Today my youngest son turns four years old. In the blink of an eye he grew from a tiny 24 month old into a strong and healthy four year old boy. In the blink of an eye he pushed away the bottles and pacifiers and grabbed onto trucks and games. While I was fending off chaos and blinking back the tears of exhaustion, frustration, and pain, my youngest son grew taller, sturdier. And today he turns another year older. Another year further away from the baby I never knew.
When a doctor or teacher asks me for my boys' birthdays I have to stop and think. I get odd looks when I do this. "How do you not know the birthday of your child?", I am sure they are thinking. But why would I? I wasn't there. I didn't wait for this day with anticipation and excitement. I didn't plan for this day of birth. So I have to think about it, when I am asked. Ask me their adoption dates, the dates they joined our families and I am quick to respond. Ask me a birthday and I pause.
So I don't think too much about the actual birthday. I don't look at my newly minted four year old and think back to his birth. I don't tell him the story of how long the labor was or what his daddy did while we waited for him to arrive. I do tell my boys these stories on their Family Days- how long we waited and prayed for them to come home, how Daddy paced around the room because the van you were riding in to meet us was late thanks to a flat tire, (the oldest), or how nervous and excited we were as we waited in the court house hallway, (the youngest). No, on the birthday of my boys, I don't think much about my actual boys. I think about the birth mothers I will never know.
Do they think about their lost little ones on this day? Is there a woman in Russia today thinking about the tiny baby she gave birth to four years ago? Does she think about this baby boy sometimes? Does the unknown Chinese birth mother think of the little boy with the cleft lip and cleft palate that she left on the steps of an old hotel? I have no answers. But I do know that if the tables were turned I wouldn't think about anything else.
On this day, on the fourth birthday of my youngest son, I send my thoughts to his birth mother. I want her to know that I am thankful to her. I wish she had found her way to better pre-natal care, yes. I wish she had been able to ignore the call of drugs and alcohol while carrying my son. But I am thankful he was born in a hospital. I am thankful that she knew she could not care for him. I am thankful that she carried the pregnancy to term. I am so very thankful to her, for my wonderful son.
She could have made so many other choices along the way. She could have ended the pregnancy. She could have refused to go to the hospital for the birth. She could have left her tiny, hours old baby in the street. She could have walked away from the hospital with that baby in her arms. She could have come back to claim him, dragging him down into her world. She could have said "no" when officials hunted her down and asked for her to sever her parental rights. She could have changed the course of my destiny.
If I could, I would tell her that my son is healthy. My son is funny. My son is smart. I would let her know that he is getting the help he needs. He is growing, both in body and in mind. He is learning about love, and family. He is learning about God. I would tell her about my son's amazing imagination and his love of Curious George. I would share with her his wit and how infectious his laughter can be. I would ask her if other members of my son's birth family cover their mouths when they get to laughing uncontrollably. I would ask her if his quick temper and "outie" belly button are birth family traits. I would ask her if she was aware of proper pre-natal care and simply chose not to care.
One thing I wouldn't ask her is "why". I would only say "thank you". On this, my youngest son's fourth birthday, to him I say "Happy Birthday!" And to the birth mother who gave me this great joy, I say "Thank You. To you I will always be grateful. I thank God for you."
Showing posts with label birth mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label birth mother. Show all posts
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
From Birth Mothers to Bullying- the boy is doing just fine
"Daddy is not answering his phone.", I said to my super six year old, as we sat snuggled together in the restaurant booth, waiting for our dinners to arrive. "Keep calling, Mommy. You must persevere!" Persevere? My super six year knows the word "persevere"? After grilling him for the definition, it turns out, he does.
Learning that my oldest son has a vocabulary even larger than I thought was not the only thing I learned yesterday. Apparently my young man knows this word because it is one of the awards given out monthly in Chapel in his school. I just found out about these awards last week and am still a little sketchy on them. I hear there is an award for "Honesty", and now one for "Perseverance". What I do know is that my guy has not been awarded one of these yet, and he really, really, really wants one. At his age, and knowing his temperament, I doubt he wants one for the meaning behind it as much as for the idea of "winning". My super six year old loves to win. But what a great thing to win at, right? I learned about this at 7:00pm last night, after spending the entire day playing at COSI.
The morning started with a trip to the pediatrician for my son's six year old well check up. There I learned something I had been suspecting for quite a while. My young son can act calmly in that doctor's office. I was beginning to wonder. He questioned the nurse, "Am I going to get any shots today?" She wasn't sure. He questioned the doctor, who confirmed that, no, he would not be getting any shots. He had been questioning me for two days. He immediately stopped wiggling and grabbing for items in the drawers under the exam table. He let his strong body melt into the table, stretched out long, and began to play his DS while he sang to himself. (Smashmouth!) I could actually talk to the doctor! I could think about my answers! I could stop being that frazzled mother who has to keep one eye, and both hands, on her child at all times! Yesterday morning I learned that when my son has the information he needs he can be a calm little guy. And yes, I already knew this, but it was a great reminder.
I learned that my super six year is maturing in ways that make me proud. While we waited for nearly two hours to get into COSI - ALWAYS BUY YOUR TICKETS ONLINE DURING SPRING BREAK PEOPLE!- I allowed my boy to wander off to the nearby hands on exhibits. I could always see him, and he came back to me every time I called his name. "Such a patient boy you have there!", exclaimed a grandmother waiting in line behind me. "Not usually", I thought. But maybe, just maybe, he is learning this. Patient and a good listener. Who knew.
I watched my son share the small rubber balls in one of the Space exhibits with a little girl. He had watched her be denied a ball by the boy on the other side of the exhibit and when she showed up at his side he didn't need me to remind him to be a gentleman. He willingly gave her a ball. And when the little boy on the other side tried to take it back, my young man grabbed it first, saying, "This ball is hers", and handed it to the girl. He shared, and more importantly, he stood up for what he knew to be right. He did not let that little boy do what stands for bullying in the kindergarten set. And I learned that my super six year old is on his way to becoming a man.
I learned that my guy knows A LOT about space. He had his facts right and was able to hold a conversation with a much older boy about planets while waiting in line to see the space capsule. He taught a younger girl about how the earth moves around the sun, using his hands and a ball to further explain. He is an educator, this boy.
