! I also look forward to coaching my staff to be successful and happy in their work. But, all days won’t be good. Luckily, I can focus on people and moments and “think outside the barn.” So, when I’m having a rough day at the bank…when a pervy old man stands too close, a customer wants to fist fight, I endure yet another conference call, I don’t meet my sales goals…or I simply, sadly, miss teaching, I’ll reflect on RokNVol’s greeting and know that I made the best decision.
All is well on Rocky Top!

Happy New Year friends!

Yes, that is a Bloody Mary over my shoulder. 
See you next post or next published work. Until then, think outside the barn! Keep in touch!
Your friend, Bug

10 reasons why I couldn't write a Theory today. And a link to a popular Christmas post that working mothers loved last year!

December is just as tough as it is delightful. Take my word for it in Theory 26: In the Christmas season, men just need to do what they are told.
I could re-tell all my woes from 2013, but I'd rather you read Theory 26. Why? Because my computer is old and broken and it has taken me five minutes to type what you see up to this point! Argh.
Add to that the following:
1.  I started a new job four days ago and report to another county in two hours and both Sharky and Gnome are sawing logs in sweet childhood no-real-responsibility-it's-almost-Christmas slumber.
2. I have my LAST all day Saturday class for graduate school tomorrow and have to read an entire textbook, write a parody that includes at least ten classroom innovations, work out the parody skit with my group members, and organize a portfolio notebook for semester-end grading by my professor. Geez.
3. I have to wake up my dear mother-in-law Bop who spent the night last night so she can get back to Nashville for a luncheon on time.
4. Buzz just made a poopy mess right in front of Bop's bedroom door.
5. I took a melatonin at 3 a.m. so all this is extra difficult right now.
6. I gained three pounds YESTERDAY. Will someone please explain that to me? What was in that popcorn at Sharky's basketball game?
7. I have bought 3 Christmas gifts. That is it.
8. I have to figure out what "business casual" means in the next 45 minutes.
9. I have to find suitable "business casual" attire from my teacher fashion wardrobe in 45 minutes.
10. I am sad, excited, and completely preoccupied with my huge shift in careers. More on that when I get my computer fixed!
Okay, enjoy that list of excuses and have a GREAT Friday! I miss you, readers.
Bug
Share your holiday stress with humor on the Theories: Size 12 Facebook page!
Links are to the right of this post. I think. Out of time. Sorry. Must apply under-eye concealer asap.

I am thankful for the beautiful, burdensome, blessing of adoption. Read and share?

Today, I share


"10 Frequently Asked Questions About Our Open Adoption"
In 2002, when our son Houston was nine months old, my husband Jeff and I began trying to conceive a second child. After an arduous journey through failed infertility treatments and the domestic adoption process, we welcomed our son Scotty in May 2010. Jeff and I spent a total of eight years thinking, journaling, daydreaming, and asking questions. Now that our mystery is solved, we find ourselves answering questions. We’re in a unique position; we can compare Jeff’s 1963 closed adoption to Scotty’s 2010 “wide” open adoption. Many of today’s birthparents seek some form of open adoption. Many adoptive parents do too. So you may have questions.  These are the most frequently asked questions we hear regarding our relationship with our younger son’s birth parents, Kerri and Bryant. I hope they comfort and help you.
1.  What exactly is an “open” adoption? Open adoption means that there is some level of direct communication between the birth family and the child and his/her adoptive family. In other words, instead of sending communication through a third party (attorney, social worker, agency), you text, call, email, correspond, etc. directly with one another. The frequency and type of contact is determined by your and the birth parents’ comfort level. Jeff and I like to text pictures and funny things that Scotty does to Kerri and Bryant. We’ve met Bryant only once because he lives five hundred miles away. But Kerri lives only ten minutes away. So we see her four or five times a year. We usually go to her grandparents’ house so her extended family can enjoy Scotty, too.
2.  Can Kerri or Bryant ever come back and get him? No. Never. More importantly, they wouldn’t try. They love Scotty and respect Jeff and me as his parents and Houston as his brother. They chose us to be his family. Also, once the adoption was finalized in court, Scotty got a new birth certificate listing Jeff and me as his legal parents. The judge said, “He is as legally yours as he would be if you had given birth to him.”
3.  Does Scotty know who they are? What does he call them?Scotty is three-and-a-half years old as I write this. A few days ago, I asked him “Where were you born?” He said, “At the doctor’s.” I asked, “Where did you grow before you were born?” He said, “In Kerri’s tummy.” I asked, “Where did Houston grow?” He answered, “In your tummy.” Then, unprompted, he said, “Mama loves me and Kerri loves me.”
4.  Is it hard for Kerri to see him? I asked her this same question. She said that it is emotional but actually makes her feel really good about the decision she made to place him with us. She said she loves seeing him happy, growing, and learning. Instead of regret, she finds validation.
5.  Is it tough on you to visit with them? Yes, mostly because I dreamed eight years for a baby and cannot comprehend the sacrifices they’ve all made to make my dream come true. Plus, I always want my sweet toddler and my pre-teen son to behave and engage Scotty’s birth family with kindness and affection. My anxiety is based on my own emotional stress. Scotty’s birth family has always been very sweet to us. The experience, for me, is tiring but rewarding. And I’m always in awe of how much love they show toward both my children.
6.  When do you think Kerri will move on with her life?  Our open adoption relationship actually helps Kerri “move on” with her life. When I share Scotty news and pictures with her, she laughs and compliments him and me and brags about his genetics. She is an extremely well-adjusted birth mother (much thanks to counseling from our agency pre- and post-placement). Kerri is 25 and doing well.
7.  How long will you keep talking to them?  Kerri made me a mother again and made my son a brother. I will talk to her for the rest of our lives. She is my friend and she is Scotty’s birthmother.
8.  Won’t the relationship be confusing for Scotty?  Open adoption helps alleviate mystery and confusion for birth parents and adoptees. Scotty will know his birth family, genetic roots, the circumstances of his conception and birth, and, most importantly, that he is loved by those who created him and those who parent him. The truth is not confusing. The truth is liberating.
9.  What about when he’s a teenager? Do you think he’ll ever want to go live with Kerri or Bryant? No. In every essence of our beings, Jeff and I are his parents. In every essence of Scotty’s being and life experience, he will know he’s our son. Nature and nurture do not compete. They complement. Kerri, Bryan, Jeff, and I have the same goal: for Scotty to be mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually sound and happy.
10.  Do you wish you had a closed adoption? Honestly, sometimes I do envy my friends who simply “got their babies” and have no entanglements with the birth families of their children. Perhaps a closed adoption would be easier for me. But adoption isn’t just about me. It’s about everyone involved. Every time I speak to Scotty’s birth family, I am in awe of their strength, compassion, sacrifice, and love. I sincerely love Kerri and Bryant. Open adoption has taught me more about faith and love than any experience in my life. Plus, in my heart, I think open adoption suits our families’ personalities (adoptive and birth) and that, in the end, Scotty will benefit most of all. He will never question, never doubt that he was and is loved by his birth family. And, if he ever does, all he has to do is ask them.
CLICK HERE to read the first 5 chapters of  The Eye of Adoption. 
Do you see the baby in the clouds? An ethereal ultrasound?


