I see you

I see you over there. Yes, there are 30 little five year olds running around the parking lot and 30 adults- moms, grandmothers, dads, all trying to keep their young charges from running past the orange traffic cones meant to corral the safety towners until the gates open. Yes, it is loud, with babies crying, kids laughing, cars trying to park. Yes, I am just as distracted as the other moms, watching my oldest son hop around the parking lot, chatting with the older brothers and sisters of the safety towners. This kid of mine, he knows everyone. I watch him smile and wave to his friends, totally confident and sure of himself. To be honest, he is a little jealous. His little brother's safety town has permanent structures and a great little town to drive around. My youngest son is wrapped around my leg, hiding from the noise and people. Sure, if I encouraged him he would run off with his older brother. He would laugh and hop and race around in circles like the other little ones. I don't encourage this, though, because, unlike the other children waiting in the parking lot he will not be able to calm down when it is time for class to start. In our world there is a time and a place for "free play", and this is not it. I pick up my youngest. He wraps his fingers through my hair and pets my head as he pops his thumb into his mouth. I whisper into his ear.  "I am so proud of you! You are doing great with safety town!" He vacillates between agreeing with me and saying "No, I'm not doing good." We have some self esteem issues to work on with this one.

There is a lot going on, here in this parking lot, but I still see you. I see your son smile at my youngest, the light of recognition in his eyes. I wonder- day care? Pre school? Church? I bend down to my son, questions on my lips, ready to point out his friend and ask where he knows him from. Your son takes a step forward and then I see it. You pull him back. I watch you tell your son "No." "Don't go talk to him."

My oldest appears back by my side at the exact moment that I turn away from you. I heard about you. My sweet husband told me that you had refused to let your son say hi to our youngest the day before, that you acted as though you knew our family from somewhere. My oldest confirms my fears. You do know our family. From church. From daycare. Daycare. Sigh.

I take a breath. I have a choice here. I can be mad. I can tell you how thankful you must be that you have typical, cookie cutter children who never have behavior issues. I can tell you how thankful I am that your children have obviously never suffered at the hands of someone they expected to be able to trust. I could ignore. But this is just the beginning. If we have found ourselves at the same daycare and at the same church, then we very well might find ourselves in the same school class. I know your kids go to our school; your older son was in my oldest son's first grade class. Our kids are friends, and I am not about to allow my oldest son to lose a friend over your narrow mindedness. What happened at that daycare was nothing. A blip on our radar screen that we have already forgotten about. Frankly, it wasn't even the worst behavior we have seen from our sweet boy. Please. You have no idea. My life is busy. Job. Therapy. Doctor's appointments. Kids' activities. Time with my husband. Family fun. House. Managing the household. Errands. Relationships to maintain. I don't have time to educate the world on what can go wrong when babies aren't loved. Or even worse, when babies are starved or abused. I don't have time to educate you. But I know I have to push past all that. My oldest son deserves to have a chance at maintaining his friendship with your oldest son. And my youngest son deserves something too. Understanding.

Yes, this is uncomfortable for me. Yes, I would prefer to not have to step outside of my comfort zone. I want to turn away from you, folding my son into my arms. But I know that this is just the beginning. There will be more moms like you. Moms who need a little education. And I can't run from them all.

No, I can't run. I can use each incident as a teaching opportunity for my boys. As learning opportunities for myself. I can refuse to be narrow minded. I can refuse to allow my oldest to be embarrassed by his little brother. I can refuse to allow my youngest to think he is any less than. I can refuse to hide. This week we are at Safety Town. We will be at Sunday school. We will be at the family wedding. We will be at the bowling alley and the amusement park and the restaurant. We will be at the beach. So yes, I see you. I see your looks and I feel your judgement. I don't care. Bring it on because we are only getting stronger every day.

Despite Pat Robertson's warning, I am hoping my children "grow up weird"

The other day I read the most recent “stupid adoption statement” to hit the media. This time is was Pat Robertson sharing his convoluted views of international adoption.  This is the  same man who once told a lonely husband whose wife was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease to divorce her, because “it was better than adultery”. My entire grown up career has been spent in the world of senior health care and so I have seen many a lonely spouse, grieving the loss of their beloved partner long before a death occurs. My own grandfather was one of those lonely spouses. I have seen friendships blossom in the halls of memory care assisted living communities as lonely spouses turn to each other during visiting hours. I have seen divorce and adultery over this horrible disease.  I wouldn’t dare pass judgement on these husbands and wives, and, unlike Pat Robertson, I wouldn’t dare speak so casually of what is always a very difficult and painful situation.