I watched my super six year old take command of a group of children, both older and younger than he, to run the mini land rover and cranes. He gave direction to everyone, making sure every child knew their instructions before starting the mission. He is a leader, this boy.
We played together in the Ocean exhibit, my son showing me how to place the water stream just right so that it would intersect with his. His little engineering mind figured out where to place all of the water streams so that all five of them intersected. It was late in the day and we had the exhibit all to ourselves, so he had the time to really figure this out. I learned how single minded my son can be. He wasn't leaving the exhibit until he had those streams of water precisely where he wanted them.
I watched my boy play a game of checkers in the outside play area, with checker pieces bigger than his head. He bounced around the giant sized playing board, pondering his choices and making his moves. I had warned the older girl he was playing with that he may not know how to play; turns out I didn't need to do that. Sometime between the last time I played with him and yesterday he learned the rules of the game. I learned that my son frequently plays checkers with his friends at his after school program. Once again I was reminded that my super six year old has a whole life I know very little about. Again I was reminded of the importance of cementing this relationship early on in life so he will be sure to include me in his life as he grows. Just imagining what parts of his life I may not know about when he is a teenager makes me shudder!
I learned that my son is outgoing. Which, of course, I already knew. But this boy is confident. I watched as he realized he didn't have a partner for a game he wanted to play and with just a tiny nudge from me he asked the girl next to him if she would like to be his partner. There was no fear that this older girl would deny him his request. He was confident that he would not be shot down. I also learned where his head is about his birth country. He is currently in a phase where he is very proud to be Chinese. The girl he asked to play this game was also Chinese. While the girl won the game, the two of them had a very high score- higher than the other kids who had gone before them. When I pointed this out to my son he exclaimed, loudly, that it was because both he and his partner were Chinese. The girl's Chinese father hid a smile when this was pronounced. OK, still doing good with the birth country thing.
I learned that my super six year old is still not ready to discuss his birth mother. He was very interested in the display of fetus', looking at each month of pregnancy with great care. He was amazed when he realized how very small he started out. I was cautious to use the correct terms and to make sure he understood that when he was a fetus he was in his birth mother's tummy, not mine. We spent a lot of time in this exhibit but it wasn't his time to ask these questions, not yet.
I learned that my boy is all boy. He spent quite some time playing the "bodily function" organ, where each key he pressed gave us a loud sneeze, hungry rumblings, or a cough. The "vomit" key was his favorite. So much, in fact, that he continued to make the disgusting sound long after we left the exhibit.
As we finally left the museum, eight hours after arriving, we walked slowly to the car. We had parked in the farthest lot from the door, and on the way in my boy had bounced along and run ahead numerous times. Now, on the way out, he was lagging behind, his little legs tired. Despite my equally tired legs I picked up my 45 pound six year old and carried him to the car. He rested his head on my shoulder and ran his fingers up and down my back, enjoying the feel of the fabric of my coat. "I think my legs are broken.", he mumbled in my ear. I hugged him as we slowly made our way to the car. I learned that my big six year old, the one who acted as a leader, a teacher, a protector, was still also a little boy. My little boy.
I don't often have the chance to spend an entire day, uninterrupted, with just one of my boys. We went to the museum because my son asked to go, and because it is such a great educational opportunity for him. But all those hours, alone with my oldest son, were educational for me as well. A reminder to sometimes pause and take a moment. A moment to appreciate the growth. A moment to ponder the amazing creature before you. A moment to play like a child, with your child. And a moment to carry your child in your arms again.
Learning that my oldest son has a vocabulary even larger than I thought was not the only thing I learned yesterday. Apparently my young man knows this word because it is one of the awards given out monthly in Chapel in his school. I just found out about these awards last week and am still a little sketchy on them. I hear there is an award for "Honesty", and now one for "Perseverance". What I do know is that my guy has not been awarded one of these yet, and he really, really, really wants one. At his age, and knowing his temperament, I doubt he wants one for the meaning behind it as much as for the idea of "winning". My super six year old loves to win. But what a great thing to win at, right? I learned about this at 7:00pm last night, after spending the entire day playing at COSI.
The morning started with a trip to the pediatrician for my son's six year old well check up. There I learned something I had been suspecting for quite a while. My young son can act calmly in that doctor's office. I was beginning to wonder. He questioned the nurse, "Am I going to get any shots today?" She wasn't sure. He questioned the doctor, who confirmed that, no, he would not be getting any shots. He had been questioning me for two days. He immediately stopped wiggling and grabbing for items in the drawers under the exam table. He let his strong body melt into the table, stretched out long, and began to play his DS while he sang to himself. (Smashmouth!) I could actually talk to the doctor! I could think about my answers! I could stop being that frazzled mother who has to keep one eye, and both hands, on her child at all times! Yesterday morning I learned that when my son has the information he needs he can be a calm little guy. And yes, I already knew this, but it was a great reminder.
I learned that my super six year is maturing in ways that make me proud. While we waited for nearly two hours to get into COSI - ALWAYS BUY YOUR TICKETS ONLINE DURING SPRING BREAK PEOPLE!- I allowed my boy to wander off to the nearby hands on exhibits. I could always see him, and he came back to me every time I called his name. "Such a patient boy you have there!", exclaimed a grandmother waiting in line behind me. "Not usually", I thought. But maybe, just maybe, he is learning this. Patient and a good listener. Who knew.
I watched my son share the small rubber balls in one of the Space exhibits with a little girl. He had watched her be denied a ball by the boy on the other side of the exhibit and when she showed up at his side he didn't need me to remind him to be a gentleman. He willingly gave her a ball. And when the little boy on the other side tried to take it back, my young man grabbed it first, saying, "This ball is hers", and handed it to the girl. He shared, and more importantly, he stood up for what he knew to be right. He did not let that little boy do what stands for bullying in the kindergarten set. And I learned that my super six year old is on his way to becoming a man.
I learned that my guy knows A LOT about space. He had his facts right and was able to hold a conversation with a much older boy about planets while waiting in line to see the space capsule. He taught a younger girl about how the earth moves around the sun, using his hands and a ball to further explain. He is an educator, this boy.