Several authors and I reduced our books' prices to $0.99 on Kindle for the entire month of November. As a sign of support and understanding, share this list with (or buy these books for) relatives and friends touched in some way by infertility, crisis pregnancy, or adoption. Readers who don't have Kindle devices can download the free Kindle app from the books' Amazon.com pages. The books' topics range from infertility to domestic to international to foster adoption. 
CLICK the covers to learn more.



                




  





Happy Friday!

Happy National Adoption Awareness Month! Share with someone you love.

Readers, November is National Adoption Awareness Month. In honor of this special recognition and all the families affected by infertility, adoption, and crisis pregnancy, I will post a relevant article in my blog each week.

Today, I share "Open Adoption: What it is not. What it is." I wrote this article for fellow adoption author Gayle Swift's blog. Gayle and her daughter wrote ABC, Adoption & ME, a delightful children's book.  Please read this article and share it with anyone you think it may help. 

Also:

Click the links at the bottom of my post today to read the first five chapters of The Eye of Adoption.

Click the link at the bottom of my post to see fantastic adoption-themed books that are on sale for 99 cents throughout the month of November!

Enjoy, and happy Friday!

Love,
Bug

I wrote this article for the wonderful organization Adoptimist.com, a company committed to help men and women realize the dream of becoming parents!


Open Adoption: What it is not. What it is.Wednesday, October 1, 2014 @ 06:10 PMIn this week’s blog, GIFT is pleased to feature a guest blogger.  Jody Cantrell Dyer, author  of Eye of Adoption, Parents, Stop and Think and Field Day. Jody is a mom by both birth and open adoption, and a teacher; she blogs at Theories Size 12. Jody writes with honesty, wit, and wisdom and is a vibrant voice for adoption. We asked Jody to write about her open adoption experience. Enjoy her insights.
Open Adoption: What it is not. What it is.Jody Cantrell Dyer, author of The Eye of Adoption
As fascinating and difficult as six exhausting years of infertility treatments and two years of the arduous domestic adoption process were for me, almost all the inquisitive remarks I receive from other people these days surround one topic: my family’s open adoption with my son Scotty’s birth parents, Bryant and Kerri.Only two days ago, a colleague asked me, “What exactly does ‘open adoption’ mean?”I gave my usual response, saying, “Open adoption simply means that there is direct contact between a child’s birth family and adoptive family. The level of contact in each situation is as unique as the people involved.” I consider it a privilege to enlighten others and create kinship within and around the adoption community. Because each adoption is different, and I am an adoptive mother (not a lawyer or social worker) I only feel qualified to write about my family’s open adoption. After my inquisitive colleague’s question, I reflected on the most common misconceptions people have. Almost always, they mention what open adoption is NOT, perhaps out of ignorance, perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of worry on my behalf. Almost always, I end up improving their understanding.Open adoption is not co-parenting. Scotty’s birth certificate reads “Jeff and Jody Dyer” as his legal parents from birth. We have an older, biological son, Houston (12). Our “rights” with both boys are identical. Kerry and Bryant make no decisions regarding Scotty. They do share, however, in the joys of watching him learn and develop.Open adoption relationships are not legally binding. My and Jeff’s obligation to Kerri and Bryant is one of a moral promise, not a legal contract. Honestly, I do feel obligated to them. Why wouldn’t I? They made us parents again and made Houston a brother. Jeff and I genuinely respect and care for Kerri and Bryant and are honored to keep in touch with them. We consider them friends.Open adoption relationships are not confusing. In fact, the situation is clear. We met Scotty’s birth parents about four months before he was born. In that time, we got to know each other and built a relationship of trust. We refer to Kerri as Scotty’s birth mother and Bryant as Scotty’s birth father. He calls them by their first names. Scotty is only four years old, so his understanding is basic and sweet.A few months ago, I said to him (as I often do), “Houston grew in Mama’s tummy, right?”Scotty said, “Right!”I asked, “Where did you grow?”He happily shouted, “In Kerri’s tummy!”Then, unprovoked, he added, “Kerri loves me!”Open adoption is not always simple for adults to understand, but Scotty seems to comprehend quite well. He knows he’s loved by his birth family and his adoptive family.CLICK HERE to see the wonderful books on sale throughout November. (Once there, click on book cover images to visit the authors' Kindle pages).CLICK HERE to read the first 5 chapters of The Eye of Adoption. 


