Road Trippin' With The RADish

Part Two in the "Extended Family Beach Vacation" series. You can read part one here.



Tomorrow we will be loading up the car, delivering the puppy to her "hotel", and driving to Pittsburgh for a family wedding. We will be gone just two days, dragging ourselves home Sunday evening. A trial run, so to speak, for our upcoming week long beach vacation.

We have traveled as a family before, on these small weekend trips, and every time a few things go right and a lot of things go wrong. We are slowly putting together our "tool kit" for life on the road with our youngest son. Anxiety, RAD, and sensory issues swim together in a pool of normal five year old boy mischief, which sits in the backseat next to a seven year old who can never turn off his brain and who is, and I quote, "always in need of technology or (his) head hurts!". I ask you, what can go wrong?

We have tried sticker charts and behavior rewards. Charts have been ripped and rewards thrown back in my face. But we must keep trying, right? I am not the one who is operating from a place of fear, so I am the one who must figure this out.

Tomorrow when we hit the road each boy will have a "good times" book, where we, or they, can write or draw pictures of the good stuff. No stickers, no goals, just compliments and praises. My boys are competitive, so this just might work. And if it doesn't, then so be it. If it is ruined in a tantrum I will survive. I am much stronger about this sort of thing than I used to be!

My MZW LOVES all things USA so his good times book should bring a smile to his face!

 

 



Each of us, Daddy and Mommy included, will have a visor clip as well. One thing I have noticed on these long drives is that all of us tend to lose it. We each have our own behaviors and we each have moments that we wish we could get back. And all of us, every single one us, needs to be held accountable. I want my boys to see that I struggle as well, and that I am not above reproach just because I can drive the car or buy wine. (mmm, wine...)

They are not fancy, because they might not last. I'm OK with that!



If behaviors ratchet up the clip is removed. If atonement is made, the clip goes back up. Everyone who has a clip on the visor when the car stops for a break gets a treat. Easy peasy. And visual, something very important for my little RADish.

Normally these types of rewards and consequences do not work for attachment challenged children. And we have seen our share of techniques not working. But my little guy is slowly coming around, and while he still frequently cannot be forward thinking enough to learn from his mistakes, he is starting to respond. Starting. A little glimmer of hope. We hang on to what we can, don't we?

So we are ready. This trip includes a large family wedding, loud reception, lots of car time and an overnight stay in an unfamiliar hotel. All of these could easily set off my youngest, so the Sensory Bag is also packed.

• Sensory brush
• Squishy bumpy light up hand held ball
• Play-Doh with beads buried inside and tweezers
• Essential Oils
• Matchbox cars (because they are quiet, small, and let's face it, fun to drive over well decorated wedding reception tables)
• Chewy necklaces
• Brain Works app for sensory break ideas
• Melatonin (because I am no fool)
• Beyond Consequences book
• Parenting the Hurt Child book

Wish us luck- we are off!

My Dreams Are Pinned to a Shiny Red Bicycle

I am pinning all my hopes and dreams on a small red children's bicycle. OK, that might be a little too dramatic. But it is totally true to say I am pinning a lot of hope onto this shiny new bike. My youngest son's shiny new bike. I have prayed for a breakthrough like this. Yes, I have prayed for the power of a bicycle to come and rescue my son. To some my bike prayers may seem silly. To me, it's just another day.

My youngest son has RAD. Reactive Attachment Disorder. This is the latest in an alphabet soup of diagnosis. ADHD, (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). SPD, (Sensory Processing Disorder). PTSD, (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome). Possible FAS, (Fetal Alcohol Syndrome). Toss in anxiety and you have an alphabet soup no parent would wish to serve their child. I have come to learn that the diagnosis doesn't matter as much as the treatment. And I have learned that it is not one size fits all when it comes to treatment.

OK, now it's test time. Let's practice that alphabet. The SPD my son displays is a direct result of his FAS and RAD. One of the treatments for this is to teach him to take what we call "sensory breaks". We want him to take these breaks to break the cycle of hyperactivity, brought on by anxiety and PTSD. He doesn't want to take these breaks because he likes the way he feels when hyperactivity sets in. Plus this hyperactivity causes chaos in the household, which keeps him in control, something he is seeking thanks to his RAD. Got it?

The types of activities he needs to complete for these sensory breaks does not always make sense to someone not well versed in how the brain works. Which is me. With my oldest son, if I want him to calm down, I simply tell him to stop whatever activity is winding him up and offer a quiet one, such as an art project, a walk, or a TV show. When I want  my alphabet soup son to calm down I need to offer him activities such as jumping, bouncing, swinging, push ups, and bike riding.  And it usually goes something like this:

Me: "Let's take a sensory break!"
Son: "NO!"

And this goes on for a while. And then goes on some more. He'll try an activity and then discard it 30 seconds later. He doesn't want to change, and he cannot process why this would be good for him. As he winds up tighter and tighter his older brother watches and decides he wants to join in the fun. While he will listen when I tell him to stop, he cannot fully process they "why" part of my request either. And I wind up feeling like the mean mom who never lets her kids have any fun. I can't win, because if I let the fun and hyperactivity continue it will literally take hours for the youngest to wind down. He simply cannot play like other kids. Confused? Me too. Imagine how difficult this is to explain to a 7 year old!

So, back to bike riding. After years of refusing to pedal a bike my youngest has finally joined the party. And we celebrated by getting him his very own bike yesterday. He was beyond thrilled. After trying it out last night he asked if he could ride it some more this morning. (Notice I said he asked. He didn't demand. He didn't just run outside and do it himself. He asked! Progress. Slow, but it is there.)

He likes to ride his bike. Maybe, just maybe, he will occasionally accept this as a sensory break. Maybe he will do this activity for longer than 30 seconds at a time. Maybe he can complete this activity with his older brother without it going south and ending up in hurt feelings and tattling. Maybe I can actually do something else, every once in a while, instead of standing over him administrating a sensory break.

I have learned that there are no quick fixes here. It will take years to bring my youngest son back from the edge of early life trauma. So I celebrate this tiny victory that has been won in the form of a shiny red bicycle. We celebrate the small stuff around here, the every day, the mundane. There is always something worth celebrating- that alphabet soup of diagnosis? They keep our young family on a constant roller coaster of emotions, so we look for the small victories. And today that victory comes on a bike. A shiny, red, big kids bike. And I could not be more proud.

Do Your Clipboard!

we keep our clipboards on the dryer- within easy reach of both boys 

I am a busy working mom. Just like so many of you out there. Whether you work outside the home, or telecommute, whether you are a stay at home mom, (who WORK the hardest, in my opinion), you are busy. Busy busy busy. I have a great daily schedule, and believe me, I know how very lucky I am. My youngest son gets up with me in the morning and has breakfast with my sweet husband and I. The quiet of morning is usually the best time of day for my little guy's moods, so this calm and sleepy breakfast date is something I treasure. After my husband leaves for work my youngest and I head upstairs to get dressed for school. And this is where his clipboard makes it's first appearance of the day.