I watched my super six year old take command of a group of children, both older and younger than he, to run the mini land rover and cranes. He gave direction to everyone, making sure every child knew their instructions before starting the mission. He is a leader, this boy.
We played together in the Ocean exhibit, my son showing me how to place the water stream just right so that it would intersect with his. His little engineering mind figured out where to place all of the water streams so that all five of them intersected. It was late in the day and we had the exhibit all to ourselves, so he had the time to really figure this out. I learned how single minded my son can be. He wasn't leaving the exhibit until he had those streams of water precisely where he wanted them.
I watched my boy play a game of checkers in the outside play area, with checker pieces bigger than his head. He bounced around the giant sized playing board, pondering his choices and making his moves. I had warned the older girl he was playing with that he may not know how to play; turns out I didn't need to do that. Sometime between the last time I played with him and yesterday he learned the rules of the game. I learned that my son frequently plays checkers with his friends at his after school program. Once again I was reminded that my super six year old has a whole life I know very little about. Again I was reminded of the importance of cementing this relationship early on in life so he will be sure to include me in his life as he grows. Just imagining what parts of his life I may not know about when he is a teenager makes me shudder!
I learned that my son is outgoing. Which, of course, I already knew. But this boy is confident. I watched as he realized he didn't have a partner for a game he wanted to play and with just a tiny nudge from me he asked the girl next to him if she would like to be his partner. There was no fear that this older girl would deny him his request. He was confident that he would not be shot down. I also learned where his head is about his birth country. He is currently in a phase where he is very proud to be Chinese. The girl he asked to play this game was also Chinese. While the girl won the game, the two of them had a very high score- higher than the other kids who had gone before them. When I pointed this out to my son he exclaimed, loudly, that it was because both he and his partner were Chinese. The girl's Chinese father hid a smile when this was pronounced. OK, still doing good with the birth country thing.
I learned that my super six year old is still not ready to discuss his birth mother. He was very interested in the display of fetus', looking at each month of pregnancy with great care. He was amazed when he realized how very small he started out. I was cautious to use the correct terms and to make sure he understood that when he was a fetus he was in his birth mother's tummy, not mine. We spent a lot of time in this exhibit but it wasn't his time to ask these questions, not yet.
I learned that my boy is all boy. He spent quite some time playing the "bodily function" organ, where each key he pressed gave us a loud sneeze, hungry rumblings, or a cough. The "vomit" key was his favorite. So much, in fact, that he continued to make the disgusting sound long after we left the exhibit.
As we finally left the museum, eight hours after arriving, we walked slowly to the car. We had parked in the farthest lot from the door, and on the way in my boy had bounced along and run ahead numerous times. Now, on the way out, he was lagging behind, his little legs tired. Despite my equally tired legs I picked up my 45 pound six year old and carried him to the car. He rested his head on my shoulder and ran his fingers up and down my back, enjoying the feel of the fabric of my coat. "I think my legs are broken.", he mumbled in my ear. I hugged him as we slowly made our way to the car. I learned that my big six year old, the one who acted as a leader, a teacher, a protector, was still also a little boy. My little boy.
I don't often have the chance to spend an entire day, uninterrupted, with just one of my boys. We went to the museum because my son asked to go, and because it is such a great educational opportunity for him. But all those hours, alone with my oldest son, were educational for me as well. A reminder to sometimes pause and take a moment. A moment to appreciate the growth. A moment to ponder the amazing creature before you. A moment to play like a child, with your child. And a moment to carry your child in your arms again.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
I have to stay in the game...
A few years ago, back when I had only one child and he was still quite young, I knew a mother with a son with significant behavior issues. "Knew" might be too strong a word. I "saw" her frequently enough to recognize her and her son, and I spent enough time around her kindergartner to know first hand the issues he faced. I am proud to say that I don't feel as though I judged her. I did notice that she always looked exhausted. I also noticed that sometimes it looked as though she had "checked out" when someone was speaking to her about her son's behavior. Sometimes she just seemed as though she couldn't hear another word.
I don't know when her son's behavior challenges began. Maybe she had been dealing with them since birth. Maybe she was an adoptive mother. I don't know why the behavior challenges occurred. Maybe it was trauma. Maybe it was DNA. Maybe it was lack of structure. I don't know if the behavior challenges have worked themselves out by now, some four years later. I hope so.
Yesterday the tiny toddler did not have a good afternoon at day care. He hit. He threw a few toys. He basically attempted to tear the room apart a few times. He refused to nap, disagreeing with even laying down and trying to rest his obviously over tired little body and mind. On the way out of the school he refused to walk, forcing me to carry him to the car while he swung at my head and spit at me. I held him, half in his car seat, half in my arms, whispering to him that he is safe, he is loved. I finally had to hold him down while I buckled him into his seat. Halfway home he stopped screaming, but not until after he took off his shoes and threw them at me. We both came out of the scuffle with war wounds, he with a scratch by his eye from my fingernail and me with a large bruise on my shoulder from him kicking me.
I sometimes feel as though it is a love/hate relationship we share, my tiny toddler and I. When we got home he put on his apron and helped me make dinner before he spun out of control again. Eventually I gave up and took him upstairs to bed, again kicking and screaming. Finally in his crib, surrounded by books and toys, with me sitting in the rocking chair across the room, he calmed down. Another day done, some good, some not so good.
We have worked hard to get our little guy to the point where he isn't having bad days every day. We have so many days of joy with him. He is sweet and caring, and likes to play jokes on Daddy. He loves to sing and is starting to ask question after question about everything. He is beginning to learn his colors and numbers and he is starting to babble as he pretends to read books, which is a strong precursor to learning to read. But when we have back to back downward spirals it is hard not to spiral down right along with him. It is hard to push through and stay in that place he needs me to stay in. Unlike my tiny toddler, I don't have the luxury of fighting back.
This morning we spiraled down over tennis shoes and coats. Not able to fight yet another battle we headed out the front door, one kid wearing a coat and backpack, with DS in hand. (Having taken advantage of my distraction he managed to walk out the front door to school carrying his DS, something he doesn't usually get to play on short car trips.), and one kid in a t-shirt, arms bare, stomping to his side of the car. Then the tears started, because he was cold. Seriously??