Do you see the baby in the clouds? An ethereal ultrasound?

Share with someone you know who is affected by infertility, adoption, or crisis pregnancy!

Readers, November is National Adoption Awareness Month. In honor of this special recognition and all the families affected by infertility, adoption, and crisis pregnancy, I will post a relevant article in my blog each week.

Today, I share "Don't Hate the Wait." The Wait for a child can be grueling for hopeful parents. Do not underestimate the weight of the wait! Please read this article and share it with anyone you think it may help. 

Also:

Click the links at the bottom of my post today to read the first five chapters of The Eye of Adoption.

Click the link at the bottom of my post to see fantastic adoption-themed books that are on sale for 99 cents throughout the month of November!

Enjoy, and happy Friday!

Love,
Bug

I wrote this article for the wonderful organization Adoptimist.com, a company committed to help men and women realize the dream of becoming parents!


May 11, 2013InspirationDon’t Hate the Wait. Learn From It.
8Adoptimist.com families, I congratulate you for having the heart to begin the adoption journey. One of my friends acknowledged, “Everything about adoption is hard, except loving the child.” I agree, and I think you are in the hardest part of the whole experience: the mysterious, incalculable WAIT. But, The Wait will strengthen you. The Wait will educate you. The Wait will make you better parents.I hate to wait. If a restaurant hostess hands me a buzzer, I beg my family to eat in the bar. In the springtime, I purchase and plant all my annuals on the same day to rush the bloom of color in my yard. My computer often locks up because I open too many windows and the applications can’t match the speed of my commands.My husband, Jeff, and I had our first child, Houston, in January 2002. That same year, we began trying to conceive a second child, and, for the next six years, endured costly, embarrassing infertility treatments with no success. From 2002 to 2008, life routinely schooled me on grief, prayer, tolerating thoughtless comments, and overcoming intense emotional pain. Then we began the domestic adoption process. You can imagine that the adoption route was a significant challenge for an impatient person like me, already weary and tired of waiting for a baby.The next two years proved to be the greatest education of my life, and I would like to share a few of the lessons I learned.Lesson #1: Ask for help. You need it, you deserve it, and people are happy help you. Who doesn’t want to be part of a sweet adoption story? The prayer committee at my church, our friends, our doctors, the copy shop down the street, and even our veterinarian played a part in bringing our son home, once I asked.Lesson #2: Trust other people. My husband is a procrastinator, but he eventually did everything I asked of him, and did it beautifully. Family members, social workers, clergy, and physicians have the same goal you do: a healthy child in a healthy home, but not necessarily on your schedule. Give them time.Lesson #3: When we become frustrated as we wait in lines, we are likely focused on ourselves. We think, “Hurry up! Now I’ll have to lug my groceries through the rain, or “Great, now I am going to be late for work.” Instead of obsessing over your goal (which is totally worth obsessing over), concentrate on serving other people, especially the birth family. After you meet your child’s birthparents, your mind may still wander in worry that they will change their minds. That is normal. But, instead of panicking for you, pray for them.The Wait allows hopeful parents time to become just that — parents. When you welcome your baby, you will need help. Ask for it. When you have to work, get the flu, or just need a break, you will have to depend on other people. Trust them. Take time now to master the most important parenting skill of all — putting someone else’s needs ahead of your own. Focus on the birth family.In May 2010, on Jeff’s birthday, we welcomed our second child, Scotty. I thank God, social workers, selfless birthparents, and The Wait, for preparing me, not only to have a baby, but also to be my baby’s mother.In order to encourage, enlighten, and even entertain adoptive families, I narrate my family’s adoption journey in my book, The Eye of Adoption: the true story of my turbulent wait for a baby. I hope that, by reading my post and perhaps my book, the lessons I learned will help you as you endure The Wait.
CLICK HERE to read the first 5 chapters of The Eye of Adoption. CLICK HERE to see the wonderful books on sale throughout November. (Once there, click on book cover images to visit the authors' Kindle pages).Need more help? Email me at jdyer415@yahoo.com. I love encouraging waiting parents.

This November, share words to encourage others!

November is National Adoption Awareness Month. I started trying to conceive a second child in 2002. I met Gnome's birth mother Tinkerbell in 2010. Our complex journeys toward and with one another still astound me. For me, adoption was grief in reverse. For Tinkerbell, adoption was the supreme demonstration of selfless love. I gained the education of a lifetime in my eight-year wait for Gnome; I learned so much that I felt compelled to help others affected by infertility and/or adoption. So, I wrote a book titled The Eye of Adoption: The True Story of My Turbulent Wait for a Baby.