If you are a follower of this blog, you have heard about these clipboards. If you have spent any time with me in the past few months you have heard about these clipboards. I am always talking about these clipboards!

The first item on my youngest son's morning clipboard is "get dressed on your own". I make sure that he has clothes ready to go in his tomorrow drawer, and he needs to go to his room and get himself dressed. This is a child who wants me to physically take off his pajamas and help him step into his undies- and while I love our time together, I don't always have time to be holding undies while my perfectly capable almost 5 year old steps into them like a little prince.

After he gets dressed he tidies up his bed. He doesn't make his bed, because he sleeps on top of the bedspread and because he just isn't ready to be making beds. So he pulls up his blanket and arranges his stuffed animals in a tidy little row. He then moves on to brushing his teeth. He brings me his toothbrush and toothpaste and I get him all set up and send him back to his bathroom, where he completes the job. All of this responsibility on his part allows me time to get myself dressed and ready for the day. Because here's the thing- I can't get up ahead of my kid. All the books tell you to wake up before your children so you can be all ready for your day when your little bundles of joy hop out of bed. Um, no thank you. I could get myself out of bed at 4am and somehow my youngest would know. And he would be by my side, with his "Hey Mommy!"

And the day progresses from there. Each child has a clipboard in the morning and evening. They check off each item as they complete it. If they complete their entire list and put the clipboard back where they live, in a basket on the dryer, they will find a little treat attached the next time they grab it. So if my youngest son completes all of his morning tasks he will have a little treat waiting for him when he comes home from school.

This system grew from lots of trial and error on my part. I have tried many chore systems and just could not find one that didn't take a huge amount of effort on my part to complete. Each boy has a small clipboard of their own. I have created a Morning, Evening, Sunday Church, and No School Day list. I slipped the lists into a plastic sheet cover so that each child can simply check off their tasks with a dry erase marker. I keep the morning and evening lists back to back in the page protector, so all I need to do is flip the chart over in the middle of the day. Easy peasy!

The tasks my boys have on their lists are the jobs I found myself hounding them about every.sing.day. Getting shoes on for school. Helping to set the dinner table. Putting backpacks and coats away. Getting through the morning without a time out. You know, whatever the kid needs. That's the great thing about this system- it is very easy to add a task or to change up the list. If I have additional chores that need done, which I try to assign to each child at least 4 times a week, I simply add it to their clipboard. Two minutes of planning on my part every day and I get all those chores done that I need help with. Well, usually. Like any system, it doesn't always work. But I have found that 90% of the time the stuff I need done gets done, and I am not longer driving myself crazy and repeating myself a thousand times. Plus, with two kids on the system, if one gets a treat and the other doesn't, things can get ugly, which means the next time? Clipboard done.

Now that we have been using the system for a few months all I need to do is say "Clipboards!" or "Do your clipboard!" and I leave it at that. Because let's face it- if our children don't do what we ask them to, all those jobs still need done, right? So if they neglect their clipboard, I do what needs done, because I would have to do it anyways. But they don't get their treat. And they feel that pain, believe me.

Before I had children I was one of those people who would say crazy stupid things like, "I will never pay my kids to do chores. They will do them because they are a part of the family!" Um, nope. So I get it, I know it may sound crazy to reward my child for doing things like getting dressed and putting on his shoes. And yes, I agree. But my youngest child has sensory and trauma issues and needs routine, lists, and rewards. If it costs me a cookie or a quarter to have a calm morning, I will gladly cough it up. Don't tell my kids, but I would gladly cough up way more than that!

 

 

 

While many of the tasks on their clipboards are routine chores or daily "musts", such as brushing teeth, I have also included other important work that I feel is a must for my family. My oldest straight A student son has "Do Your Homework, No Complaining!" on his evening list. He also has "Read or Do Oneline Math For 15 Minutes" on his evening list, because I was fighting with him about this every night. No more. Prayers, devotions, behaving in the car, taking much needed sensory breaks, sharing what was learned in Sunday School- it's all there.

 

The treats that my boys receive range from candy, dollars, quarters, small toys or stickers. Usually the treat is something very small, but every so often I surprise them with a larger treat, such as a dollar or a big cookie. Again, my sanity is worth the price of the treat. Plus, the boys are saving their money, which is a good lesson to learn. Do you think they'll use any of their hard earned money to buy their momma an awesome Mother's Day gift?

 



Hey Mommy

It was a long day, and I was tired. Your older brother had ignored his chores and his homework, and I was frustrated. You were running around the playground when I got to daycare to pick you up. You ran into my arms, smiling. You started chattering the moment you saw me. I smiled at you, nodded my head. You chattered through putting your back pack on and as we walked to the car. You chattered as you helped me to buckle your car seat and as I wearily got into the car. You chattered as I drove the quarter mile home. I turned on the radio in an attempt to unwind, just a little. My day starts when you show up at my bedside, with your first "Hey Mommy" of the day. A million "Hey Mommy"s later I just needed a break. So I turned on the radio. Your older brother understands that I am frustrated with his choices. He wisely chose to read a book on the short drive home. I turn off the radio. It cannot compete for space in my brain, not with your chattering.


"Hey  Mommy. Hey Mommy. I am awake now. I am not going back to sleep. Can I have your phone?"

We pull into the driveway just as Daddy gets home. I open you car door and help you unbuckle but I wander away before you hop out. I turn on the oven, robotically moving into making dinner. My boys, all of you, vibrate, file, and trail in. A trail of backpacks, shoes, coats and mail depict your travels around the kitchen. Another school day, another 200 papers to sort through.

You run to your clipboard to check your treat. Your brother had told you that there was a "super cool" treat on your clipboard and you couldn't wait to check it out. Maybe the build up was too much, I don't know. You looked at the matchbox car attached to your clipboard and the melt down began. I took the car out of your hands before you threw it at one of us. Without a word I set it on the counter, ignored your screaming, and turned back to the task at hand- dinner. You stand in the doorway, crying for your car. And the dance begins. The car is given back to you. You throw it. It is taken away. You scream. We dance this way for a while, until I snap. The car is put up in a cupboard and you are sent to your room. You don't go though. You never do. I take a deep breath and sweep you up into my arms, kissing your sweaty little head. I move us into the family room and attempt a "time in". In theory you should be able to calm yourself down during this quiet time with Mommy. In real life, however, you continue to scream and kick at me. Sometimes we make it and sometimes we don't. This time we don't. I let the tension flow from my arms as I let you slide to the floor. Daddy scoops you up and half carries, half drags you to your room. Your screaming permeates the house. My heart melts into a puddle as you scream my name. I turn away from your brother as I work hard to concentrate on dinner and not on how my heart is breaking,. Hearing your child scream for you as though he feels he might never see you again is heartbreaking.

