I see you

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Life as a Parent

©Copyright 2014 1 Attachment & Trauma Network (ATN)

Note: This letter was written by members of the Attachment & Trauma Network (ATN) as an example of how to talk about your own personal experiences and share your family’s struggles with people who may want to, but don’t, understand. Feel free to use any parts of this document as you edit this story to make it your own.  NOTE: This letter has been adapted by Beth Wilkison to reflect her journey with her son. The original text can be found  here.

–Julie Beem, Executive Director, ATN (www.attachtrama.org )

 

My Life as a Parent of a Traumatized, Attachment-Disordered Child

I’m giving you this letter because you have expressed an interest in my experience as a parent of a traumatized, attachment-disordered child. It is not a story I relate to you lightly. My child has some very special needs and because of this, so do I. I need people to understand what our family faces, not just judge us as incompetent. It isn’t fair what happened to my child or to me. But it is what we are both facing, and we face it together everyday.

First, I’d like you to know that this letter was not written just by me. Parents from all over the country are using it to tell a uniquely tragic story. This letter isn’t the ranting of one isolated, overwhelmed, and oversensitive adult. I did not "do" this to my child. My child came to me this way. Chances are he would be struggling with these same behaviors and emotions in any family. My child's problems are not the result of poor parenting by me. In fact, parents of traumatized children are some of the most courageous, committed, resourceful, insightful, misunderstood and stressed-out parents around. We are not just bellyachers. We are in fact, front-line troops in the battle for civilization itself. If you think that’s somehow overinflated, consider the statistics that most of today’s prison population was abused and/or neglected and many have attachment-related emotional problems.

So here is what happened—when my child was a little baby, at the time he was most vulnerable, he did not get his basic needs met. Perhaps, he was not picked up when crying, not fed when hungry, left alone for hours, or left with various strangers for days. Perhaps he was beaten, shaken, or otherwise physically or sexually abused. Perhaps he had chronic or unmitigated pain due to medical procedures and had no way of communicating his distress. I might guess at these details of my child’s trauma, but I will never likely know the full truth. Because of this neglect and abuse, my child became traumatized and was convinced that he was going to die. He learned that he could not trust anyone to meet his needs. And every day since, when my child wakes up in the morning, this deep-seated anxiety gets reloaded. In order to survive, he has become unconsciously committed to never, ever being vulnerable again. He uses all of his basic survival intelligence to control an outside world he feels he cannot trust. All his existential energy is focused on keeping people far enough away so he won’t get hurt again, but close enough that they won’t leave him either. Unfortunately, he is never really satisfied with either proximity and is therefore constantly in a “push them away/pull them close” dilemma. As his adoptive parent, I live every day in this no man’s land of damaged intimacy. I’ve been emotionally wounded from the many times I’ve tried to break through my child’s formidable defenses. Those who don’t need to get as close—teachers, relatives, neighbors, etc.—won’t experience the full intensity of these primal defenses. So if you are lucky enough to see him withdraw or witness one of his rages, you are probably getting close—so good for you! But if this does happen, please remember that you are witnessing a child stuck in a desperate fight for survival—he has become once again that scared, traumatized baby, absolutely convinced he has to control you and everything in the world in order to be safe. It can’t get more primal than that.

As his parent, I am dedicated to helping him realize that I am not his enemy. It is that stark, I’m afraid. But not hopeless. My child has made great progress and has come so far.  During these past three years  I have tried many approaches to parenting my special child. The standard, traditional disciplinary approaches used by my parents were obviously tried first and were an instant failure.

His response is more primal, more subconscious, and has little to do with a situation or possessions involved. It has to do with the fear that’s triggered,  the trust that was broken, the chaos he feels. It’s like he is having emotional seizure, as cascading brain chemistry takes him over. He doesn’t choose this – I don’t choose this—it just happens. So our days are often filled with emotional explosions and uneasy calms between the storms. When it does get quiet, I’m nervous about when the next bomb will hit. Each day is filled with anxiety, fear, guilt, and shame for us both. It is like we’re living on an emotional minefield, and the mines keep regenerating, exploding again and again.