When I do speaking engagements, I often use the messages, "She's not just rolling silverware" and "Walk a mile in her bra." We all suffer. We all triumph. We all need encouragement, not judgement, from our "sister wives." We all know someone affected by crisis pregnancy, infertility, or adoption. In my opinion, adoption is the most intentional process in the human experience. The required rigors (emotional, financial, marital, spiritual, and academic) cannot be quantified, and, often, cannot be understood by those who haven't "been through it." 


Thus, each week of November, which is National Adoption Awareness Month, I will post an article to help readers understand a little bit more about adoption. I'll also post the first five chapters of The Eye of Adoption.

My hope is that you, my friends, will share these messages of hope through humor with someone you love, perhaps someone who is waiting to become a mother or father or someone who has experienced the "beautiful, burdensome blessing" of adoption. 



HAPPY NEWS and SPECIAL DISCOUNTS

I’ve teamed up with other authors to lower our adoption-themed books' prices to $0.99 throughout the month! These wonderful books address a variety of infertility and adoption scenarios. (And, just for fun, I've dropped the prices of my other Kindle work to $0.99)


Click on these covers for more information.







 



A couple of other books I strongly endorse: March Into My Heart by Patty Lazarus and  The Open-Hearted Way to Open-Adoption by Lori Holden

AN ARTICLE TO SHARE
This week's featured adoption article is titled "A To-Do List for Friends and Relatives of Waiting and Adoptive Families." I wrote this post for British blogger, "OneHandMan." This has been one of my most-read articles and provides a great list to print and share. To keep within publishing/copyright ethics, I will post a link to the article in lieu of pasting it here. Enjoy!

CLICK HERE to read "A To-Do List for Friends and Relatives  of Waiting  and Adoptive Families."


~ ~ ~
I am the same everywhere I go, and that includes my writing style. I promise you will laugh and I know you will learn, so I hope you will read and especially share my November posts and the first five chapters of The Eye of Adoption. Besides, doesn't everyone love a good adoption story? 


Happy Reading! Love, Bug

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Do you see the baby in the clouds? An ethereal ultrasound?~ ~ ~

This book is protected under the copyright laws of theUnited States of America.  Any reproduction or unauthorizeduse is prohibited without express permission of the author,except brief quotes for use in interviews,newspaper or magazine articles, or reviews.For information, contact author.email: jdyer415@yahoo.comISBN-10: 1481040138ISBN-13: 978-1481040136Bible verses quoted within are from the following versions:THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960,1962,1963,1968,1971,1972,1973,1975,1977,1995 byThe Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.The King James Version is public domain in theUnited States of America.Front cover photograph obtained from fotolia.comBack cover artwork by Houston DyerCover design by Sherri B. McCall


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Chapters 1 through 5




Chapter 1

No One “Just Adopts”

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick:but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.—Proverbs 13:12 

When I was a toddler, I entertained relatives by singing this little song:Special, special, I am very special           God made me this way!
  
I would draw out the word “way” as “waaaaaaaaaaay” like an operatic trill, a crowd-pleasing ending to my parlor trick performance. That song rings true for every child. My children are no more special than your children or the child for which you pray and wait. However, adoption is special. It was divinely designed and serves as a living example of God’s graceful, abundant love for humankind. I have two friends who, years ago, placed babies for adoption. Each was in college when she was surprised by a crisis pregnancy. One friend told me her experience when she found out my husband Jeff and I were trying to adopt. She gave me crucial advice regarding the birthparents’ extended family. Her help later proved vital. The other friend is unaware that I know she placed a baby for adoption. When she sees us, she asks to hold my child. I think holding my baby gives her assurance and peace about the decision she made so many years ago.My initial purpose in writing this book was to chronicle the sweet and sour elements of our adoption story for my children. I am a public school teacher, not a writer, but I wanted my children to understand the extremes to which their father and I suffered and succeeded to create our family. Our children will have a colorful, descriptive, documented account of a story that tested love, endurance, commitment, and faith, a story they can learn from and someday pass on to their families.As I revisited my journal entries, mined through letters and emails from friends and relatives, and studied countless pieces of medical documents and adoption paperwork, I realized that my story could benefit people outside my little family. For that reason, I expanded the book to reveal details regarding every step my husband Jeff and I took toward our second child. In these pages I will candidly present information to intimately describe how Jeff and I clumsily but successfully battled through the uncontrolled currents of infertility and adoption.  To protect my adopted child’s most personal history, I kept much of the birth family’s biological and social background information private. My intention in writing this book is not to expose my child, but to expose the raw and rewarding aspects of adoption.Throughout each section of this book, I divulge friends’, relatives’, and strangers’ commentary, support, criticism, and reaction. I share the effects of all of the above on my marriage. I also try my best to illuminate God’s concern and involvement in every moment of our trek toward a baby.I hope my story will benefit people who wish to become adoptive parents, regardless of where they are in the process. Whether you decide to adopt after failed fertility treatments, lost pregnancies, a lost child, no chance of conceiving, have a dozen children already, or feel “called” to adopt, I respect you. No matter the circumstances, adoptive parents share a special bond. I hope “waiting parents” will relate to my emotions, experiences, tribulations, and triumphs. I hope by doing so, you find camaraderie, relief, and optimism.Because adoption is a spiritual transaction conducted within a commercial industry, success in adoption requires involvement from what seems like everyone connected to the adoptive parents. Thus, adoptive parents’ friends, relatives, co-workers, and even pets will find themselves here, too. I urge anyone connected to waiting parents to read my story to empathize with the adoptive family and perhaps alleviate, not complicate, the inevitable burdens. Do not underestimate the depths of suffering and lengths of endurance required of adoptive parents. Do not underestimate the difficult choice to find a child through adoption. No one “just adopts.”My mother thought of the book’s title, The Eye of Adoption. She has a particular gift for naming pets; my aunts, uncles, and cousins often contract her to name their animals, so I asked her to name this book. After reading the book, her critter-naming gift prevailed once more.Adoption is a storm of faith, fear, paperwork, people, hurt, healing, words, work, devotion, divinity, rawness, revelation, days, and, hopefully, a delivery.I was not strong on my own. I relied on my husband, my mother, my friends, my family, and my faith to prop me up during my doubtful and weak moments.I hope my story is a clear window through which you can visualize your potential adoption experience. I hope my story comforts you as you live in the eye of adoption.