You are told you can come back downstairs when you are ready. The rest of your family sits down to dinner. A quiet dinner, each of us caught up in our own thoughts. Tasteless, sad, quiet, your empty chair sitting there, mocking me. If I am to be totally honest, this is not the family I dreamed of. At least not tonight.


"Hey Mommy. MykneehurtsandIneedanotherbandaiddidyouhangupthatpictureIpaintedwhyareyoudoingthatHeyMommyHeyMommyicancountto29Mommy..."

That was last night. This morning you appeared at my bedside at the crack of dawn, chattering away. If you remember last night you don't speak of it. I am amazed at how we can fight, you and I, and you don't seem to remember it the next day. No grudges, no lingering anger. Not on your part at least. I remember it all. Every kick. Every scream. Every tearful cry of "Mommy". It is etched on my heart forever.

You are not easy, my son. I feel as though every single thing we do is a struggle. Getting dressed, eating breakfast, getting out to the bus stop. You hop up the bus stairs as the bus driver greets you with his usual "Hi Smiley!". At least once a week he asks me, "Is he always this happy?" My answer today might have been a little harsh, but dude, you drive the bus to the special needs preschool. You should know. Things are not always as they seem.

After I get both you and your brother on your school buses I head out to the registrars office to sign you up for kindergarten. I sit in the hallway facing the open window while the school registrar reviews your paperwork and walks me through kindergarten. My mind wanders. You don't talk, you whine. You sing to yourself in the bathroom. You melt down on a pretty regular basis. You occasionally hurt your friends. Who am I kidding? You don't have any friends. You occasionally hurt other children who happen to be hanging out around you. You have, inexplicably, wet your pants three times over the past three weeks, all while on your way to the bathroom. You don't sleep, at least not enough. You take hours to eat, or you refuse to eat. You wander away from the dinner table. You have odd behaviors. I love you, and I will always love you, no matter how many times you rearrange the silverware or repeat the number "3" over and over to yourself. But others, out there in the world, they might not be so understanding. What I see simply as "Alex" others might label "weird". I am drained by the time I get back home. The thought of sending you to school terrifies me.

"Hey Mommy. I was playing with the other kids today and they made fun of me. Mommy, Hey Mommy, why?"

Daddy picks you up from daycare tonight and you show up in the kitchen, all smiles and sweetness. You eat your dinner as though you haven't eaten for days, sitting quietly in your chair and asking to be excused. You watch a little of your favorite movie, Hop, before I take you up to bed. We read books. We talk about your brain. We celebrate your smart choices. I relax as I lay on your bed next to you. I give you a goodnight kiss and walk to the door. You are on your feet already. And we dance again. I put you back to bed, cover you up. You kick off the covers and demand I cover you up again. Well hello crazy blanket game. We haven't seen you in a while.

"Hey Mommy cover me up!"  "Hey Mommy I need covered up!"

When your Daddy and brother return home from running an errand they find us back downstairs. Daddy takes you to bed, again. You scream, again. My heart shatters a little, again. My sensitive seven year old at first questions why his little brother is still up, annoyed at the unfairness of it all. My answer, "I don't know. I just can't.", must speak to him. He stops complaining about his brother's late bedtime and chooses to hug me instead.

I think sometimes that your particular brand of trauma is tricky, because you will have so many good days. Sure, your good days would make that Super Nanny woman from TV cringe, but in comparison to the chaos, your good days are awesome. And then the issues pop up and we are blindsided, again. I understand a little of what your mind is doing to you. After three years of living with you I am a little gun shy too. I feel as though I am always on edge, waiting for that other shoe to drop. So I get it, how you feel.

You have had a rough few days. You will cycle back up, I hope, as you usually do. You have more doctors to see and treatments to try. You have a lot to do this summer. Between therapy and doctors and kindergarten prep we will be busy. But right now I have to go to bed, because it is getting late, and you will be chattering your "Hey Mommy" into my sleeping brain before I know it.

repairing the broken

It has been nearly three years since I stepped off that plane with a tiny 24 month old strapped to my hip. I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. Tired, I mean bone tired. Awake for two days straight, emotionally and physically battered kind of tired. Cranky, too. That tiny 24 month old had quickly proven to be quite a handful. After hours of holding his smooth forehead away from my body to stop him from biting me, after trying to soothe his screaming and comfort his angry little body, I was cranky. Worried, for sure. This tiny little life had already attached himself to my heart, as well as to my body. He hadn't let me out of his sight in two weeks. He had held my finger while I showered, not minding the water splashing over him as he stood there, patiently waiting for me to finish. He had held my hand through the slats in the crib, refusing to allow his tired body to sleep. He had broken the old white wooden crib the hotel had placed in our room with his near constant full body tantrums. Even if I held him until he fell asleep his body would jolt awake when I gently placed him in the crib, his tears already falling as he started to scream, again. Worried if I would ever sleep again. Worried about the collateral damage my new son had delivered on our Russian hotel room. Will be always be destructive? Will he always be angry? Will he hurt my then four year old son? Monumental worry. A bundle of nerves, tired, cranky and worried, walking off a plane at the end of a two day journey across the world. With a tiny angry baby strapped to my hip.

I have learned a lot these past three years. I have learned that repairing the broken is not easy. I have learned that it can take years to overcome neglect and trauma, if it happens at all. I have learned that love is not always enough. Patience. Forgiveness. Education. Advocacy. Energy. An endless supply of energy.

Three years in and that boy can still drive me wild. Wild with love and pride for him and his accomplishments. Wild with frustration. Wild with worry over his future. Will he be able to make it through a one hour Sunday school class? (He can, now.) Will he ever stop purposely breaking things that are important to others? (He has, mostly.) Will he ever just go to his room when asked, to give himself, and me, a time away? (Not yet.) Will he stop hitting his daddy and I out of anger? (He has, most of the time.) Will he continue to have multiple breakdowns and screaming fits daily? (No.) Weekly? (Yes.) Will he ever be able to step outside of his state constant vigilance to be able to learn? (Yes, slowly.) Will he ever be calm enough to sleep through the night? (Yes.) Will he ever sleep through the night without an herbal assist? (Yes, mostly). Will he be able to attend a family function without eventually getting so wound up that he hits a cousin? (Not yet.)

So many worries. And for the bulk of the past three years these worries have all been about him. Will he...? Can he...? Should he...? But then it hit me. This repairing the broken is not about fixing him. It's about helping him, yes. Helping him find the strategies he will need to cope in this world. Helping him to be successful in whatever educational setting works for him. Helping him to make friends and sustain relationships. Helping him. But not fixing him. There is no repairing going on here. Not on his end, at least.