This is also the same man who has shown agreement with the Chinese "one child" policy. This policy has been at the heart of abandonment and murder of babies for years. I would like for Robertson to meet my son and explain to him his thoughts on this policy. While I am sure Robertson does not condone murder, (well, I am pretty sure), any intelligent person can see the link between this policy and the fact that many many many babies born in China do not live to see day two of their young lives. I am thankful, every day, for the brave birth parents who possibly disregarded their safety to assure their newborn son was cared for, even if it did mean abandonment.


 And now he has done it again.

Those of you in the inner adoption circles have most likely already heard about the thoughtless remarks Robertson recently made on his television show regarding international adoption.  Basically, a women wrote in asking for advice about her boyfriend not wanting to marry her because she was the mother  to internationally adopted children.  Had they been her “own” children, (meaning biological), according to the woman, he would have married her.  That this ludicrous topic even made it on to a television show is absurd enough. Say it with me people, “Adopted children are our ‘own’ children.” 

But Robertson’s response is what has most of the adoption community pulling out their collective hair.  He said that he understands that this man “didn’t want to take on a United Nations”, and that you never knew about adopted children- they’re history might have led to brain damage, causing them to, wait for it, “grow up weird.” Wow.

First let me address the “you never know” comment. He is absolutely right. You do never know what you are getting with an adopted child. But not because they are adopted. Because they are a child. And every pregnancy, every birth, every adoption, every blended family brought together by second marriages leads to many unknowns where the children are concerned. I have friends with biological children born with Down’s Syndrome. I have friends with adopted children with heart defects. I have friends with biological children born with cleft palates. I have an adopted child of MY OWN born with a cleft palate. I have friends with biological children with autism. I have friends with adopted children with behavior issues, and I might possibly have one of those on my hands as well. But I also have friends, and relatives, with biological children with behavior problems. So, yes, you do never know what you are going to get.

Now on to the more offensive part of his statement. Thanks, Pat Robertson, for helping to further the stereotype that internationally adopted children are “damaged”.  This horrible stereotype, most often found attached to children adopted out of Eastern European countries, serves no purpose except to frighten prospective adoptive parents and label our children. If the adoptive family is using a trustworthy adoption agency then these potential issues have already been raised, privately, to the individual family. Families do not decide to adopt a child without much thought, prayer, and education. We were not surprised by the behaviors we saw in the orphanage my youngest son called home. We are not surprised by the behaviors we see in him. We were educated, by ourselves and by our adoption agency, and we walked out of that gray building fully knowing that problems may arise.  I am not saying that it was easy. It has been far from easy. I’m not saying that I didn’t lay awake in my bed in that hotel room in Russia, my sweet husband already back in the states, thinking about how my new son was going to fit into our family and how this transition was going to be, for everyone.  But even at those moments, just days after finalizing the adoption, I thought of him as “my son”. I had to sleep backwards in the bed with my hand stuck through the rails of his crib because he would scream if he couldn’t touch me. I had to hold my bathroom needs until I was sure he was asleep, and even then I had to sneak off the creaky mattress and pee in the dark with the bathroom light out so as not to wake him up, because if I wasn’t in that bed, with my hand in his crib when he opened his eyes he would scream with such terror that I was sure the police had been called. I had to shower with my arm stuck outside the curtain, so that his tiny hand could wrap around my finger. Eventually I coaxed him in with me, so he could play in the water and I could stop my contortionist act. I don’t do those things anymore, but I still do a million other things every day to help my son gain his footing in his strange new world.

I know that adoption isn’t for everyone. And thank God for that. Not everyone should take on parenting an adopted child. Not everyone should take on parenting their biological children, and I have often thought that if new biological parents had to jump through the same hoops and survive the same scrutiny as adoptive parents that fewer babies would be coming home from the hospital with their blood relatives.  I am also not saying that the boyfriend that started it all didn’t have a right to feel the way he did about taking on someone else’s kids. I do, however, have to question the judgement of the mom who turned to the 700 Club for advice- couldn’t she figure out on her own that she did not share the same value system as her boyfriend? Did she really need to turn to someone else for advice on this one?