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ MenGang aft agley,An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,For promis’d joy!—Robert Burns, “To A Mouse”

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Chapter 2
The Master Plan

Do not squander timefor that is the stuff life is made of.—Benjamin Franklin
          Though I am a “lonely only” child, I have nine first cousins who enjoy close relationships with their siblings. As a child I did not particularly want a brother or sister. I relished the one-on-one attention and communication I had with both of my parents. They talked with me and included me: we enjoyed a tight bond. When I was nineteen, my father died. It was June 1993. He was forty-four. I had just finished my freshman year of college.          My father’s death altered my way of thinking. I suddenly grasped the quantitative nature of my and my mother’s existence, life’s fragility, and death’s finality. I, erroneously, felt responsible for my mother’s well being. From then on, I longed for a sibling. I desperately needed a brother or sister, someone who knew exactly how I felt, someone with whom I could commiserate. Also, already known for my smart mouth (a high school teacher nicknamed me “tongue-lasher”) my sarcasm and cynicism sharpened.          A week after my father’s death, I applied for a summer job at IHOP in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. My cousin Toby, a return summer worker, championed my cause and implored the restaurant manager to grant me a coveted breakfast shift so I could be home at night with my mother. I did my best to model southern hospitality as I teased customers who ordered the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity pancake platter, but grief and anxiety accumulated like the plates precariously stacked up my left arm. Often, when I was exhausted from my trancelike trudge through a day of waitressing, I fibbed to customers when they ordered desserts, “We are out of that.” I just wanted the giddy tourons (my father’s term: half tourist, half moron) to pay and go back to their hotels so I could go home and be miserable with my mother. The fry cooks felt sorry for me and routinely treated me to rich chocolate chip pancakes with hot syrup, Cool Whip, and vanilla ice cream.In August, I took my plumped up rear and sour attitude back to The University of Tennessee’s Humes Hall filled with carefree co-eds. College and the future took on new meaning for me. I became an impatient control freak, worrier, and planner. I wrote papers the same day professors assigned them. If my mother did not answer her home phone, I freaked out, figuring she had died of a heart attack like my father, had a freak accident (she did almost run over herself once), choked on peanuts…. My mind went into orbit with any hint of mystery as to her well-being.          I set my sights on graduating early to save my mother, a high school English teacher, money. I majored in finance to secure a lucrative job; if I became a young widow like my schoolteacher mother, I would be better able support my family. I mapped out my entire future: graduate early, earn a high income, take care of my mother, find a husband, have a big family, and hit all my goals in case I was going to die in my early forties. At nineteen, I had already made the decision to have three children when I got married.

~~~
Chapter 3
Blueprints for Footprints

In dreams begins responsibility.—William Butler Yeats, Responsibilities


          Jeff and I married on April 15, 2000. What a deadline. I was twenty-six, and he was thirty-six. We were not naïve. As an only child whose mother suffered two miscarriages, I did not take pregnancy for granted. I sincerely hoped to become pregnant as soon as possible. I even promised my mother-in-law! I wanted those three children.          Jeff and I lived in a one-level, three bedroom ranch home with a flat backyard and a big kitchen. It was in the perfect proximity to hospitals, libraries, and parks. I saw no reason to move until we had a school-aged child. But Jeff wanted to. That was one of our first lengthy arguments. Jeff put a For Sale by Owner sign in the front yard. Daily, after Jeff backed out of the driveway and turned out of sight, I jerked the sign up from the grass and threw it in my backseat. When I got home from work, I pushed it back into place so he would never know. Weeks later, overcome with guilt, I admitted my crime. My forgiving husband hired a realtor to find us a house, so I stuck the For Sale by Owner sign in the grass and left it. Not long after that, I negotiated the sale to a co-worker.         So, just four months after Jeff and I married we began looking for a new home in Knoxville. Jeff wanted to move closer to his friends and be in the “right” school zone.My parents raised me in Sevier County in East Tennessee on seventy-two acres of Appalachian hills, hollers, and creeks. I could see Mount LeConte from my Gatlinburg-Pittman High School parking lot. My mother (who taught at my high school) and I drove through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park every day on the way to and from school. Sevier County has grown tremendously, but when I was growing up, trips to the grocery store, school, hospital, or church were long and tiresome. As a new wife and habitual worrier planning a three-child family, I desired a safer, more convenient location in which to raise my family. My must-haves were much more specific than Jeff’s: in my search, I combined my future children’s needs and my desire to re-create my best childhood memories. I thought through the details and played out all kinds of scenarios. My children needed to grow up close to a hospital. All the bedrooms had to be together so, in case of fire, I could grab my bra (The Red Cross does not usually get my size over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders in their donation bags) and my children and “head for the pines” for safety. I wanted to be able to wash dishes and watch my children shoot basketball. My cousin Claire says you know you are in East Tennessee when someone misses a rebound and the ball rolls fifty feet downhill and then a fight ensues about who is responsible for its retrieval: the shooter or the rebounder. We also needed a spot for spinning Big Wheels. I grew up in a one hundred year-old cold farmhouse, so I was low maintenance. I was not picky, just specific.          