The repairing comes in on my end. Repairing the hole in my dreams that began as a tiny little tear way back in that hotel room in Russia. The tear that grew a little with each swing he took at me and each shoe he winged at my head from the backseat of the car. The rip that became a gash with each argument between my husband and myself, for raising a child of trauma is not easy and maintaining a team spirit is difficult at best and downright impossible at times. The gash that opened further with each second guess and sleepless night. The second hole that appeared the day I watched my young son's entire special needs preschool class stand up and sing a song, sans my son, because he couldn't process what was happening and he couldn't stand still long enough to participate. That was the day I learned exactly how much time my son was spending walking around his preschool with the aid, due to his disruptiveness in class. That was the day I put my boys in the car in the preschool parking lot, drove them to a drive through smoothie place, parked the car, and cried, quietly, in the front seat as they chattered and fought and giggled and drank their smoothies in the backseat. The rip really grew that day.

Every day that tiny tear either grows or is repaired in some way. There are days when I think the tear is close to sealing shut forever, that the problem is lessening and the solutions are close. And then I am blind sided by a new behavior, a new fear, a new outburst of some kind. And I fall again, taking my young son down with me.

But there is more to the repairing that rewriting the story of my dreams. There is the repairing of my parenting. What comes easily with my oldest is a struggle with my youngest. It is easy to understand the concept of "parenting the child you have, not the child you wish you had." It is not so easy to actually parent the child you have, when the child you have is frequently physically and mentally incapable of molding to your ways. So I have had to repair my parenting techniques. I have had to reach out for help. I have had to advocate on behalf of my son, on behalf of my family. I have had to educate family and friends on our needs. I have had to justify my parenting to many who should not have a say in how I raise my children. I have had to explain why we don't want him to play organized sports, at least not right now. Why we watch him like a hawk during family events. Why we remove him from "fun" before he even shows signs of going over the edge. Why we don't want to hear that he is simply "being a boy". That, yes, early life trauma is a real thing. And no, it is not always reversible. I have had to parent in a fishbowl, instead of the privacy of my home, because much of my son's anxiety issues show up in public, masked as hyperactivity and disobedience. I have had to repair my thin skin.

I have learned grace. To give grace to others, especially to my boys. And to give grace to myself.

These past three years have taught me that "normal" isn't always better, and that repairing the broken doesn't always mean fixing the child. These past three years have broken me in ways I am just beginning to understand. But something that is broken can still be useful. Broken can still be beautiful. Broken can be made whole again. I have chosen to advocate for and support my son. I have chosen to help him learn the skills to get through life. I have chosen to forgive myself when I break, yet again and when frustration gets the best of me. I understand that sometimes adoption is about repairing the broken. But now I know that I am the one who was broken. My son? He is perfect in his own way.

Better Living Through Electronics

I can hear my boys in the backyard, giggling and shouting to one another. Every so often I hear my husband's voice, raised to be heard over the boys own noise. They are out there in the snow, dragging the BBQ grill and the toddler play set to the front of the house, so that it can be thrown away this week. We are moving next month, to a bigger house, but yet my goal is to downsize to exactly only what we need and use on a regular basis.

The neighborhood is quiet. The snow that has been falling since last night has turned to rain and our neighbors with half a brain are tucked inside their cozy homes. Not us. My boys need to be outside. They  need to run and play and jump and scream. This need is so strong in them that they will accomplish it wherever they happen to be. And inside the house is no place for their particular brand of craziness. So this outdoor job, in the wet and the cold and rain, is perfect for them.

They finish up and I hear the garage door closing. The house shakes as they stomp inside and I can hear them talking as they take off their coats. "ALEX! Hang your coat up!", says my Super Six Year Old, in a slightly raised voice. "It DOES NOT belong on the floor." Well, he's right. I hear my Persevering Preschooler stomping around, his wet shoes clearly still on his feet as they pound the wood floors below my office. I hear loud giggling and what sounds like wrestling. Eventually I hear my husband's voice again, again raised to be heard over the clamour of these young boys. Orders are given. The TV is turned on. More orders. Then quiet. I feel my shoulders relax a little as my brain takes in the quiet. It is this peace and quiet that I yearn for, but yet what I get so very little of. If we are lucky the little one might fall asleep on the living room floor while watching a Christmas show, and the older one might find himself wrapped up in a game on his dad's iPhone. Peace. Better living through electronics.

Earlier today we were at the local mall. Last year we managed to miss the mall all together during the Christmas season, finding presents and photos with Santa elsewhere. This year my sweet husband needed a few new shirts for the new job he starts this week, so we loaded the family into the Equinator and headed to the mall. Always the planner, I brought snacks and the stroller, in the hopes of keeping the Persevering Preschooler entertained and tied down. We checked out refrigerators, as we will need one when we move. We looked at new TVs, as we will need an additional one of those too. Finally the shopping got to all of us and we headed to the play area. As my husband wandered off to buy his shirts I sat on a bench and watched my boys. Other mom's were talking to friends or scrolling their phones, but not me. I was hyper vigilant, as always, watching for signs that my youngest might decide to push an unsuspecting child down or punch someone in stomach. He doesn't do these things to be mean. No. His brain is wired differently than most kids and when he gets over stimulated he lashes out. So, why, you might ask, would I take him to this very noisy, very busy play area? Because he doesn't get over stimulated by what you'd think he would. The lights, the noise, the busyness- all of that is fine. He goes over the top when too many other kids touch him, or when he has too much "free play" time, where he gets to run and jump and spin. He can be alone in a room and wind himself up to the point of no return. So play areas like this are fine, as long as we take "sensory breaks". Try explaining that to the parent of the child he might hit, though. So I watch. I stand at attention, ready to jump in and drag my son away before anyone gets hurt. It's exhausting. But he deserves to be able to play like the other kids.

Today he doesn't hit a strange kid. Today his sensory overload pushes him to knock down his older brother and sit on him. I drag him off and bring him to my bench, whispering slowly into his ear. Begging him to complete a few sensory break activities with me. He struggles to get away. Who can blame him? The play area is much more enticing than his mother's boring exercises. I pray that someday he will understand why we do this and then he will be more willing to participate. He likes the way he feels when he is going over the top, so he is reluctant to participate in anything that will harsh his groove. I apply pressure in all the right spots and we rock slowly left to right for a few minutes before I finally give up and release him back into the fray.

Even though this play area is buzzing with noise, I notice, the parents are quiet. No one is calling out to their kids. As we wait on the curb for Daddy to pick us up I look around. There are other families also waiting, trying to stay dry in the rain and snow. I hush my four year old so I can hear my six year old speak. I ask him, for what feels like the 100th time, to repeat himself. His younger brother simply starts talking louder, making it impossible, once again, for me to hear my oldest son. All three of our voices are gaining speed, as if they have broken free of our bodies and are racing up a mountain. Louder, faster, louder faster we all speak. My multi- tasking brain notices that no one else around us is making this much noise.

In the car I turn off the radio and close my eyes. I have given each boy a phone- a bribe, really, to just.be.quiet.

