goodbye honeymoon, welcome back guilt

The Adoption Guilt  is back. Actually, I don't think it ever left. I am actually waking up in the middle of the night thinking about the sometimes near constant moments of parenting horror I have experienced these past few weeks. Apparently, the honeymoon is over.

I love my kids. And both of them saw more tragedy in the first months of their little lives than I have experienced, well, ever. There is a reason behind every odd behavior. Maybe not every behavior from my big four and a half year old. (and yes, I know I have been referring to him as "the big four and a half year old" a lot lately, but this is how he sees himself, so I'm just going with the flow.) I am not so wrapped up into being an adoptive parent that I think that every mis-step on Matthew's part is adoption related. Basically he is a obnoxious rambunctious, active, always sometimes overly sensitive preschooler. He is going to melt down. And his melt downs do not usually result in a mommy melt down. Which is what I keep reminding myself. I can parent. If I do say so myself I am actually pretty good at it, most days. But this new twist in our family has totally thrown me for a loop. I seem to be one mommy melt down after another these days.

Yesterday after school the boys and I were sitting at the kitchen table, having a snack. Well, actually, Matthew was sitting at the table, having a snack. OK, you got me. Matthew was squatting on his kitchen chair, eating a Popsicle. How he does not tip that chair over more often is beyond me. (I know what you are thinking: how many times has he fallen out of his chair? I honestly cannot say. I have lost count.) So, Matthew is "matthew sitting" in his chair and Alex is half standing, half sitting in his high chair, screaming at me and pointing in the general direction of the fridge. I am also not sitting. I am standing in the middle of the room, halfway between the fridge and my boys, fighting back the urge to see if my two year old can catch a flying piece of cheese while I fight back tears.

Here is what the food hostage exchange looked like:

me: how about a popsicle?
toddler: yes. and he shakes his head "yes".
me: hand over popsicle.
toddler: throws popsicle on floor while saying "no no no."
(repeat this exchange for every color popsicle in the box.)

me: cheese? (I say this while holding up a slice of cheese and smiling my best fake smile.
toddler: yes. and this time he smiles.
me: hand over cheese.
toddler: throws cheese at brother while screaming and attempting to rocket himself out of high chair.

me: maybe you are not hungry? I make a move to lift him out of the high chair.
toddler: screams no and takes a swing at me while signing "eat".

repeat this scenario, oh, I don't know, fifty times and you will come to understand how I finally picked him up out of the chair, set him on the floor, sat down at the table and said to his older brother: "You saw him saying "yes" to all that food, right? What is the matter with him?" And Matthew, in his always spot on four year old logic replies "That kid is crazy, Mommy."

I wish. That kid is not crazy. He is frustrated with the language barrier. He is teething. He is hungry. He is trying to assert his independence. He is two. Oh my God, he is so many things. He is not a purposely trying to drive me crazy. Although sometimes he is. I swear, sometimes he really is trying to drive me over the edge. He gets this look in his eye and makes sure that he has my complete attention before purposely dropping his food over the side of his high chair. And if he is really mad at me he will scoop it up by the handfuls and throw it. He has a moody streak, this one.

And I know what some of you are thinking. He is 26 months old. He will survive if he misses a meal. He is old enough to learn that there are consequences to throwing food and throwing tantrums. And I agree. But he is adopted. He is still bonding and learning to trust us. He has food issues that most likely stem from day after day of not getting enough to eat. I was there, at his orphanage. I witnessed snack time and meal time. And it was heartbreaking. So there is no way I am letting this boy think he is being punished or go without eating. Now, if my four year old acted this way, yes, he would be removed from the table. But his food issues are a thing of the past.

But oh how quickly we forget. I barely remember the time, when Matthew had only been home a month or so, that he bit me so hard we both landed on the floor. I was holding him, his head resting peacefully on my shoulder, and we were standing at the refrigerator, with the freezer door open. He bit me. Hard. Startled I bent forward in an effort to both push him away and prevent myself from dropping his tiny little 16 month old body. When I bent forward I let go of the freezer door, allowing it to swing back closed. Only I righted myself and stood up before the door had closed all the way, which resulted in me smacking my head, hard, on the freezer door. That was when we both went down. I remember sitting on the floor, holding Matthew with one arm and my head with the other, crying. I am sure those tears were only in small part from the pain. They were from the days of constant grunting and temper tantrums at the dinner table. They were from the near constant biting of mommy only. They were from the arm and backaches of never. being. able. to. set. this. child. down. never. ever. They were from the night terrors and the fact that I couldn't figure out why he always smelled like pee.

Yes, there were a lot of tears back then. And then, one day, it all smoothed out. And now, the tears are back. They seem worse this time around. They probably aren't, but they seem worse.

Maybe it is because Alex is older than Matthew was when he joined his forever family. Maybe I am expecting too much from this little guy. Maybe I just don't remember the occasional lows our first few months with Matthew. It's probably a combination of both. I don''t know. But one thing I do know; whatever is going on is leading to major mommy guilt.