What I face daily is, that despite my best efforts to be a loving caregiver, my child’s early developmental trauma has created a discord that is a true paradox. For example, I may try to gently calm my upset child, but this is not experienced as soothing to him. So his trauma is triggered and he may withdraw, shut down or lash out. This causes me to get stressed as my child reacts counter to my intention. Now my stressful reaction starts to feel familiar, even “safe”, to him, so he works (often subconsciously) to expand this, and we descend into deeper and deeper dysfunction and chaos. To my child’s trauma-injured brain, this dysregulated feeling, which feels painful to healthy people, actually feels normal to him. And I’m left feeling stressed, angry, and emotionally spent.

Absolute total consistency (at home and at school) helps tremendously. Parenting traumatized children is nothing like parenting emotionally healthy children. The responses you receive can be very unrewarding and punishing, since moments of closeness and intimacy can be  rare and can trigger a trauma reaction. My beloved special child is often willing to do for others (even complete strangers) what he is not willing to do for me (this is another behavior common with attachment disorder). To be honest, this drives me crazy.

The damage done due to early childhood trauma and not being able to safely attach to a trusted caregiver has left my child with the emotional development of a toddler or infant. But the big difference is that my child is not a toddler. He’s five years old now. Imagine the terrible-twos lasting for years and years, escalating in intensity and effect— suddenly I’m the parent of a 100+ pound, physically coordinated, verbally adept, emotionally trigger-happy baby. This is what I worry about happening. And what I am working so hard to prevent.

Imposing limits isn’t enough. My child must be helped to accept these limits and internalize the self-regulation, self-soothing, and self-control required to do so. Rewards and punishments focus on the outside, observable behaviors, not the internal underlying process that creates these behaviors. At the same time, he does not need us to lower our expectations for either his behavior or his academic performance. What he needs is help in accepting and reacting to these expectations with flexibility and self-control. He needs to restart the developmental process and move beyond an emotional toddler. He needs to move out of this developmental disarray toward a more civilized, balanced inner process.

Our family needs support, education and understanding. We did not expect that this would be our daily reality, and it isn’t easy. Although it is much easier than it was, still, at times,  I may seem stressed, fearful or angry. I am occasionally overwhelmed. I am making significant sacrifices so that my child can rise above the chaos of his trauma and find true hope and healing. We all have amazing abilities to adapt, as adversity can deepen us and perhaps this will be so for my child as he confronts deeply sealed wounds and transgressions. But we must go beyond intellectual definitions of “normal” and “cured” and think of it in another way: Can someone’s affliction, which has shut off various levels of meaning from his life, be mitigated enough to possibly reopen some of those channels? Or put another way, if left alone without special effort, will these kids descend into more and more chaos? Clearly, the answer to both questions is yes. Therefore, the effort and sacrifice I’m making in my life for him, and the help you are now hopefully willing to give me, is of great value. Help me help my child realize the true blessing life can be.

Thank you for reading this.

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.

This Clown Dancer is Your Mother!

I know that you are awake, over there in your room. You always hear the loud beep of your older brother's alarm clock. Your brother, he sleeps through his alarm on a daily basis, but not you. You don't need your own clock, not when your eyes pop open with the slightest sound from your brother's room. I wake up your brother and get him started on his morning path to his favorite cereal and TV- get dressed, put on socks and shoes, brush teeth...

I head into your room, my heart light. Today is going to be a good day!

As I round the corner of your huge bunk bed I see you are awake, squirming under the heavy gray blanket that you outright stole from your daddy. You are hiding, but I know you are there, I can hear you giggling. "Where is Alex?", I ask, in a sing song voice. "Come on out, baby!".

After five minutes of cajoling I finally get you to crawl out from under the covers and we start the slow dance of getting you dressed. I give you two shirts to choose from, knowing if I make the choice you may freak out. Today you want a third shirt in the mix so I pull another one out. You wander over to your window. I leave the shirts and pants on your bed and stand up. "Go ahead and get dressed, kiddo. I will be back in a minute." You scream. I turn around and sit back down. We play the "pick a shirt game" a few more times. Then we play the "pick a pair of pants game". My Super Six Year Old wanders in, asking what is taking so long. I point in your direction. "Oh, right."