We stop for lunch at our favorite place- BW3's. We love this restaurant because it is already loud. No one really notices our chaos rolling in the door. At least 300 times during the meal I say, "Alex, lower your voice. Please speak in a quieter tone."

Any requests or orders given in our home are done in a loud voice. And this used to bother me. This used to make me feel "less than". After all, all of the parenting books speak to having a peaceful, quiet home. Parenting experts are constantly telling us to whisper. To force our children to listen to us, speak more quietly, not more loudly. And I know that this works. When I am alone with my Super Six Year Old, it works. But when we toss in the Persevering Preschooler, all advice and rules go out the window. His brain does not process whispers. He simply does not hear me. And he is usually making so much noise that voices must be raised just to be heard over his din. And I felt bad about this for a long time. But one day it hit me. We are not one of those families. We are loud. We are chaotic. We are well behaved when it counts, usually. We are respectful, most of the time. We do not yell at each other or treat each other in a negative way. I had to learn the difference between yelling and being loud. When we are all together we are a loud family. And that is different than a family who yells at each other.

We have so many rules and routines in our home, all of them needed. Homework is done. Rooms are picked up. Toys are put away. Each boy has chores and they are trained to take off shoes, hang up coats and back packs and put lunch boxes on the counter before they run off to play. Bedtimes are strictly adhered to and helmets are always worn. But sometimes, you need a little chaos. Sometimes I just need to crank up my music, pop in my ear buds and forget the noise around me. After all, if they are really screaming, believe me, I would be able to hear it.

Today, This is What Adoption Means to Me

November is National Adoption Month. I have been thinking about what adoption means to me, and about what I wish others knew about adoption, and I have had so many thoughts about what to write about during this very important month. This is my chance to help get the word out. To help fund raise, to help further the cause. I don't believe that everyone should adopt; in fact, I feel that many, many wanna be parents should not adopt. It is not for everyone. But I do think that everyone can help in some way. I do feel that children are our best resources, they are our future, and not a single one of them asked to be born into this world. I believe that all of us have a responsibility to care for orphans, and I will probably talk about that here later on in the month.

But before I get to that, I have been thinking about what adoption means to me. I was driving the boys home from school and daycare tonight and while they played games and chatted in the backseat about the soon to arrive and much anticipated snow, I tried to string coherent thoughts together about what I wanted to say about adoption. I tried, ya'll, I just want you to know that. But I was not successful.

Instead, this is what entered my brain, courtesy of my youngest son.

"Mommy why is it going to snow? Why is is not snowing yet? Why is it going to snow? Why is there no snow yet? I am going to make a snow angel. Momma, I am gonna make a snow angel when we get home. Maffew, are you gonna make a snow angel? Mommy, where is the snow coming from? China? Is it snowing in China? LA LA LA LA LA LA. TURN UP THE RADIO MOMMA! I love this song. Mommy? Mommy, I love this song. TURN THE RADIO DOWN. Why is it so loud, Mommy? Turn it down. I can't hear you. Mommy, I had a RED day today. No, I had a green day. Can I eat this candy from my pocket? Why can't I eat this candy? It is my candy. NO MAFFEW! It is my candy! Can I have your phone? Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY? Can I have your phone? I want your phone. Mommy, I want your phone. You said I could have your phone. I want your phone. I am kicking your seat Mommy. My shoes are not dirty, Mommy. I can kick your seat cuz my shoes are not dirty. I am not kicking your seat Mommy. Mommy? Where are we going? Why did we turn left? Which way is left Mommy? Is it this hand or this one? I did not hit you Maffew. I was just pointing out my right hand. I did not HIT YOU! Mommy, Maffew says I hit him. I did not hit him. Mommy? When is Ho Ho coming, Mommy? I love Ho Ho. I want Ho Ho to come tonight. I did not HIT YOU! I don't want Ho Ho to come tonight. I'm not getting any presents. I don't want any presents. Throw my candy in the trash. I don't want it. Mommy, when is it going to snow? Mommy? MOMMY?"

So read this, oh, about 50 times, as LOUD AS YOU CAN. And fast. With a slight whine to your voice. Be sure to read it quickly.

I try to keep up, I promise you that I do. If I am not careful I can find myself stuck in a tug of war of words with this little chatterbox. I answer the first few questions, and then I realize that he doesn't care if I answer. That is he, in fact, not even listening to me. I want him to stop. I want him to just. stop. talking.

It might snow tonight, honey. Because the weather will get colder tonight and that makes the rain turn to snow. I just answered that question. And that one. I don't think there will be enough snow for a snow angel, honey. Yes, it might be snowing in some parts of China. How do you ask for the radio to be turned up? You just asked to turn it up! OK, I am turning it down! You can't hear me because you are talking so loudly, Alex. Take a deep breath. You did not have a red day. No, please put the candy back in your pocket. Yes, it is your candy, but there is no candy until after we eat dinner. Why is it in your pocket? You may have my phone later honey, not right now. Later. LATER! Asked and answered! Please stop kicking my seat. Because I don't want you to get the seat dirty. I don't care if your shoes are clean, please keep your feet still. We are going to the grocery store. Your left hand is the one by the window. Apologize to your brother. Ho Ho comes next month Alex. Next month. I didn't say you weren't getting any presents. I said please take a breath and stop talking. Yes, you are going to get presents from Ho Ho. For the love of all things holy, little one, STOP TALKING!

I said a few of those things. I thought all of them. The chattering continued throughout the grocery store. And then back in the car. Nothing offered to help him climb down from the sensory overload high he was on was accepted. Headphones were thrown into the front seat. The radio was met with him simply raising his own volume. The attempt at calming rocking before leaving the grocery store parking lot was met with loud screaming and curious stares from the other patrons. Is that woman hurting that sweet child? Knowing he had won the battle, he smiled, ratcheted up his volume another notch and continued to talk. He chattered through dinner, reminding me that his mac and cheese was still too hot to eat and that he wanted more watermelon. He chattered through Daddy coming home and the puppy getting a new dog bed. His constant loud chatter was frequently punctuated by our older son saying "Stop it, Alex!" in a very whiny voice. We were stuck in a loop. Child two being loud and frantic. Child one telling Child two to stop it, in a very whiny way. Child two ignoring Child one. Parent reminding Child one to stop whining and to phrase his request as a "do" command instead of a "do not". And the loop starts again. And goes on and on and on and on, until finally Child one smacks Child two while Mommy pulls them apart, secretly thanking Child one for breaking the cycle. (You parents of more than one kid, you know what I mean. I would never hit my child, but I might secretly cheer on the big brother who does...)

Today, this is what adoption means to me. Constant chatter and no space to think. I love my boys and wouldn't change our story for anything. But adoption, to me, now means more than sweetness and light. right now, tonight, it means chaos, loud, and frustration. It means thankfulness at bedtime and more wine than I think I drank in my twenties. It means breathing a sigh of relief when the house is finally quiet and sending up a quiet prayer that tomorrow will be a less chatty day. Today, this is what adoption means to me.