By the time we walked into his classroom his coat was on and all was well with his world again. We stopped and checked out the lunch menu. (Happiness over the mashed potatoes listed but unsure of the turkey being offered.) He walked into his room carrying a plastic bowl of cut up grapes, his offering for the "Friendship Fruit Salad" his class would be making today. I was beginning to relax. And then a teacher appeared out of nowhere to talk to my little man about something destructive he did yesterday. And it happened. I. couldn't. hear. another. thing. I could not take anything more in to my overloaded brain. The teacher didn't seem to want to talk with me, and even though I knew I should stop and have the conversation with her, I didn't. I chose to turn away from her. She was kneeling down in front of my son, helping him take off his coat. He was crying, like he does every morning when I walk away. (I love you! I hate you!). She had it under control. And in that moment, she had more control than I. I placed my hand on my big five year old's back and guided him out of the room. I could feel the tension in my shoulders creeping back in; I could barely remember the relaxation I was starting to feel just moments before. And then it hit me.
I am that mother. The one I knew four years ago. The one whose eyes glazed over when the topic of behavior popped up. Now I know I am not always that mother. I know that the mother I met four years ago wasn't always that mother either. Usually I am checked in, ready to tackle these challenges together. Together with my husband, Together with the teachers. Together with my son. But this morning I was at my limit. I walked out of the school wondering what those teachers were thinking of me. Did they think I didn't take them seriously? Did they think that if only I offered more structure at home these issues would disappear? Did they think I didn't care? I'm not going to lie to you. This morning, I didn't care. I just wanted out of there.
It affects every aspect of our lives, this trauma. It affects my marriage, as we sometimes struggle to contain our anger and to remain united. It affects the big five year old, who sometimes see his little brother get away with behavior he can't. It takes time away from him, which is heartbreaking. Knowing that my big five year old was all alone downstairs watching TV, or raiding the pantry, or doing Lord knows what, when I was upstairs dealing with the tiny toddler's behavior last night was enough to make me cry. When it's good, it so good. And when it's challenging, it's heartbreaking.
I know it's time to have the "child of trauma" talk with the day care. I have filled in his main teacher but I don't really think she fully understood. And how could she? His behavior is so inconsistent, frequently with many good days in a row. It is hard to understand that his behavior may worsen as he trusts more, as he tries to push his teachers away because he is starting to feel too comfortable there. It is hard to understand that he is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this great thing he has going on to be pulled out from under him. It is hard to understand that he might not do well in larger groups of loud children because he has internalized the feelings of his first 24 months of chaos. I don't even always understand it. I find myself frequently wondering why he just can't get with the program. Why something so seemingly small as a 10 second wait for grapes can sometimes cause him to clear everything off the breakfast table before throwing himself on the floor. If I have a hard time fully understanding his feelings then I know others don't get it. And I don't want him labeled. He needs to find his path in his own time. And I need to stay on that path with him. I need to be always stable, always consistent, always loving, always 100% present. I can't let myself be that other mother. My tiny toddler has seen loss. Birth mother. Caregivers. Friends in the orphanage. I can't be another loss to him. I have to stay in the game.
I don't know when her son's behavior challenges began. Maybe she had been dealing with them since birth. Maybe she was an adoptive mother. I don't know why the behavior challenges occurred. Maybe it was trauma. Maybe it was DNA. Maybe it was lack of structure. I don't know if the behavior challenges have worked themselves out by now, some four years later. I hope so.
Yesterday the tiny toddler did not have a good afternoon at day care. He hit. He threw a few toys. He basically attempted to tear the room apart a few times. He refused to nap, disagreeing with even laying down and trying to rest his obviously over tired little body and mind. On the way out of the school he refused to walk, forcing me to carry him to the car while he swung at my head and spit at me. I held him, half in his car seat, half in my arms, whispering to him that he is safe, he is loved. I finally had to hold him down while I buckled him into his seat. Halfway home he stopped screaming, but not until after he took off his shoes and threw them at me. We both came out of the scuffle with war wounds, he with a scratch by his eye from my fingernail and me with a large bruise on my shoulder from him kicking me.
I sometimes feel as though it is a love/hate relationship we share, my tiny toddler and I. When we got home he put on his apron and helped me make dinner before he spun out of control again. Eventually I gave up and took him upstairs to bed, again kicking and screaming. Finally in his crib, surrounded by books and toys, with me sitting in the rocking chair across the room, he calmed down. Another day done, some good, some not so good.
We have worked hard to get our little guy to the point where he isn't having bad days every day. We have so many days of joy with him. He is sweet and caring, and likes to play jokes on Daddy. He loves to sing and is starting to ask question after question about everything. He is beginning to learn his colors and numbers and he is starting to babble as he pretends to read books, which is a strong precursor to learning to read. But when we have back to back downward spirals it is hard not to spiral down right along with him. It is hard to push through and stay in that place he needs me to stay in. Unlike my tiny toddler, I don't have the luxury of fighting back.
This morning we spiraled down over tennis shoes and coats. Not able to fight yet another battle we headed out the front door, one kid wearing a coat and backpack, with DS in hand. (Having taken advantage of my distraction he managed to walk out the front door to school carrying his DS, something he doesn't usually get to play on short car trips.), and one kid in a t-shirt, arms bare, stomping to his side of the car. Then the tears started, because he was cold. Seriously??
By the time we walked into his classroom his coat was on and all was well with his world again. We stopped and checked out the lunch menu. (Happiness over the mashed potatoes listed but unsure of the turkey being offered.) He walked into his room carrying a plastic bowl of cut up grapes, his offering for the "Friendship Fruit Salad" his class would be making today. I was beginning to relax. And then a teacher appeared out of nowhere to talk to my little man about something destructive he did yesterday. And it happened. I. couldn't. hear. another. thing. I could not take anything more in to my overloaded brain. The teacher didn't seem to want to talk with me, and even though I knew I should stop and have the conversation with her, I didn't. I chose to turn away from her. She was kneeling down in front of my son, helping him take off his coat. He was crying, like he does every morning when I walk away. (I love you! I hate you!). She had it under control. And in that moment, she had more control than I. I placed my hand on my big five year old's back and guided him out of the room. I could feel the tension in my shoulders creeping back in; I could barely remember the relaxation I was starting to feel just moments before. And then it hit me.