I send you out in the hallway to go downstairs. You take three steps and stop, screaming at your loudest.  "Alex, the dog is not in your way! Just walk, please?".  I turn to my oldest son. "Please take the dog downstairs." The three of us proceed to tango through the hallway and down the steps, puppy underfoot and you screaming the entire way. Our feet hit the floor at the bottom and the four little feet head to the left, heading straight for the living room, toys, and the almighty TV. My feet turn right. I turn up the heat, walk through the kitchen, turning on the coffee maker, and head to the garage door, turning off the alarm. I walk to the back door, bracing myself against the cold as I shoo the puppy out to the backyard. "Shoes on!", I call out to you and your brother, both of you now in various stages of chaos in the living room. "Shoes on before TV!".

I stand in the kitchen drinking coffee that is too hot while both of you sit nicely, watching TV. Eventually the bliss is broken and I set my hot coffee on the counter with a sigh. I pull you off of your brother and sit you on the other sofa. After asking you repeatedly to get your shoes I gather them up myself and toss them in your direction. "Put your shoes on, kiddo!", I say, in a much happier tone than I am actually feeling. I make it a contest- which boy can put their shoes on the fastest? You lose. You scream. I sit you on the kitchen counter and put your shoes on. I give you a kiss and set you back down on the floor. I repeat the shoe game, only this time with your coat, hat, and backpack. I do my clown dance, my happy contests, my distraction techniques. Eventually both you and your brother are in coats and backpacks are on. I place my hand on the door, holding my breath. Can we make it out the door before any more demands come my way?

"I didn't have breakfast!" . "I want milk!". The demands continue. I weigh my options. Give in to your demands, make us late, or pick you up and carry you to the car, which will have long lasting repercussions. Be late, or spend the entire ride dodging shoes and listening to a screaming child. Sadly, I know I will not take the brunt of your  anger in the car- your older brother is the one trapped back there with you. Either option just sucks. Some days I choose to be late. Others I choose to take a stand and just push ahead. 99 percent of the time we are a screaming mess by the time we back out of the driveway.

I do my clown dance again to get you to get out of your car seat and back into your winter coat. More often than not you wind up laying on your back on the floor of the car, laughing hysterically. You think this move is hilarious. I do not. We make a game of getting in to daycare. We check the lunch menu and make a pit stop- we absolutely cannot mess with your routines! We find your classroom and I hand you off to the teacher. I peel you from my leg, turn you around, and deposit you into the arms of the waiting teacher. A quick kiss and then I walk, maybe a little too quickly, out the door. I can breath again.

I don't do my clown dance for anyone else during the day. Cashiers, phone operators, the UPS guy- these hardworking people do not get the best of me. Sometimes, not even my husband or oldest son get the best of me. And certainly, on most days, I do not get the best of me. I save it all for the clown dance. For the cajoling, the bartering, the distracting that it takes to keep you moving through your day. I'm not going to lie to you, little one. It is hard work. It is exhausting work. Worthwhile, but exhausting.

Nine hours pass. Maybe ten. Sometimes I pick you up early. Sometimes I could pick you up early but I don't. Sometimes I sit in the car, watching the dashboard clock click off the minutes. Sometimes. Always I feel guilty about this.

I turn into the parking spot in the daycare parking lot and remove the key from the ignition. I take a deep breath. My first stop is the big kid room to pick up my big kid. He takes his time putting his homework or toys away in his backpack. He asks me his every day question and I answer with my stock answer. "Yes, you have to wear your coat. It is cold outside." I help him push his backpack up onto his small shoulders and we walk down the hall to your classroom. "Alex!", I call out. You are sitting on the floor, reading a book. I marvel at this. You are sitting in a group of other children, who are also sitting. You are carefully turning the pages, taking in each picture. You are completing an independent activity! You are not ripping the pages of the books or throwing them around the room. Well, at least not yet. You look up, see me, and a huge smile spreads across your face. You stand up, throw the book at a classmate, and take off,  running around the room. I refuse to run after you. I want to. I want to run to you, grab you, stuff you under my arm and carry you out of there like a football. I want to ask you why you were sitting so still? Why were you reading a book? Why you run from me? But I know you will not answer. And I am all about not making a scene in front of the daycare teachers. (In front of my sister, yes. Teachers, no.)