Pick a Book

All of the parenting magazines and books talk about the "witching hour"- that time between after school/work and dinner, when moms are busy trying to get something nutritious on the table that her kids will actually eat and kids are busy employing every trick they know to becoming difficult, hungry, scheming, attention seeking time suckers. Or is that just my house?

In our home we have a few more "witching" hours. Sometimes they are hard to pin down- what was a peaceful transition yesterday is now difficult today. One that isn't hard to pin down is our bedtime witching hour. More often than not our persevering preschooler turns bedtime into the most dreaded time of day for everyone in the house.

Bedtime approaches and I head upstairs with my youngest son. I try to get him to go up with my sweet husband but I know that isn't going to happen. I get frustrated as I look around the downstairs, my eyes taking in the dinner dishes on the kitchen table, the left over dinner on the stove, the laundry basket full of clean clothes needing folded, the super six year old needing a watchful eye over his homework efforts. It will all have to wait, because me getting out of this bedtime is just not going to happen.

We head upstairs. My little guy stops at the top of the stairs, lays down, blocking my path. I stand on the top step, cajoling him into moving on towards his room. My voice is sweet and calm while my brain is screaming, screaming, "Why do you do this every night? Just walk to your room!"

______________________________________________________________________________

We make it as far as the bathroom, where we negotiate the exact amount of toothpaste you will accept on one of your many toothbrushes. Perhaps we have already spent precious minutes looking for just the right toothbrush to suite your tooth brushing needs this evening. You put your toothbrush down and climb up onto the sink to get a drink. There is no stopping you- you will drink just as much, or as little, water as you need to before moving on to sit on the potty. You trip as you take off your pants and fall over onto the floor. Now that you are on the floor you roll around, meowing like a cat. Finally, after I pet your head a few times, you get up and finish in the bathroom.

I pick up you up and swing you onto my hip before leaving the bathroom. If I don't there is a good chance that you will turn the wrong way out of the bathroom and head into our bedroom, where you will bounce up and down on the bed as I try to catch you, my blood beginning to boil. No big deal, you say? Sure. But do it every single night, do it on the nights you are in a great mood and on the nights you are exhausted. Do it on the nights your older son is crying downstairs because you said you would play Uno with him but now are trapped in this room watching your other son slowly rip your heart out. Do it every. single. day. Then tell me it is no big deal.

We make it to your room where I wrestle you into a new pull up and pajamas- maybe. "Pick out a book", I say, hopeful that you will do this. You sort through every book in your toy box. Not finding what you are looking for you open the small blue suitcase with the green airplane on it where you keep your "travelling books". You tell me your story about how you are going on an airplane and you are bringing all of these books with you for me to read to you on the plane. I smile. I know this story by heart. I like that I am in it, and that you want me by your side on this pretend plane trip. As you sort through your books I think to myself how much easier it would be if you would just put your books in the low shelf attached to your bed; you refuse to allow anything to enter into this large space just in case you need to hide there from a bad guy. I don't know why you are worried about this or what has caused it to take up space in your mind, but it is there, and there is no assuring you that you are safe here. You need that shelf open, ready to hide your tiny little body. So the books are on the floor, and in the toy box, and falling out of that small suitcase.

Minutes pass as I watch you sort through your books, carefully looking over the covers and then discarding each book. Finally you bring me a book. "Climb up here by me", I say. You run around the bed a few times, yelling about how you can't find a way up. I point out the numerous places where you can climb up. You close your eyes, while still running, now telling me that you can't see the bed. Eventually, with your eyes closed, you run into the wall, crumpling to the floor in tears. I scoop you up and sit you in my lap, rocking you and making soothing noises. My mind is screaming, "Stop running with your eyes closed and you won't get hurt!". My mind is screaming. My voice is soothing. I think I might be splitting into two here.

Just as quick as the tears came they are gone and we finally start to read. Two sentences in you start talking. I try to continue, finally giving up, setting the book aside as you roll around on your bed, chattering away. A few moments later you throw the book at me, wondering loudly why I stopped reading. I show you our hand signal for "quiet", trying to remind you to lower your always too loud voice. You start talking more loudly. Stuffed animals and pillows come flying towards me and as I bend and weave to dodge them I see you flying at me, holding out a pillow as though you plan to smother me. You don't, of course. You do land on my head, though, pushing the pillow into my face.

I stand up, calmly explaining that I am going to step out of your room for a moment until you calm down. You immediately freak out, asking me to stay. My heart breaks. I want to stay, but I know you will not stop. I want to go, because you are driving me crazy right here in this moment. As I leave your room I can sense your presence behind me, I can feel your finger tips as they graze my back and leg, trying to grab hold of me. Oh, how I wish you would grab hold of me, with your total heart, and your full brain. How I wish you could calm the thoughts down enough to fully relax in our relationship. I walk out of your room, pulling the door shut behind me. I talk to you the entire time, letting you know that I am not leaving, that I just need a moment, that I will be right back. I hold your door shut as you bang on it and rattle the handle. You and I would make a spectacular horror movie.

Wearily I release my hold on the door knob and you come barrelling out, hitting me, angry. I scoop you up and carry you back into your room. "Pick a book.", I say, hopeful that you will do this. I show you the big green ball and you smile as I roll it up and down your back. I push down hard, giving you the deep pressure you crave. I can see it is working. You look through your book as your brain begins to quiet. Your eyes grow heavy. I relax. These few minutes are so precious to me. I can be in the moment, fully with you, and my heart nearly breaks from the love it holds for you. I push the guilt away. The guilt from my earlier feelings, when you were pushing me to the edge. "How could I be mad at him?", I think to myself. "Look at how far he has come. At what he can now do. He is an angel, this boy."

You catch me by surprise when you suddenly rise up, pushing the green ball off your back and causing the book to fall to the floor. Stuffed animals are flying and your little body is bouncing on the bed. I am splitting in two again. I stand up, knowing if I stay this will go on all night. I walk out of your room, the tears already forming in my eyes as you start to cry for me. I pass my husband, who is coming in to rescue me. "One night. I just want one night of being a normal family.", I say, probably sarcastically, to my husband.

I go downstairs to the living room and sink into the sofa. This nightly emotional roller coaster is exhausting. These bedtimes take both both my son and I to great heights and deep dark lows.  My super six year old materializes in front me, as if from nowhere. He climbs into my lap, his long body relaxing into me. I kiss his head and hug his shoulders, thankful for this easy relationship. We sit quietly, watching his bedtime show together. Through the baby monitor on the table next to me I hear my sweet husband speaking in quiet tones to our youngest son. "Pick a book.", he says.