I am that mother. The one I knew four years ago. The one whose eyes glazed over when the topic of behavior popped up. Now I know I am not always that mother. I know that the mother I met four years ago wasn't always that mother either. Usually I am checked in, ready to tackle these challenges together. Together with my husband, Together with the teachers. Together with my son. But this morning I was at my limit. I walked out of the school wondering what those teachers were thinking of me. Did they think I didn't take them seriously? Did they think that if only I offered more structure at home these issues would disappear? Did they think I didn't care? I'm not going to lie to you. This morning, I didn't care. I just wanted out of there.
It affects every aspect of our lives, this trauma. It affects my marriage, as we sometimes struggle to contain our anger and to remain united. It affects the big five year old, who sometimes see his little brother get away with behavior he can't. It takes time away from him, which is heartbreaking. Knowing that my big five year old was all alone downstairs watching TV, or raiding the pantry, or doing Lord knows what, when I was upstairs dealing with the tiny toddler's behavior last night was enough to make me cry. When it's good, it so good. And when it's challenging, it's heartbreaking.
I know it's time to have the "child of trauma" talk with the day care. I have filled in his main teacher but I don't really think she fully understood. And how could she? His behavior is so inconsistent, frequently with many good days in a row. It is hard to understand that his behavior may worsen as he trusts more, as he tries to push his teachers away because he is starting to feel too comfortable there. It is hard to understand that he is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this great thing he has going on to be pulled out from under him. It is hard to understand that he might not do well in larger groups of loud children because he has internalized the feelings of his first 24 months of chaos. I don't even always understand it. I find myself frequently wondering why he just can't get with the program. Why something so seemingly small as a 10 second wait for grapes can sometimes cause him to clear everything off the breakfast table before throwing himself on the floor. If I have a hard time fully understanding his feelings then I know others don't get it. And I don't want him labeled. He needs to find his path in his own time. And I need to stay on that path with him. I need to be always stable, always consistent, always loving, always 100% present. I can't let myself be that other mother. My tiny toddler has seen loss. Birth mother. Caregivers. Friends in the orphanage. I can't be another loss to him. I have to stay in the game.
Friday, November 2, 2012
naming the baby- adoption style
This post was originally published on December 14, 2011. It is a discussion on naming your baby, adoption style. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.
The topic last night at my MOPS meeting was "naming rights". The discussion flowed from biblical babies to our own real time ones, and how their precious names were selected. We talked about how important our names are - they are our identity, a gift from our parents. Sometimes they are a link to our past. Names are so very important.
We talked about that first moment when you hold your new baby in your arms and look in his or her eyes for the first time, and how you just know, you just know the name you selected fits this tiny creature. Being the only adoptive mother in my MOPS group I am used to conversations about our little ones frequently being framed in the context of pregnancy and birth, and that is fine with me. All those mothers, having their babies the old fashioned way! Last night's conversation was the same - very much centered around those first few moments after birth.
But I can relate. I waited to see my baby's face too. I found out I was having a boy not in my doctor's office on an ultrasound table but standing in my kitchen, with our adoption agency on speaker phone. It's a boy! I remember hanging up the phone and sinking down into a kitchen chair, thrilled and stunned that we were having a boy. And the great baby name debate began.
It was funny, last night, participating in this conversation about meeting our babies. I saw my baby's beautiful little face not in person for the first time, but in a picture. But I was in the hospital. It was our adoption agency's policy to not show a prospective family the photo of the baby until after the parents to be had reviewed the baby's medical information, which makes sense. It would be hard to turn away from a baby you know in your heart your can't care for after you have seen the picture. So we had met with the doctor, we were confident we could handle the cleft palate and cleft lip our son to be would come to us with. And so we stood in a cubicle in the International Adoption Clinic offices at Nationwide Children's Hospital and waited as our baby's picture loaded onto the assistant's computer. And so that part of our story might be different than other's. But what happened next was the same as every other new parents' story. We looked at the picture of our new little son, a tiny Chinese boy in an over sized white t-shirt, his eyes speaking volumes to us. And we looked at each other and said, "Yes, his name fits him. He is a Matthew." You just know. You just know.
We talked at MOPS about how we all settled on the names we chose for our children. And again, my story was a little different. It wasn't just my husband and I making this decision. We had boys with names already. One given by the orphanage, another by a birth mother. (sometimes I still struggle with that word, birth mother. But no matter the struggle, I am everyday thankful to these unknown women.) Both names were links to history, to birth countries. So it wasn't just my husband and I. Or even extended family. It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids.
The topic last night at my MOPS meeting was "naming rights". The discussion flowed from biblical babies to our own real time ones, and how their precious names were selected. We talked about how important our names are - they are our identity, a gift from our parents. Sometimes they are a link to our past. Names are so very important.
We talked about that first moment when you hold your new baby in your arms and look in his or her eyes for the first time, and how you just know, you just know the name you selected fits this tiny creature. Being the only adoptive mother in my MOPS group I am used to conversations about our little ones frequently being framed in the context of pregnancy and birth, and that is fine with me. All those mothers, having their babies the old fashioned way! Last night's conversation was the same - very much centered around those first few moments after birth.
But I can relate. I waited to see my baby's face too. I found out I was having a boy not in my doctor's office on an ultrasound table but standing in my kitchen, with our adoption agency on speaker phone. It's a boy! I remember hanging up the phone and sinking down into a kitchen chair, thrilled and stunned that we were having a boy. And the great baby name debate began.
It was funny, last night, participating in this conversation about meeting our babies. I saw my baby's beautiful little face not in person for the first time, but in a picture. But I was in the hospital. It was our adoption agency's policy to not show a prospective family the photo of the baby until after the parents to be had reviewed the baby's medical information, which makes sense. It would be hard to turn away from a baby you know in your heart your can't care for after you have seen the picture. So we had met with the doctor, we were confident we could handle the cleft palate and cleft lip our son to be would come to us with. And so we stood in a cubicle in the International Adoption Clinic offices at Nationwide Children's Hospital and waited as our baby's picture loaded onto the assistant's computer. And so that part of our story might be different than other's. But what happened next was the same as every other new parents' story. We looked at the picture of our new little son, a tiny Chinese boy in an over sized white t-shirt, his eyes speaking volumes to us. And we looked at each other and said, "Yes, his name fits him. He is a Matthew." You just know. You just know.