My mantra these past few days:
it is ok to be frustrated. it is ok to me tired. it is ok to be thankful when the boys go to daycare/bed. it is ok to walk away and tag daddy in. he is not trying to drive me crazy. this is probably harder on him than it is on me. it is ok to let him scream when I pry him off of me and into daddy's arms - I have it on good authority that he immediately stops crying when I leave the room. and maybe most importantly, this too will pass.

I repeated this mantra last night over and over and over again. I sounded like Atticus Shaffer  from The Middle.

If this continues much longer you may find me muttering to myself in the grocery store or curled up in the fetal position in my kitchen with a Popsicle stick in my ear. Tonight when I pick the kids up I am going to try not to drag the big four and a half year old into my drama. I shouldn't really be asking him for his opinion on his brother's behaviors. That kid already has way too much power around here...

I'm planning to color my hair tomorrow. Not related to adoption guilt, just thought you would want to know.

I get the sweat and shet gets the sweet

Yesterday was kind of a weird day. I slipped in banana juice and fell down the stairs leading from the house into the garage. There's something I never thought I would say. But my little guy loves his banana juice. That is one of the cool things about traveling around the world to meet your children - so many different customs and foods to try. The baby store in Russia had an interesting variety of food and drink for baby- pureed rosemary chicken, rose hips and oatmeal, and banana juice in juice boxes. My little one liked the banana and peach nectar, possibly because it was a little thicker than our typical American juices. And it is one more way to help my kids stay connected to their birth country. A small way, but parents of internationally adopted children are always looking for those small connections. It is not always about the big stuff. Usually it is about the small, everyday stuff. When I was growing up we didn't talk all that much about my mother's Italian heritage, but we did spend many Sunday's at my Italian grandparents' home, eating the sausage and pasta that my grandfather made, by hand, every week. We had Scottish shortbread with my dad's parents and celebrated New Year's Eve in the traditional Scottish manner. It's the little things I want my kids to remember, and it's the little ways I can help them stay connected to their birth countries that is important to me. So that's why I had a glass jar of banana juice in my refrigerator, which was nearly empty when I threw it away, which somehow broke inside the trash bag and then leaked onto the wooden stairs as I was carrying the bag out to the trash, which is how I slipped and fell down the stairs.

As I was falling two thoughts were running through my head. First: I should have washed my hair. Why is it always when you are wearing your worst clothes and your hair is a mess that you hurt yourself? One of the few downsides to working from home is not always looking your best. The second thought running through my mind has a back story. We have a neighbor kid who is very interested by my husband's mustang. He seems to just materialize in our driveway, usually as are trying to wrestle the kids in or out of the car, often asking odd random questions such as "Why do you have such an old car?" and "Are you going to sell that car?" Why, are you going to buy it from us? For some reason I have very little patience for this young man, even though he has been nothing but polite and one day even drew an amazingly accurate rendition of a newer mustang for my oldest son. Right before I took that first step into the banana juice I hit the button to open the garage door. So as the door is opening I was falling. And all I could think about was that I was going to look up and see that kid, straddling his bicycle, standing right outside the garage, witnessing me falling down the stairs. And then he would ask about the car, and that would be the moment he would talk about for years to come. "Remember the day the neighbor lady fell down her garage stairs, freaked out, and started yelling at me?"

Thankfully there was no young boy on the other side of the garage door. Thankfully I wasn't hurt, just bruised. So, the banana juice tried to kill me, but I'll probably buy more for my little guy.

This fall occurred as I was leaving the house to pick up the boys from day care. As usual I stopped by my big four year old's room first. He was in the gym, running around with a basketball. He was dripping with sweat. My guy can sweat. I made the mistake of commenting on his wet head when I kissed him hello, which prompted him to spend the entire walk down the hall to my youngest's room whipping his head back and forth, spraying me with wetness. Totally disgusting. When we knocked on his door Alex came shooting out of his room and into my arms, sticking out his tongue. He was very proud of the apparently massive quantities of green paint he had eaten.

This is how we walked out of the church. Matthew running circles around me trying to spray me with his sweat and Alex spitting at me trying to show me his green tongue. I looked as though I had just taken a shower by the time we got to the car. While he thought it was funny to spray me, his mother, with sweat, my big four year old suddenly turned on the charm when he saw a friend from his class leaving the building and he actually took her arm and walked her to her car. What? I get the sweat and she gets the sweet? It was very cute, though. He is definitely smitten.

Once home it was snack time and the two year old totally freaked out. He is cutting his two year molars so he is cranky anyways, and it seemed as though I was not understanding his very specific dietary requests. He was getting angrier and angrier at our communication deficit and I was running back and forth to the fridge and pantry trying to appease him. Finally I stopped, looked him in the eye, and said, "I have just offered you ten different things to eat. Pick one. I do not work for you." Yes, I am embarrassed to tell you that I actually said that. I said, "I don''t work for you." to a two year old. Which prompted the big four and a half year old to look up from his Popsicle and state, "That's right, Alex, she works for me!" Sadly, I think they are both right. I work for both of them....

To recap my day:

normally a favorite snack. not this time.

• nasty fall down garage stairs while wearing grungy clothes and sporting dirty hair.
• covered in spit and sweat from darling boys competing for my attention on way out of day care.
• short order cook for a two year old.