A Hard Word For Me To Say

Trauma. It's a hard word for me to say. It is even harder for me to relate this word to my sweet little boy. For the past year and a half I have refused to entertain this word in my thoughts. I have purposely left it out of my parenting plan. I have attributed my youngest son's "issues" to lack of structure, to DNA. Structure and DNA most likely do play a part in what is happening in his little body and his strong mind. But a few weeks ago I came to understand that I need to allow for another answer to the behavior puzzle. Early life trauma.

A year ago, when I should have been embracing this word and all that it implies, I was running from it. I knew about the parenting philosophies geared towards traumatized children. It is hard to be a part of the adoption community and not hear about Beyond Consequences and other parenting plans. Yes, I knew it was out there, but it wasn't right for my family. I wasn't parenting a traumatized child.

After months of struggling, after visits to doctors and behavior specialists, after meetings with daycare teachers and more tears than I care to admit, we sought help in a different direction. And while I still don't know exactly what we are looking at, I do know that when I sit down to read another chapter of the first Beyond Consequences book I feel as though it was written for me. About me. About my family. About my son. About how I feel. And about what I worry about.

I watch my young son playing with his older brother and I smile. I watch them race around the house, laughing and screaming. I watch my oldest son using parenting skills I wish I had in negotiating a toy exchange or the right to pick the radio station in the car and I smile. I hold my tiny three year old tight against me as he screams at bedtime, myself exhausted from the day, and sometimes I smile and sometimes I cry. I watch him playing by himself across the room and I wonder. What is he thinking? Why is he repeatedly sticking out his tongue? Why does he like to rip paper so much? Will he make good eye contact today? Will he let Mommy make even one decision for him today? Will he go to sleep? Will he eat today?

I listen to his ever increasing speech and language skills and I marvel at how far he has come. I welcome his endless questions and his constant desire to "kiss Mommy". I smile, I worry, and I cry, like every mother does, I suppose. Sometimes I do all three in one day. Sometimes I do all three in one hour.

When my little angel has fought me at every turn and I am at the end of my rope I worry about his future. The horror stories of internationally adopted children growing up into unstable adults are plentiful, if you know where to look. I love my children. I want them to grow up to be healthy, strong, compassionate and loving men. I want them to be a blessing to others, not become something others fear. I want my sweet young boy to be seen for who he is underneath the trauma. He loves music and Curious George. He loves to dance and is quite the little jokester. He gives amazing hugs and kisses. He is so much more than the arm that sweeps the toys to the floor or the anger behind the hitting. He is more than a tiny child screaming as a weary mother fights to stuff him into his car seat after a particularly difficult trip to the store. He is more than a shoe flying into the front seat or a crib broken at his hands. He is more than food thrown on the kitchen floor. He is more, my son.

Other mothers have felt this way. I am sure the now deceased mother of the young man who has caused so much heartbreak for so many families in Connecticut felt this way. We don't know what happened there, and we probably never will. And let me be clear: I do not think my son has mental illness. But now, finally, I agree that he has suffered trauma. I have let that word into my world and I know that we are all going to be OK. A few weeks ago we had gone from many good days in a row to a few terrible ones and I was sitting at the kitchen table, dinner uneaten, defeated. My sweet husband showed up behind me, put his hands on my shoulder, and reminded me that we have the kids we are meant to have. God gave me this, and he will walk with us through it, if I let him.

It's a relief, really, to finally feel as though we are on the right path. Our new approaches, while still in their infancy stage and certainly not habits, yet, are slowly starting to work. Whether these are short term solutions or techniques we will use for many years we have yet to determine. And who cares. If it works, I will gladly do it every day. To see my youngest son smiling more than screaming, to see him becoming a part of the family, wanting to help and showing compassion towards us, more than we see  him staring through us with cold vacant eyes is reward enough. I am learning that it is OK to not be just like me. I am learning to be a little more patient. To slow down and take a little more time transitioning from one of life's activities to the next. I am learning that we are all brilliant, in our own way. As the parent we so often feel as though we have to impart our wisdom on our children. That if they are not successful then we are not either. I know that it is God's plan for me  to help my son, sure. But I'm beginning to think that it might also be His plan for my "traumatized" son to teach me a thing or two as well.

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.

why does it take so long to listen to God's whispers to my heart, or , listen to your gut instincts!

I have been thinking a lot lately about our gut instincts. You know, that feeling deep inside of us that sometimes we listen to and sometimes we don't but that, in the end, we always wish we had followed. That's the one. The one that told us not to buy the expensive shoes because they would not stretch and would always give us blisters. Which they did. The one that tells us when our little ones are sick even when others think we might be overreacting. I didn't listen to to that feeling soon enough and wound up spending a very long night in the emergency room with a very tired husband and a very dehydrated and sick toddler, all of us in our jammies.