I know that this is not what Robertson meant in his heartless statement, but I have to say that, yes, my children are “weird”. And so am I. They come from a long tradition of “weird”. Maybe it was because he spent all those years teaching middle school band, but my father was the King of Weird. He would talk to his little plastic ant friend, Sam, who sat on his desk at school. He would suggest  to kids still waiting for late parents to pick them up after a concert that perhaps they were busy “changing the locks”. He would make musical instruments out of household items. His mother was also a tad strange, as evidenced by her nickname, “Iguana”.  Lord knows that I am weird.  And my sweet husband? Don’t even get me started.  I am proud of my boys and their individual little personalities, and I will celebrate them and support their weirdness to the day I die.

My minister posted the following comment to my facebook page, as I was writing this blog post.  He had come across another blog post about the absurdity of Pat Robertson’s statement, and he forwarded that article on to me, with the following note:

Beth, when I read this article it got my blood boiling. It will you too. But it also made me think of the wonderful thing your family is doing. You and Brad are being Jesus to your boys. Thanks for the love you have shown to all of God's children.

I am thankful for his thoughtfulness and agree that, yes, I was quite upset when I had heard Robertson’s remarks.  Because, after all, whether it be a toddler in a dark and dreary orphanage, starving for both food and attention, a baby in a sterile orphanage sleeping on a wooden board, also starving,  a biological child with a disability, or a  baby still in his mother’s womb, all children are God’s children, and all children are perfect, just the way they are.

finally normal

My husband and I take turns putting the boys to bed. We each have our different rituals and we feel that the one on one time is as important for the boys as changing it up is for us. While both boys initially pout when they get the news that Mommy will not be putting them to bed, once they are upstairs I can hear the giggles and laughter floating down the stairs as Daddy reads the tiny toddler's books in funny voices or talks football with the big five year old.

Last night was my turn with the tiny toddler. On Friday he turned three years old, and he has been having so much fun with his birthday this year. Last year his birthday fell six days after the Russian court approved our adoption; he had a cake a new toy but he also had two new parents that he wasn't quite sure what to do with. He had a sleep deprived Mommy who was equal parts over the moon at having a new son and sad beyond belief at missing her oldest one. He had a new Daddy he seemed to only enjoy while Mommy was around and who he certainly was not going to allow himself to be left alone with. So last year's birthday was somewhat of a blur. But this year? He totally gets it and he is having a ball.

When my oldest son turned five back in February I filled his room with balloons so that when he woke up there was a sea of colorful balloons to greet him on his special day. I didn't do that with the tiny toddler this year because he still puts everything in his mouth and it just didn't seem safe. Last night both boys and my sweet husband headed upstairs for bed a little early so that we could clean their rooms, something that is normally scheduled for Saturdays but somehow got away from this week. Daddy helped the big five year old and I headed into the tiny toddler's room. We supervised bed sheet changing and toy pick up and then I got the little guy ready for bed. After putting on his jammies we settled into the rocking chair to read books, which is when the big five year old burst into the room carrying three of his surviving birthday balloons. "I want to give these to Alex since he had a birthday." The tiny toddler slid off my lap and immediately began dancing around the room with his new balloons.

As I watched my boys playing together with the balloons I  realized how "normal" life had been lately. Friday night we had macaroni and cheese and birthday cake for dinner in honor of the tiny toddler's birthday. His older brother couldn't wait to bring out his presents and sing Happy Birthday. After dinner I watched the boys playing with the new bubble/squirt guns in the back yard. They ran at each other, shooting bubbles up into the air, giggling. Saturday evening we took the boys to a friend's house for a China play group picnic. Both boys played with the other children, bounced in the bounce house, ate hot dogs and generally had a great time. There were no melt downs. No running off. No hitting or throwing things. No screaming and tears. Sunday we took the boys to church, where one went to the nursery and one to Sunday school. We grocery shopped as a family and we all hung out in the living room watching the tiny toddler's newest obsession,  Little Einsteins. This may not sound like a big deal to you, but seeing my little guy actually sit down and be able to enjoy and process a television show is a HUGE deal for this family. And then we got to Sunday night, and the balloon dance of joy. And I sat in my grandmother's University of Akron rocking chair and exhaled. We have temper tantrums and melt downs. We have dirt and rocks and we never have matching socks. We have toys everywhere and still occasionally have bored children. We have whining and sticky kitchen floors. We are far from perfect. But we are finally normal.