We talked at MOPS about how we all settled on the names we chose for our children. And again, my story was a little different. It wasn't just my husband and I making this decision. We had boys with names already. One given by the orphanage, another by a birth mother. (sometimes I still struggle with that word, birth mother. But no matter the struggle, I am everyday thankful to these unknown women.) Both names were links to history, to birth countries. So it wasn't just my husband and I. Or even extended family. It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
a handful of poor parenting choices can lead to thousands of children with no chance of a forever family
It has been a few weeks since I have posted anything and there are so many topics I want to write about. I need to complete an update on our Positive Parenting adventures. I want to share an amazing new app I found for my iPhone that helps me organize my days and weeks- basically it takes my household control journal and puts it on my phone in a totally customizable way. This little app has changed my daily routine, made me even more useful and has helped to create a little more time for the fun stuff, like playing with my boys. We are coming up on the tiny toddler's one year anniversary of joining our family and there is so much I want to share as I look back over this most amazing and challenging year. But all of that will have to wait. Because I have to talk about this:
These twins seem to be the latest in the bad adoption news coming out of Russia. These 15 month old babies were allegedly left on a freezing Russian Street by their American adoptive mother with a note stating she had given them up. Children are not to be discarded, people. Birth mothers may "give up" their children but they normally do so with a plan. It is important that you understand the difference. I am not bashing responsible birth mothers who are realistic enough to know they cannot parent their child and make a plan, out of love. I am eternally thankful to the two birth mothers I will never know who gave me the best gifts of my life, my boys.
Statistics are all over the place but I can say with some confidence that there are approximately 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages and foster homes. And that is just one country. There are children needing parents all over the world, including right here in America. And there are families working their way through the adoption process as you read this, families for whom the adoption process may now be stalled or totally stopped altogether. Because of the actions of adoptive parents like the mother mentioned above these 700,000 children may never find their forever families.
As someone who has made this adoption journey I can tell you that the blame lies in a variety of places. Maybe the adoption agency didn't thoroughly explain the issues often related with bringing an institutionalized child into your home. Maybe the required pre adoption parenting classes didn't cover bonding and behavior management as well as they should have. Maybe the orphanage wasn't able to create an atmosphere in which children learn what it's like to feel love. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a child so badly that they chose to ignore the warnings of what all can go wrong. One thing is obvious- these parents, and others, like Torry Hansen, were not prepared. And they were not invested in becoming the kind of parent a child needs in order to be prepared for life.
I can say this because it happened to me. I wasn't 100% prepared for my tiny toddler. I had his room ready and the baby toys had been brought up from the basement, washed, and added to the toy box. The tiny clothes had been put into the drawers in the baby's new room and his older brother had been prepared for the new addition to the family. I had taken the classes and my adoption agency had been very clear about the issues we may face. I had read the books and, maybe most importantly, I had done this once before. I knew how to parent, I knew how to bond, I was confident in my abilities to mother my new son. But in hind sight, I was not 100% prepared.
Our second adoption journey was very different from our first one. The paperwork was different. The hoops we had to jump through were a little higher. The trips were a little more difficult and the things we saw were a little harder to see. And I was just as naive as I was the first time around. I expected that if I followed the rules about bonding and just loved this child, the outcome would be just as amazing as it was the first time, with our oldest son. And I was wrong.
Maybe it was post adoption depression, which I firmly believe I was experiencing for months after returning home. Maybe it was the fact that the tiny toddler was 9 months older than his brother was when he came home. It may not sound like a long time but the difference between a 15 month old baby and a 24 month old toddler can be astounding. Maybe it was the lifestyle differences; the tiny toddler had more ability to roam around his little hallway at the orphanage and had experienced the need to fight for food and toys and love. The big five year old had been taught from birth to sit quietly in his crib and wait for the busy nanny to hand him a bottle or carry him to the bath. It is quite possible that he rarely played with toys or spent time with the other babies in a social setting. One learned to cling to love when it was offered and one learned to fight and push it away.
So I was caught off guard, initially, when we opened our front door off that plane from Russia and walked into what felt like someone else's life. But I had been prepared, at least a little. I had the knowledge to solve the problem and I had the resources to help me. I, like 90% of adoptive parents, did what had to be done. I got a handle on the situation. I worked with my husband. I learned to walk away when the frustration got to be too much. I learned to take deep breaths while holding the refrigerator door closed when the little guy wanted to dump it's contents on the floor. I learned to duck from his swinging arms and to hold him so he could see my eyes but couldn't hit me. I had never done those things before. Teaching a toddler to trust and love when he had been burned every time he gave that trust away before was the hardest thing I have ever done. And there are days that I feel I'm not done yet. But through all of it, I never once thought that I made a mistake. I never once thought of not parenting this child. I am his mother. Period. I shed a lot of tears, but through it all, I loved him.
And I am nothing special. I am no different from nearly every other adoptive mother out there. We all understand that there is no difference between biological children and adoptive ones. We know that you get what you get. We know that behavior and health issues could pop up at any time and just because we adopted our child doesn't mean we have any less responsibility.
We fight for our right to parent our children like every other mother. We get upset when we are referred to as "adoptive parents" or when we are asked if our children are "real". We stand up for our rights when the hospital wants us to show the court paperwork that proves our child is ours. We point out that biological parents don't have to prove these things. We cringe when our children are introduced by their adoption status or birth country. "This is Matthew, he's from China." ugg. You never hear, "This is little Johnny, he was born in Akron, Ohio at Akron General Hospital." Yes, we have a lot to fight for, where our kids are concerned. And we do it gladly, because we love our kids. But we can't have it both ways. We can't fight for equality if we don't perceive our children as truly "ours". And it is obvious that the adoptive parents who make the news, the ones who hurt their kids or try to "give them back" do not feel the same way.