Our realtor found several pretty houses near Jeff’s friends, but the homes either had split bedrooms or no basketball goal within kitchen view. No deal.          My in-laws lived in Knoxville at that time, so our plan was to stay with them during the old house sale and new house purchase gap. One Sunday, I had had it. Married only four months and not too eager to live with my in-laws, I decided to rush the process. Jeff was playing at least eighteen holes of golf that morning, so I took off on my own to find a house. I started at Kingston Pike, the main thoroughfare that juts through Knoxville, and took roads left and right until I happened upon a realtor open house in Glen Cove subdivision. Lyons Bend, the road just before Glen Cove, reminded me of Gatlinburg’s steep, snaking, sun-dappled roads. I was still unfamiliar with that area of Knox County. Having driven in all directions all morning, and being naturally “spatially challenged,” I thought I was out in the boonies but went in anyway. I was surprised when the realtor informed me that youth baseball fields and Lake Loudon were only a half-mile away. She further explained that Glen Cove was zoned for Jeff’s sibling’s old elementary school, and was only a few miles from our church. The house was ten minutes from the UT campus, ten minutes from Children’s Hospital, and two miles from Food City.          The 1956 basement rancher contained three bedrooms all on the northern edge of the house and a large guest room with its own bathroom and sunroom on the southern edge of the house. I could store my children on one end and my mother on the other! The basement–just a huge playroom–was a bonus. The Poplar and pine-shaded backyard offered a safe place for children to explore. The sunny, sloped, grass-covered front yard was ideal for a Slip-n-Slide. The back patio, my favorite spot, was the perfect place to spin figure eights on a Big Wheel. Best of all, when I stood at the kitchen sink, I looked out the window to see a basketball goal, slap in the middle of the backyard.          I called Jeff and exclaimed, “I found our house! You need to come over here right now.” I stood guard at the open house until it was over, making small talk with the listing agent and shooing away any other lookers. When Jeff arrived, I used every ounce of my newlywed allure, wit, and equity and took advantage of his eighteen-hole beer buzz to sell him on the house. He agreed to make an offer. I called our realtor. He came and we drew up a full offer contract.          When Jeff and I got home, we talked about our new house. He asked, “How big was that garage?” I told him there was not one. I had whisked him through that house and completely manipulated the deal but it was too late then. I was determined to have that house; the location and the important things—to me—were there. Within days, our full-price offer secured for us a wonderful place to raise our three children. We stayed with Mr. Dyer (Mrs. Dyer was visiting Jeff’s brother, who was working in Africa at the time) for three weeks. Each afternoon, Jeff and I would leave work, go to his parents’ house and change clothes, and then go to Glen Cove to pull up filthy, decades-old carpet, score and strip cigarette-smoke stained wallpaper, and paint. Jeff’s daddy (also named Jeff) brought us supper almost every night. When Mrs. Dyer returned from Africa, she bragged on our remodeling work but admonished us for our combined fifteen-pound weight gain. Jeff and I moved to Glen Cove.          In May 2001, when we had been married a year, Jeff’s sister Jenny came to Knoxville to visit for Mother’s Day and Jeff’s birthday. Coincidentally, Jeff’s birthday fell on Mother’s Day that Sunday, May 13th. The Friday night before, Jenny announced to all of us that she was pregnant with her first child. Thrilled for her, I was sad for me. I had been trying to become pregnant since my wedding day, and I was getting worried. I happened to be a few days late in my cycle and had actually stopped at CVS to buy a pregnancy test. After hearing Jenny’s big news, I over-celebrated slash self-medicated with a few vodka tonics, forgetting until just before I went to bed that I had a pregnancy test in my purse. With liquid courage, I went into the bathroom, took the test, and waited the three minutes.I was shocked to see two pink lines appear. I looked at that little stick, expecting that second pink line to fade away, but it remained. I was pregnant! I stared at the test for a moment, then walked into our bedroom and told the always-calm Jeff I was pregnant.He responded, “Are you sure? Take another one in the morning.”He was hesitant. I was elated. Saturday morning, I tested positive again. Jeff and I smiled and savored the momentous revelation all day.          Sunday morning, we attended church with Jeff’s family and celebrated Mother’s Day and Jeff’s birthday with brunch on the Dyer’s back porch. Jenny was happily babbling about her big news. Jeff and I, still in shock, mentioned nothing about ours. Women’s intuition never fails. Halfway through the meal, Mrs. Dyer looked at me and asked, “Jody, how long have you been pregnant?” I delighted in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.          “About three weeks.”          Screams of delight filled the patio; we sounded like the bird exhibit at the Knoxville Zoo.I visited my gynecologist the next morning. He tested my hormones. My progesterone levels were quite low so he prescribed vaginal suppositories. I had to insert the progesterone “tubes” at 7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. each day and lie still for thirty minutes after each insertion. I was a bank branch manager in downtown Knoxville at the time. We had these ridiculous weekly “call nights” each Thursday. From 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. we phoned customers and tried to set appointments to sell bank products. To accurately maintain my 7:00 p.m. suppository schedule on those nights, I sneaked to the ladies room two floors beneath my office, near the hefty main vault filled with hundreds of safe deposit boxes.          