365 days

This past weekend we celebrated the tiny toddler's Family Day. For reasons my husband and I cannot articulate we both dislike the term "Gotcha Day". We prefer to think of these two special days as the days that we all became a family.  Every Family Day is special, of course, but this year the celebration took on a different meaning. It was a celebration of survival. The growing pains our family suffered this past year were not easy. Always worth it, but not easy. And so, one year into being a family of four, I have these thoughts about the past 365 days.

If I had it to do all over again I would have read more books about behavior modification and the adopted child before traveling to Russia. Our adoption agency gave us a minimal amount of information on what to expect, and I truly didn't know any better. Which is 100% my fault. We had so much waiting time before the big five year old came home from China that I read every book about China adoption I could get my hands on. I knew exactly what our trip would be like. I knew how we would be treated in China. I knew what to expect when we came home. But the second time around it happened more quickly. We already had a child in our home to care for and drive around town to preschool, football practice, Sunday school, birthday parties, China school, China play group... It is no excuse, but we were busy living our lives. And we are good parents. We knew what we were doing. And thank God we did.

Because if we had been first time parents this past year would have been unbearable. We would have made way more mistakes than we did. That being said, I still wish I had been better prepared to start from day one the special type of love and discipline needed for a 24 month old adopted from a foreign country. I have no doubt that the frustration we felt when dealing with our sweet tiny toddler did nothing but add to the problem.

If I had it to do all over again I would have put the lock on the refrigerator earlier.

I would have found the solution to the problem of the tiny toddler removing his car seat straps earlier.

I would have removed all the toys before the tiny toddler threw them at my head.

I would have taken more deep breaths. I would have stopped using time outs sooner. I would have, I would have, I would have....

But I can't turn back the clock. And it is time for me to let it all go. I need to remember that we were in the trenches. Had I been on the outside looking in at our little drama this past year I might very well have thought of all of these things, and more. But living it every day, I was too close to the situation to clearly see my way out. So I did what everyone does in a difficult situation. I did the best I could with what I had to work with. And it was enough.

I have 365 days of being a mother to two small boys under my belt. I have 365 days of watching bugs crawl across the sidewalk. I have 365 days of blowing bubbles with the tiny toddler in the bathtub. I have 365 days of laying on our bed reading books with him. I have 365 days of  hugs, and cuddles, and kisses. I have 365 days of watching him say "I love you" in his special version of sign language. I have 365 days of "firsts". Watching him fall in love with his first TV show. Watching him taste peanut butter for the first time. Sharing his first amusement park and seeing his love of merry go rounds bloom right before my eyes. His first English words. His first meeting with Grandma and HG. His first time counting to five.

In three days my tiny toddler will celebrate his third birthday. Last year we were in Russia on his birthday and we celebrated with an odd tasting cake made by the hotel dining room. Me and Daddy and our new son, alone, unsure, not knowing what the future held but thrilled to be together in that moment. This year he understands what his birthday is about. He has picked out the flavor of cake he wants and has chosen the candles for the top. He likes to hold the package of candles and pretend to blow them out. He is ready. Later this month he will have another first- his first American birthday party. Because one of the few things we knew he truly liked last Christmas was buses that is what everyone gave him last year. Every Christmas present he opened contained some sort of bus toy. Now he thinks all presents hold buses and so every time we talk about his birthday he says "bus?". He has no idea....

The big five year old is in his second season of flag football. He will participate in his first vacation bible school this summer. he heads off to kindergarten in the fall, and will also be taking violin lessons, playing sports, and becoming more involved in church. He will continue with China school and his China play group. The tiny toddler is turning three and will soon be starting preschool. He will take swimming lessons this summer and a music class in the Fall. He will start Sunday school and maybe take martial arts at China school with his big brother. He will learn more English and more self control. My family may be done "growing", which is a little sad, sometimes. But we have so much "growing up" still to do.

So here's to another 365 days of chaos and craziness. Here's to more "Mommy, can you put this rock in your pocket cuz i want to keep it forever." More, "Me do it, Mama, me do it!". More singing in the car and dancing in the living room. More pretending the stairs are a train that can take us anywhere in the world we want to go. More watching bugs and playing in the dirt with our little construction cars. More monster trucks and Angry Birds. More giggles because big brother said "poop!". Another 365 days of love.