Help is out there. There are books and doctors and social workers and other mommies who have been there. There is somewhere to turn. There is never a reason to do anything to hurt your kids. And make no mistake, no matter how they came into your life, they are your kids. As my big five year old often says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Well said, little man.
 | ||
| aren't they just adorable? |
These twins seem to be the latest in the bad adoption news coming out of Russia. These 15 month old babies were allegedly left on a freezing Russian Street by their American adoptive mother with a note stating she had given them up. Children are not to be discarded, people. Birth mothers may "give up" their children but they normally do so with a plan. It is important that you understand the difference. I am not bashing responsible birth mothers who are realistic enough to know they cannot parent their child and make a plan, out of love. I am eternally thankful to the two birth mothers I will never know who gave me the best gifts of my life, my boys.
Statistics are all over the place but I can say with some confidence that there are approximately 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages and foster homes. And that is just one country. There are children needing parents all over the world, including right here in America. And there are families working their way through the adoption process as you read this, families for whom the adoption process may now be stalled or totally stopped altogether. Because of the actions of adoptive parents like the mother mentioned above these 700,000 children may never find their forever families.
As someone who has made this adoption journey I can tell you that the blame lies in a variety of places. Maybe the adoption agency didn't thoroughly explain the issues often related with bringing an institutionalized child into your home. Maybe the required pre adoption parenting classes didn't cover bonding and behavior management as well as they should have. Maybe the orphanage wasn't able to create an atmosphere in which children learn what it's like to feel love. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a child so badly that they chose to ignore the warnings of what all can go wrong. One thing is obvious- these parents, and others, like Torry Hansen, were not prepared. And they were not invested in becoming the kind of parent a child needs in order to be prepared for life.
I can say this because it happened to me. I wasn't 100% prepared for my tiny toddler. I had his room ready and the baby toys had been brought up from the basement, washed, and added to the toy box. The tiny clothes had been put into the drawers in the baby's new room and his older brother had been prepared for the new addition to the family. I had taken the classes and my adoption agency had been very clear about the issues we may face. I had read the books and, maybe most importantly, I had done this once before. I knew how to parent, I knew how to bond, I was confident in my abilities to mother my new son. But in hind sight, I was not 100% prepared.
Our second adoption journey was very different from our first one. The paperwork was different. The hoops we had to jump through were a little higher. The trips were a little more difficult and the things we saw were a little harder to see. And I was just as naive as I was the first time around. I expected that if I followed the rules about bonding and just loved this child, the outcome would be just as amazing as it was the first time, with our oldest son. And I was wrong.
Maybe it was post adoption depression, which I firmly believe I was experiencing for months after returning home. Maybe it was the fact that the tiny toddler was 9 months older than his brother was when he came home. It may not sound like a long time but the difference between a 15 month old baby and a 24 month old toddler can be astounding. Maybe it was the lifestyle differences; the tiny toddler had more ability to roam around his little hallway at the orphanage and had experienced the need to fight for food and toys and love. The big five year old had been taught from birth to sit quietly in his crib and wait for the busy nanny to hand him a bottle or carry him to the bath. It is quite possible that he rarely played with toys or spent time with the other babies in a social setting. One learned to cling to love when it was offered and one learned to fight and push it away.
So I was caught off guard, initially, when we opened our front door off that plane from Russia and walked into what felt like someone else's life. But I had been prepared, at least a little. I had the knowledge to solve the problem and I had the resources to help me. I, like 90% of adoptive parents, did what had to be done. I got a handle on the situation. I worked with my husband. I learned to walk away when the frustration got to be too much. I learned to take deep breaths while holding the refrigerator door closed when the little guy wanted to dump it's contents on the floor. I learned to duck from his swinging arms and to hold him so he could see my eyes but couldn't hit me. I had never done those things before. Teaching a toddler to trust and love when he had been burned every time he gave that trust away before was the hardest thing I have ever done. And there are days that I feel I'm not done yet. But through all of it, I never once thought that I made a mistake. I never once thought of not parenting this child. I am his mother. Period. I shed a lot of tears, but through it all, I loved him.
And I am nothing special. I am no different from nearly every other adoptive mother out there. We all understand that there is no difference between biological children and adoptive ones. We know that you get what you get. We know that behavior and health issues could pop up at any time and just because we adopted our child doesn't mean we have any less responsibility.
We fight for our right to parent our children like every other mother. We get upset when we are referred to as "adoptive parents" or when we are asked if our children are "real". We stand up for our rights when the hospital wants us to show the court paperwork that proves our child is ours. We point out that biological parents don't have to prove these things. We cringe when our children are introduced by their adoption status or birth country. "This is Matthew, he's from China." ugg. You never hear, "This is little Johnny, he was born in Akron, Ohio at Akron General Hospital." Yes, we have a lot to fight for, where our kids are concerned. And we do it gladly, because we love our kids. But we can't have it both ways. We can't fight for equality if we don't perceive our children as truly "ours". And it is obvious that the adoptive parents who make the news, the ones who hurt their kids or try to "give them back" do not feel the same way.
Help is out there. There are books and doctors and social workers and other mommies who have been there. There is somewhere to turn. There is never a reason to do anything to hurt your kids. And make no mistake, no matter how they came into your life, they are your kids. As my big five year old often says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Well said, little man.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids
The topic last night at my MOPS meeting was "naming rights". The discussion flowed from biblical babies to our own real time ones, and how their precious names were selected. We talked about how important our names are - they are our identity, a gift from our parents. Sometimes they are a link to our past. Names are so very important.
We talked about that first moment when you hold your new baby in your arms and look in his or her eyes for the first time, and how you just know, you just know the name you selected fits this tiny creature. Being the only adoptive mother in my MOPS group I am used to conversations about our little ones frequently being framed in the context of pregnancy and birth, and that is fine with me. All those mothers, having their babies the old fashioned way! Last night's conversation was the same - very much centered around those first few moments after birth.
But I can relate. I waited to see my baby's face too. I found out I was having a boy not in my doctor's office on an ultrasound table but standing in my kitchen, with our adoption agency on speaker phone. It's a boy! I remember hanging up the phone and sinking down into a kitchen chair, thrilled and stunned that we were having a boy. And the great baby name debate began.