A few years ago, back when we only had one little one to protect I attended a MOPS meeting where the book Protecting the Gift; (Keeping Children and teenagers Safe) was discussed. If you have not heard about this book by Gavin de Becker you should run out and get it. Seriously. Every mother should be reading this book. In the book the author speaks to our mother's intuition, telling us to trust our gut feeling. Which sounds easy, but isn't, at least for me. I was raised to always respect authority and to not question those in positions of expertise. I never saw my mother question the doctor and in our parents' eyes our teachers were always right. Growing up in the 70's and 80's made this outlook on life a little safer to have, I think. There weren't as many "predators" out there and there were only a handful of teaching methods- everyone was pretty much taught the same way, whether it worked for the individual kid or not.

But it is 2012 now and the world has changed. I want my boys to respect authority and to do what they are told, but I also what them to trust their instincts and to question authority, in the right manner, when needed. I struggle with this, as it is not  in my nature. I don't question life nearly as much as I should. So I am going to work on that.

But I did question the teaching methods at my son's daycare. It took me over a year, but I finally did it. When my oldest son first started having discipline problems at the daycare I listened to the teachers and we addressed the problem. And then we spent about a year continuing to address the problem. We would get the negative report, which is just what every parent wants to hear after a long day of work, and then we would discuss with our son. We would put consequences in place. It would improve, maybe. Then it would start all over again. I am from a family of teachers and I know better than to ever say "not my kid". I know my kid. I know that he is high energy. He is very smart and gets bored easily. He likes to play rough, as most boys do. I know my oldest son can be challenging. But my gut was telling me that the problem wasn't 100% my son. Half the time he seemed to not even know what he was getting in trouble for. Our attempts at interventions with the teachers didn't work and it was making me so sad. I felt as though we were just killing the free spirit of my precious little boy. And when I saw that my youngest son wasn't getting off on the right foot at this same daycare my first thought was that it was him. He did come to us, after all, with behavior issues. But as the months went on my gut told me otherwise.

And finally I made the move. I did the research, I had open and honest conversations with other daycare and after school care providers and we made a move. And we had three weeks of difficult behavior and I thought, OK, it really is my kid. But then I thought, no, he can do this. And then he started kindergarten and he had a rough first few weeks there as well. And I stopped trusting my gut again. Finally I decided that I was the mother, I was this sweet little boy's first line of defense, and it was my job to trust that gut instinct, which was telling me that he could do this. My gut told me to leave it alone and let him have the time he needed to figure it out.

And now, a month or so in to the new after school program and kindergarten every day  he is not only getting his behavior under control but he is truly achieving kindergarten greatness. And I knew he could do it. My gut told me that the problem wasn't just my son but that the teachers' unwillingness to change their habits was also part of the problem. Knowing how to handle each child as the little individuals they are has made all the difference in my son's life. He is no longer fighting me in the morning to get ready- when Daddy wakes him up he hops on over to his tomorrow drawer and gets dressed. He bounces up and down at the end of the day as I take the communication folder out of his backpack to check on his behavior for the day. He beams as I tell him how proud of him I am. He doesn't need consequences. He needs consistency, something he wasn't getting before the big school switch. Not every school or every teacher is a good fit for every child.

And my tiny toddler? He has a teacher he loves. And I know this because he talks about her all the time.  He is in a classroom dedicated to potty training, where his teachers are consistent and strict and soft spoken. He has not lashed out once since he moved to this new classroom. I should have listened to what my gut was telling me months before I did. When in my home my boys are being taught how to be people. I am not just keeping them alive- we are making people here. And now I have a partner in that, for when they are not home with me. The old daycare- it was a good place. They loved the kids and took good care of them. But it wasn't the right fit for my family.

This raising kids thing is hard. And it is even harder when we try to be so polite that we don't listen to our gut instinct. I tell my boys that when something inside of them is telling them that whatever they are about to do is not a good idea, that that is their gut instinct. That that is God whispering to their heart to do what's right. And that they need to listen to that whisper. But as adults, we don't always do that. There are so many mine fields as a parent. How and when we discipline. How much TV to let our kids watch. Should they play video games? Should I let him climb that tree? When should we go to the doctor? We need to listen to our gut instincts. It's time to take off the white gloves our parents wore while they raised us and stand up for our children. And my son's smile at the end of the day as he shows me his behavior chart is all the proof I need that my gut was telling me the right path to take.