I inserted the medicine and laid flat and still (there are no pillows in bank basements) for thirty minutes, just as the doctor instructed, praying my male boss did not ask where I was. God was looking out for me because, for the six weeks in a row I did drugs in the vault, my boss never caught on. Other than that, my pregnancy was healthy and surprisingly easy; I never threw up, and I had no issues that I knew of other than low progesterone.          Just days before Christmas, Jenny gave birth to my precious niece Ellie. On January 7, a week before my due date, I visited my obstetrician. I begged her to induce me the next day. She agreed. I was so keyed up, I mistakenly took the wrong Interstate 40 ramp and drove miles out of my way before I realized I was headed to Nashville. I went home, called the bank human resources department and my boss to tell them I was beginning my maternity leave. I called my mother who squealed in delight. She planned to stay with us the first week after I gave birth.          My matchless mother, a hyper-thinker, has mastered the art of anticipation. She loves to make lists and pack coolers (a throwback to her University of Georgia days of partying) and suitcases. She had packed her bags, made a list of suppers and treats she would cook for Jeff and me, and purchased birth announcements, stamps, and envelopes. She was ready to be a grandmama! On the phone, she told me she had cleaned and ironed a particular bold-colored shirt so her infant grandson would “immediately notice” her. She hung up the phone and carried her suitcases to the driveway. She carefully draped the outfit over her suitcase and went to make sure the stove was off and to lock the front door. Then, in a typical fit of excitement, she cranked up the car and backed over her own suitcase. When my frenzied mother got to my house, she showed me her black shirt, embellished with large, bright puppy faces and muddy brown tire tracks.          The next afternoon, family and friends eagerly waited at Fort Sanders Hospital on The University of Tennessee campus for the arrival of Jefferson Houston Dyer III. At 5:21 p.m., January 8, 2002, Houston was born.          Jeff walked into the waiting room to a crowd of Houston fans and proudly announced, “He looks just like me.”
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Chapter 4
The Enemy: Infertility


A whippoorwill on a window still-it should have made me smileBut everything sounds lonesome to a melancholy child

—DiPiero& Tillis, “Melancholy Child”

That year I turned 28 in February and Jeff turned 39 in May. Aware of our progressing ages and my master plan, we had no time to waste. I began trying to conceive our second child in October of 2002, when Houston was only nine months old. The annoying things I had to endure with pregnancy were minor compared to what was coming.

As a child, I loved hearing the story of my mother’s pregnancy. Birth stories are full of happiness and gratitude with unique details that make children feel loved. While my mother was pregnant with me, she and my paternal grandmother Wimmie began writing journals for me.Throughout my pregnancy, I kept a journal for Houston detailing my and Jeff’s excitement, plans for Houston’s future, and how much we already loved him. I daydreamed on paper.
             I kept a journal for “Baby #2” but in a much different format for many reasons. Initially, I used the journal to vent my frustrations and record efforts in the fertility battle.            During that time, Jeff and I happily welcomed our lively niece, Anna Kate. I loved being an aunt. My desire for another child intensified.           For two years, I used ovulation kits and timed our love life. When trying to conceive my second baby, I spent a couple of years in denial. I reconciled that, since my first pregnancy went so smoothly, I would soon be pregnant. I blamed the negative results on Jeff’s being out of town for business, my misreading ovulating kits, my diet, and everything imaginable and reasonable. I also blamed my infertility on my stressful job. I worked hard, but I was consumed with trying to conceive. I was a mother to toddler Houston and an extremely busy branch manager, so I kept one fat daily appointment book. Once, a male co-worker glanced at the open book on my desk and innocently asked, “Why do you have a heart drawn on Thursday?”          I bluntly admitted, “That’s when I ovulate so Jeff and I have to have sex that night.” He blushed, left, and never looked at my planner again.
          In December 2004, I quit my job as a bank branch manager in hopes that the lower stress lifestyle of a housewife would help me conceive. Jeff had switched from a career in sales to become a realtor and could support us on his own. The change in lifestyle definitely made life with Jeff and a three-year-old Houston more enjoyable, but, sadly, being a stay-at-home mother did nothing to boost my fertility. Houston was potty-trained, and I was utterly frustrated. I sought help from a specialist. Our first appointment cost $1,900.00. We rapidly used up money and months. Two months into treatment, I jokingly threatened the doctor, “If I’m not pregnant in six months, I’m going to start smoking. If I’m not pregnant in a year, I’m doing meth. Smokers and drug addicts get pregnant all the time. You don’t want that on your conscience. The pressure is on, doctor.” Jeff and I answered awkward questions and endured embarrassing procedures for the next four years. A friend teased Jeff, “I hear you’ve been treating your body like an amusement park.”           Below is an excerpt from my Baby #2 journal, dated August 8, 2006, two years into the fertility treatment trials.
Dear Hopefully Baby #2,I’ve been trying to have you for four years now! No luck but a big effort this week should help. My fertility doctor performed hysteroscopy, laparoscopy, and dilation and curettage. He said he could barely identify my reproductive organs; they were encased in scar tissue, likely a result of my birth defect, gastroschisis. He diagnosed me with a clotting disorder (MTHFR). He said I have been pregnant two or three times since Houston and wrote in the post-op report, “There is no rational explanation for the patient’s previous pregnancies.” That includes Houston! I am hoping for another miracle. Am I selfish? I am emotionally, physically, financially, and mentally exhausted but I feel you are on your way to me somehow. I will do everything I can to make you, my dream of a baby, real.I love you,     Mama