It was funny, last night, participating in this conversation about meeting our babies. I saw my baby's beautiful little face not in person for the first time, but in a picture. But I was in the hospital. It was our adoption agency's policy to not show a prospective family the photo of the baby until after the parents to be had reviewed the baby's medical information, which makes sense. It would be hard to turn away from a baby you know in your heart your can't care for after you have seen the picture. So we had met with the doctor, we were confident we could handle the cleft palate and cleft lip our son to be would come to us with. And so we stood in a cubicle in the International Adoption Clinic offices at Nationwide Children's Hospital and waited as our baby's picture loaded onto the assistant's computer. And so that part of our story might be different than other's. But what happened next was the same as every other new parents' story. We looked at the picture of our new little son, a tiny Chinese boy in an over sized white t-shirt, his eyes speaking volumes to us. And we looked at each other and said, "Yes, his name fits him. He is a Matthew." You just know. You just know.
We talked at MOPS about how we all settled on the names we chose for our children. And again, my story was a little different. It wasn't just my husband and I making this decision. We had boys with names already. One given by the orphanage, another by a birth mother. (sometimes I still struggle with that word, birth mother. But no matter the struggle, I am everyday thankful to these unknown women.) Both names were links to history, to birth countries. So it wasn't just my husband and I. Or even extended family. It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids.
We talked about that first moment when you hold your new baby in your arms and look in his or her eyes for the first time, and how you just know, you just know the name you selected fits this tiny creature. Being the only adoptive mother in my MOPS group I am used to conversations about our little ones frequently being framed in the context of pregnancy and birth, and that is fine with me. All those mothers, having their babies the old fashioned way! Last night's conversation was the same - very much centered around those first few moments after birth.
But I can relate. I waited to see my baby's face too. I found out I was having a boy not in my doctor's office on an ultrasound table but standing in my kitchen, with our adoption agency on speaker phone. It's a boy! I remember hanging up the phone and sinking down into a kitchen chair, thrilled and stunned that we were having a boy. And the great baby name debate began.
It was funny, last night, participating in this conversation about meeting our babies. I saw my baby's beautiful little face not in person for the first time, but in a picture. But I was in the hospital. It was our adoption agency's policy to not show a prospective family the photo of the baby until after the parents to be had reviewed the baby's medical information, which makes sense. It would be hard to turn away from a baby you know in your heart your can't care for after you have seen the picture. So we had met with the doctor, we were confident we could handle the cleft palate and cleft lip our son to be would come to us with. And so we stood in a cubicle in the International Adoption Clinic offices at Nationwide Children's Hospital and waited as our baby's picture loaded onto the assistant's computer. And so that part of our story might be different than other's. But what happened next was the same as every other new parents' story. We looked at the picture of our new little son, a tiny Chinese boy in an over sized white t-shirt, his eyes speaking volumes to us. And we looked at each other and said, "Yes, his name fits him. He is a Matthew." You just know. You just know.
We talked at MOPS about how we all settled on the names we chose for our children. And again, my story was a little different. It wasn't just my husband and I making this decision. We had boys with names already. One given by the orphanage, another by a birth mother. (sometimes I still struggle with that word, birth mother. But no matter the struggle, I am everyday thankful to these unknown women.) Both names were links to history, to birth countries. So it wasn't just my husband and I. Or even extended family. It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
I think of her often and I thank God for her daily. I just can't say the words, yet
With Thanksgiving right around the corner I have been having a lot of conversations lately with my big four and a half year old about what we are all thankful for. He has been pretty much right on with his thankfulness - his preschool mind has him thankful for monster trucks and Halloween candy. The other day though, out of the blue, he said this to me : "Mommy, today I am thankful that you and Daddy went all the way to China to adopt me when I was a baby." Totally unprompted and totally sweet.
Tuesday night I was sitting in the cafe at church with both my boys waiting for Daddy to pick them up so I could attend a meeting. I asked my daily "what are you thankful for?" question. His reply: "Mommy, I am thankful for that other woman who carried me in her tummy and then took me to that place where I got in the van and drove to you and Daddy." OK, so he has a few of the details wrong, but oh. my. god. Total heart stopping moment. "I'm very thankful to her as well, Doodlebug.", I answered. And I am. I am so thankful to her. This woman who I will never meet, who has given me a piece of her- I owe her everything.
Which is why I feel guilty sometimes, when I think of this woman. I am thankful to her for so much. I am thankful that she went against years of violence against newborns to let a disfigured baby boy live. I am thankful that she placed this baby somewhere he would be found. I truly owe her my life. The connection I have to my oldest son is unexplainable. Sometimes my love for him is so strong it feels as though I am suffocating. I know what he is thinking. I know that he is a very sensitive soul wrapped up in an all boy package. He is in every breath I take. He is mine. All mine. And I know that. Both my boys are my boys.
So why is it so hard for me to say these two simple words: birth mom. I have yet to use these words with my oldest son. I feel as though there is no going back, once those words are out there. I tell myself that my little man is too young to understand, which is probably partially true. But I know the real reason I have yet to utter those words. I don't want to share him. He is mine. And I know that how we handle this will set the tone for how we handle it the next time around, when our tiny toddler is old enough to begin to understand his adoption story. We have danced around the subject. We read Motherbridge of Love by Xinran. We talk about the two women, the one who gave him life and the one who is teaching him to live it. He knows that some mommies have babies in their tummies and some grow their love for their baby in their hearts. He knows he wasn't in my tummy and neither was his little brother. And I know I am probably over thinking it. It will come in it's own time. But still, I feel guilty. I owe this woman. I feel connected to her through this beautiful boy. I wonder all the same things my son will most likely wonder one day. Did he get his beautiful features from her? His sense of playfulness? His love of music? Does she have long fingers just perfect for playing the piano? Is she sensitive and caring? I owe her. And I want my son to know as much of his sketchy story as possible. She deserves to be remembered. And he deserves to have the keys to his start in this world. So I sometimes feel guilty that I haven't uttered those two little words yet. Birth Mom. I think of her often and thank God for her daily. And one day I will give her the title she deserves. Birth Mom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)