Today Was Different

I heard you this morning, opening your bedroom door, testing the waters, seeing who was awake for you to play with. I heard you sneak to the top of the stairs, whispering to Marley puppy, who was probably half asleep on her bed in the hallway. After discovering that no one was awake I heard you tip toe back down the hall to your room. Your bed creaked as you dumped half your toy box into it and the lights on the baby monitor lit up as you started pressing buttons on toys that sing and beep. I lay in bed, half awake, thinking how far you have come, little one. There was a time that you wouldn't have thought twice about flinging open your door, letting it slam into the wall. You would have run down the hallway and jumped into bed with me, with mere seconds between me and an angry meltdown. No matter how early in the day it would be, no amount of cajoling or redirection would get you out of my bed and back into your own. A tired momma running on not enough sleep and a young child always one inch away from a meltdown- a recipe for certain disaster for sure.

This morning was different. You are learning. Learning to trust. Learning to self regulate. Learning to be patient.

I saw that patience again later in the morning, as you sat in the grocery cart, letting me wheel you about the store. You happily filled your cart seat with lettuce and grapes, cereal and fruit snacks. You didn't whine or throw items out of the cart. You didn't kick me or spit at me. In fact, you made me smile, over and over again. I watched you stick out your tongue as you puzzled out how to rearrange your items to make them all fit up front in your little seat in the cart. I remember a time when you would have screamed and thrown the items out in a fit of anger. I parked the cart and walked away from you to read labels and you played with the bags of lettuce and grapes. There was a time when not only could I not walk away from you, but I would have to shop with one hand on you at all times, holding your hands or your feet down to prevent the constant hitting and kicking.

This morning was different. I am learning to trust you. I am learning to let you regulate. I am learning to be patient right along with you.

You hopped up into the booth at lunch, thrilled to have been allowed to choose the restaurant. You chose B.C. Roosters, because you like the chicken on the sign. You asked for my iPhone and then asked me to play with you. How could I refuse?  You sat still, and halfway through the meal I realized that I had not bothered to move the box of condiments away from your little hands. usually this is my first job, done without even thinking. But not this time. You ate, a little, and you talked, a lot. You made me laugh with your silly faces and your thousands of questions. You even let me take you  the bathroom before we sat down, understanding that even if you had to wait for a few minutes, you were, in fact, going to get to eat. Overcoming that fight or flight instinct has not been easy, but you are doing so great.

You helped me carry in the groceries and then you played, by yourself. You dressed yourself up in a winter hat and gloves and took the dog to the back yard. I caught glimpses of you as I moved about the kitchen putting away the groceries. You smiled as you ran around the yard, screaming happily as the puppy chased you. When you came inside you asked to play a game, and then you waited until I was ready to play. You didn't scream or throw the game. You sat down on our new kitchen floor and waited. And talked. And asked a thousand more questions. And then we played, together.

This afternoon was different. You are learning to relax in your own home. You are learning to be  a part of a family.

Later in the day we made cookies, and you watched my fingers as I folded up the dough and pinched it tight. Your fingers did the same. Slow, thoughtful fingers, folding the dough up over the apple filling. You did not get frustrated. You asked for some of the apple filling to eat and you carried your bowl of sweet goodness so carefully across the kitchen to the table. To your chair, to your spot at the table. I heard you say to yourself, "This is my chair. Alex's chair."

You asked to turn on the TV so you could watch Curious George. You sat down on the floor as the light on the TV flickered on. A few minutes into the show you came to sit next to me on the sofa. You do this a lot- always sitting near me, but not close enough to touch. Even if you are on my lap you are rigid, rarely allowing me to touch you more than what it takes to keep you from falling off. You scooted closer. And then closer still. You moved my arm and snuggled under it, letting my arm fall onto your side. You rested your head against my body. I felt you melt, relax.

That was very different. You are learning to be with others. You are learning to love.

I looked around the room, wishing my husband was home. Wishing anyone was around to witness this amazing event. You stayed close, tucked up under my arm, for the rest of the show. You then pushed off of me, racing to turn off the TV and already on to your next adventure. I didn't want to move. I could still feel the warmth of your little body.

Much of your calmness today was brought on by being alone with me, I am sure. Some of it was brought on by the therapy programs we have you in. I take a deep breath, knowing that dinner, bath, and bedtime may still go terribly awry, as they often do. But even if they do, once you are finally in bed, once your tears, and my tears, stop and once I can hear your slow breathing on the baby monitor we still keep in the living room, I will sink down into the sofa and wrap myself in the memory of your little body relaxing into me. It may sound like a small thing to someone else, but to me, you crossed a huge mountain today. And when it's quiet, when your thousands of questions have stopped, when your singing and constant chatter have quited and my mind can think again, I will replay those moments in my mind, over and over.

Learning to let you be you, and learning to love you in the moment, wherever you happen to be, has not been easy for me. But today was different. I am learning right along with you.

My Place in the Puzzle

Yesterday was a busy day. It started with an early summer program drop off for my super six year old so that the persevering preschooler and I could make it to his 8am occupational therapy appointment. The mom taxi was in full swing after that as I dropped my youngest off at daycare, raced home to clean the kitchen, work, and make dinner,  and then headed back out to pick up the youngest for his second therapy appointment of the day, behavioral therapy. When we walked in the door last night, tired and hungry, I was greeted by my oldest son, who ran over to me, practically knocking down his little brother, asking, "Mommy! Did you plan this dinner? It is so delicious! Thank you so  much!"  Wow. What a wonderful greeting! And it came at the end of a pretty good day. A very good day, in fact.

Sure, it was busy, with two different therapy appointments and work and all the "stuff" that comes with daily life. But it was good.

On the walk last night from the therapist's office to our car my persevering preschooler presented me with an outstanding meltdown. I am unclear as to the details of this but it appeared as though, even though he had been perfectly behaved inside the office, where we were all talking about his behavior, he felt the need to be carried to the car. Which I would have done, if he had just been  able to wait one minute. Just one tiny minute while I dug the car keys out of my purse and I would have scooped him up. Not having that need met he moved on to another need, the need to squat down in a busy parking lot to look at a rock. This need literally stopped traffic. This time I did pick up my son, and because I am not an ogre I picked up the rock as well. For that I was thanked with screaming and hitting, both activities I had just told the therapist that he rarely does these days. I kinda hope they were watching us out the window...

Even after stuffing him in the car, holding him down to buckle his car seat, removing his shoes so he couldn't throw them at me and offering him a snack, he continued to scream for a while. I climbed in the front seat and smiled. I smiled.  I can do this, I thought, because we have some answers. I can do this, I thought, because we have some help. I can do this, I thought, because I am not alone.

On the drive home, after my youngest had calmed down and was happily playing with the helicopter he picked out at the gift shop of the Dayton Air Force Museum, I started thinking about the these past two years. All of the "what ifs" came flooding into my mind. What if we had found these particular therapists earlier? What if we had begun this process last year? The year before? What if.....