 I include that letter not to dredge up pity but to remind readers that the devastation of infertility is a monthly cycle fraught with anxious anticipation and gut-wrenching disappointment. I kept a detailed log of ovulation, menstruation, and sexual activity for my doctor. I hated the necessary invasion of privacy.By this time, Jeff’s parents had moved back to Nashville, which meant a three hour drive and usually an overnight visit for us. I swear on the Smoky Mountains, for years it seemed like every time we visited them, no matter where I was in my cycle, I either ovulated, which meant I had to skip that month of trying (I could never have sex in the same house as my sweet in-laws—gross) or I spontaneously menstruated, which meant I had to suffer another round of disappointment without the needed privacy for my monthly crying jag.I actually carried pregnancy tests to Nashville with me. Once when I started my period there, I had a meltdown. In a tantrum, I took Jeff’s car keys and my pity-party attitude to Walgreens Drug Store. I stomped through the store to find the feminine hygiene/family-planning aisle. I bought the biggest boxes of tampons and pads I could find, thinking, Okay God, I just spent twenty-five bucks on supplies; if the laws of biology won’t help me, maybe Murphy’s Law will!
          Throughout my years of trying to conceive, I took sixty-five pregnancy tests. They were all negative.
Friends and family should not underestimate how such a systematic dose of failure hurts. I spent six years, wasted thousands of dollars, and humiliated my husband and myself trying to have a second child while people all around me easily became pregnant—or so it felt to me.  I suffered bouts of anxiety and depression, often related to high doses of hormones and fertility drugs. I wrestled self-doubt, weight gain, poor self-esteem, mood swings, and bitterness toward pregnant people.         To battle the hormone and depression-induced bulge, I exercised almost daily. I would drop Houston off at school and head to Lakeshore Park, near our house. The park contains flag football and the previously mentioned youth baseball fields, as well as a two-mile walking trail. Ironically, the park surrounds Lakeshore Mental Health Institute.          I felt pretty “mental” as I paced around that track each morning. For a long time, I took heavy doses of Clomid and progesterone. I never felt suicidal, but I was down. Because I took such strong doses of medicine, I understand the mind-altering power of drugs. I remember walking across roadways during my exercise routine, leering at oncoming cars, and not really caring if they hit my bloated blubber butt. My melancholic attitude only worsened as I plodded past skinny, fit, young mothers jogging behind their babies’ strollers.


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Chapter 5

Small Talk
Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.—William Shakespeare, Richard III
          When you are a young married woman and/or a young mother small talk often surrounds the topic of family planning, so by this point friends and acquaintances knew that I was trying to get pregnant. I hated baby showers, and when I did go to one, I usually cried all the way home. I dealt with all kinds of remarks and “advice.” I would be sitting at the pool with a bunch of mothers watching our boys do pencils and cannonballs off the diving board or I would be downtown Knoxville eating lunch with my work buddies, and the topics of children, parenting, or having more children would arise.          Inevitably someone would say to me, “Just stop trying and it will happen.” Depending on my mood or hormone level, I either gently replied, “Oh, you are probably right” or curtly responded “If I don’t have sex when I am ovulating, I will not get pregnant. I have to try.”          I truly despised the comment “Just relax and you will get pregnant.”         I tried to bite my tongue, but my usual reply was, “I’m not sure I can relax that right fallopian tube out of a medical waste facility and back into my body, functioning properly!” Another thoughtless comment that an early obstetrician made was, “Just go to Victoria’s Secret and buy something sexy.” Even if Victoria’s Secret did sell negligees large enough to contain my Dollyesque boobs, it could not fix my problem. I despised the comment, “Wow, I just look at my husband and I get pregnant.” Perhaps I should have replied, “Well, I’ve looked at your husband, and I still don’t see how you got pregnant!” My fertility specialist said people mean well but cannot relate and just want to say something.          Another statement I endured pretty often during fertility treatments and the adoption process was, “Just be thankful you have Houston.” Really?          One should never feel selfish for wanting another child. I wanted a sibling for Houston. I felt Houston wanted a sibling. In retrospect, I think the pains of infertility and later adoption trek only amplified my love and appreciation for Houston, and likely made me a better parent to him.  I slowed down and enjoyed Houston’s unique personality, moments of soulful abstract thinking, and comical stunts.Men and women who are seeking to be parents for the first time, through infertility or adoption, have my sincerest empathy.  During my “low tides,” I often reminded myself, At least I am a parent and get to enjoy the life-altering and life-enhancing experience of simply being someone’s mother. I felt (feel) acutely sorry for those struggling to begin a family, and I pray this book is a comfort to them. “Childless parents”—as I like to call them—deserve elite prayer and extraordinary consideration.
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Readers, do you want to continue to Chapter 6---"Sweet offers and sex advice?" It is funny!If so, download The Eye of Adoption on Kindle or purchase the paperback via Amazon.com. ~ ~ ~
Friends, please send this post to anyone you know who is touched by infertility, adoption, or crisis pregnancy. You can copy and paste the URL into an email or you can Google+, Tweet, or share on Facebook.


Also, visit Amazon.com or my website to read reviews for The Eye of Adoption, my short story, Field Day, and my collection of essays, Parents, Stop and Think (all 99 cents on Kindle this month!)

Author website:  www.jodydyer.com

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See you next Friday with Chapter 2! Until then, think outside the barn.