Our journey has been typical. Our struggle was not unique. Many families bring their internationally adopted child home only to slowly find concerns and issues blooming before their eyes. I remember those first months, thinking his behavior was normal for what he had been through. And much of it probably was. I remember the remainder of that first year, thinking we just needed to find the right discipline approach while continuing to bond. I remember waiting to be placed in the special needs preschool, sure that these professionals would be able to help. I remember the counseling appointments on attachment, and the one on parenting approaches. I remember the diet changes, the supplements tried. Some of these approaches helped, some didn't. Some are still working and some have been abandoned. Narrowing down the issue and then treating it does not happen overnight.

I can't continue to allow the "what ifs" into my brain. I cannot imagine the child I saw two years ago even being able to sit through a therapy session, let alone get anything out of it. I can't imagine the mother I saw in myself even last year wanting to put her feelings of anger aside and learn to parent better through play therapy. But now, I am ready, and he is ready. And God placed in our hearts and minds the tools we need to move forward on this journey. He gave them to us when we were ready, on his timeline.

Last night the behavioral therapist asked me what I had done to bring my son to this point, where he now doing so much better. To this place where he rarely hits or spits. To this place where he feels like my son, and not just an angry visitor in my home. I started listing everything we had done and I suddenly had a hard time remembering it all. It was a hard two years. How can I not remember? As I was struggling to list things like wearing him, playing eye contact games, letting him remove every item of food from the refrigerator, it all sounded so less than. Less than what it really was. Less than what it felt like at the time. "What you did", the therapist said, "was not give up." Wait, what is that feeling? Pride? Peace? Ahhhhhh.

my happy boys at the lake

I will have weeks that are amazing, and weeks that are not so good. We will see regression in our son and moments of absolute joy. This week my super six year befriended a bully who had been picking on him and proudly announced at dinner that he and Bully were "friends now". He also talked this new friend into building a rocket out of legos at day care so they could sell it for a trillion dollars and give the money to children's hospital. What do you know, they are listening and watching what we do! My perserving preschooler helped me bring in the groceries from the car and began to actively play with friends at school. Not next to them, not near them, with them.  We had a successful first trip to the lake and spent a beautiful day outside, relaxing. We have a diagnosis to add to his issues that helps to explain the hyper activity and we have two brand new therapy programs in place. We lost our house cleaner, but we will buck up and scrub our own floors this week. (Well, let's not get carried away here!) This week was an amazing week. It was a week where we got the chance to see a little bit more of that larger than life puzzle our God has fit us into. There will be worries, setbacks, and challenges ahead. But right now I am enjoying my place in the puzzle.

For The Love of God, I AM A GIRL!

There are a lot of really gross things that happen in the life of a parent. We know this. We are prepared, as best we can, for the many and varied ways our children find to gross us out. I knew this, I’m sure. I mean, it’s not like I had never been around children before mine came along. I had changed poopy diapers and cleaned up projectile vomit. I had held my bare hand under the mouth of a gagging toddler to have chewed french fries deposited in it. I have a son who was born with a cleft palate; he used to be able to push all kinds of amazing foods up through the hole in his palate and out his nose. Every time this happened I was amazed. “We haven’t had peas in days!”, I would marvel. He still has that hole, but it is now much smaller, so no more peas coming through. He can still push chocolate through it, which makes it look as though his nose is bleeding. Always good to freak out a new babysitter or teacher.

But now I have two young children, both boys. And a husband, who also happens to be a boy. And the gross factor is ratcheted up past my comfort zone, on a daily basis.

I used to have a much lower tolerance for the disgusting. Then the first son came along. And I learned a thing or two. Then the second showed up and two years later it seems as though my husband has thrown all sense of decorum out the window and just jumped right in. Right in to the pool of disgusting. The poop jokes, the burps, the oozing science projects, the boogers, the mud and dirt- oh my God the dirt. The dirty underwear and the stained t-shirts and the daily mess. Oh my God the mess. I’m a little scared; my husband seems very comfortable in this gross new world. I fear that I am losing my grip on what is socially acceptable and worry that soon I will be right there with them, burping and farting and then laughing about it. Someone please pull me aside and smack me if you see this happen. I give you full permission…

So we are still, STILL, in the trenches with the potty training. Who knows why, really. Could be Sensory Processing Disorder. Could be stubbornness. Could be a simple delay due to how he arrived in our home. Whatever the reason, we are still living by the clock, the potty, and load after load of soiled underwear. I have visited bathrooms across the city, at every restaurant, park, and library we frequent. We have tried bribing. I have filled my pockets with candy and small toys and kicked my husband and oldest son out of the house for the weekend so that my youngest and I could totally focus just on the training. I have created sticker charts and elaborate reward systems. I have researched and downloaded potty training apps and games as rewards. I have handed out mini chocolate chips, M&M’s, and “big kid” candy, such as taffy. We have made more than one trip to our local Target to pick out underwear with his current favorite characters on them. Which is not as easy as it sounds, seeing as his favorites change weekly. (But who am I to complain? Who doesn’t love a reason to visit Target!)

I have read books and blogs and cried and yelled and fussed and given up a thousand times. If any of you need potty training advice, I can give it. I feel as though I know everything there is to know about the topic of potty training. That’s right. I can’t train up my own child but here I am offering you advice. How’s that for gutsy?

All of these tactics worked, for a short time. My youngest son cannot process consequences or follow through with rewards. So they work only sometimes. And sometimes they just add too much pressure and the reward is either expected and demanded, or simply tossed back in my face, defiantly. (SPD and trauma kids appear defiant when that isn’t really what is going on, but in the moment, that is sure what it feels like.)

 

So you can imagine how we praise when the potty is used. Which is frequently. Every day he gets a little closer. Well, not every day. Some days it seems all we do is change his clothes. But then there are other days when he is totally on top of the whole potty thing. So we praise. We clap and celebrate and sing songs and do all of those things you do with a toddler who is potty training. But my kid isn’t a toddler. He is a four year old. And while he is delayed in some areas he is right on target in others. He knows how to use our iPhones. He knows all about texting and being able to reach someone RIGHT NOW. Which is how I found myself standing in the middle of the grocery store the other day with my oldest son when I heard my phone ding from deep inside my purse. It was the ding of a text, so I pulled it out. I opened the text and saw the words “From Alex”.  And then I saw the photo that was attached. The photo that prompted me to text back the words “I AM A GIRL!”.  Because sometimes I feel as though my boys forget those four little words. I. am.  a. girl.

Later when we returned home I was able to get the back story on the very disgusting picture that accompanied the text from my husband. It appears that there was cause for celebration, because the potty had been used. I am imagining that there was much high fiving and cheering going on. And then, perhaps, my husband said, “Your mommy will be so proud of you!” Which, in turn, led to my youngest son saying something like, “Take a picture to show Mommy!”, which probably led to “Show Mommy NOW!”, which led to a very graphic photo being sent to me, A GIRL, in the middle of the grocery store.

I don’t know how they will top that, but I am sure they will find a way. And I am a little afraid.