Eventually you run past me and I grab you. I practically run to the door with you, calling over my shoulder to your brother to grab your belongings. We. Have. To. Get. Out. Of. This. Room.

I clown dance you into your coat. I clown dance you into the car. Past the front desk with the sticker box. Past the gum ball machine. Past the key pad on the door. I clown dance you out of your winter coat and into your car seat. I clown dance you into the buckle. I remove your shoes, sometimes, if I sense you will go over the edge during the drive.

I clown dance all  the way home. Distract. Deflect. Maybe, just maybe, I try to sneak in a real conversation with your brother. Usually you talk at your loudest the entire drive, making this conversation frustratingly pointless. Sometimes I try to sneak in a little teaching, or a little real conversation with you. You don't respond to my questions. You don't respond to my sentences with a sentence of your own that makes sense. You are frequently incapable of holding a conversation. But you love the clown dance.

I clown dance you into the house. Into the bathroom. Out of your shoes and coat. And then our evening begins. Homework, dinner, clean up, play time, TV time, bath, bedtime. I break up fights. I redirect. I dole out time outs. I give up on cleaning up. I give up on play time. I clown dance the medication down your throat. I clown dance your jammies on. I attempt to read you a book as you roll around your bed. You interrupt me a thousand times while I read. I offer you the page and attempt to ask questions about the book. I close the book. You scream. I clown dance a little more. My clown dance is slowing down. I am tired. I barter to get you to stay in your bed. I take away privileges when you follow me out of your room. Sometimes I yell. I don't mean to yell at you, my sweet little guy. A part of me understands that you can't help this. But, sometimes, I can't help my reactions either.

When my clown dance is finally over for the day I still have your brother's needs to meet. More snuggle time, homework, playtime, snacks, bedtime. More of me that is needed. More of me that I want to give. More of me that is not always available to give. But at least the clown dance has been put to bed for another night.

The next day dawns early and I head into your room, my heart light. Today is going to be a good day!

And if it isn't, if the clown dance doesn't work, if the clown dance is literally all you and I do today, that is OK too. We will have yet another chance the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. And I am hoping that one day your mixed up mind will figure that out. That we will always have another day. Because maybe, just maybe, when your brain truly believes that, we can put this clown dance to bed and really get to know each other. I so desperately want to be more than your clown, dancing you through care giving and through your day. Being your clown is exhausting. Being your mother, truly being your mother, is also exhausting, I would imagine. I want to stop imagining. This clown is your mother, little one. Let me me your mother.

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!"

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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.

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.

 

 

 

Lottery

It seems as though Russian adoptions gone wrong has been in the news for quite some time now. What started with Torry Hansen, the single adoptive mother who put her 7 year old son on a plane, alone, and sent him back to his country of birth, has spiraled into accusations of abuse and even murder of Russia's children adopted into America. And while I don't condone what Torry did, while I feel that she should be treated as any other neglectful parent would be, I do worry sometimes that the issues we read about in the paper and hear about on the nightly news might be affecting adoptive parents' decisions to seek help. Or, at the very least, might give us reason to pause and not truthfully answer that loaded question, "How is everything going with (insert child's name here)." Might stop us from sharing how exhausted we are, both mentally and physically. Might prevent us from disclosing how we secretly worry about the emotional health of our older, non traumatized, children. Might force us to hide behind the walls of our homes, (walls probably covered with remnants of last night's dinner), and not discuss how frustrated with are with our spouse, or how sometimes we just want to run away.

Maybe we feel as though we have to put on the "happy family" face so that we are not compared to these parents who may have made poor parenting decisions. Maybe we feel as though we will sound as if we are complaining, when, in reality, we are reaching out for help. Reaching out for understanding. Reaching out for compassion and a friendly reminder that we are doing OK. Maybe we feel as though we have no right to complain, because we wanted these children so very badly. Who are we to complain about parenting, when we moved mountains to bring these children home?  And if you are on the other side of the adoption line, you may think us adoptive moms are over reacting. Every parent is judged. Every parent is unsure of certain parenting choices. True, no doubt. I know everyone is judged. This is what we do in America. And this is part of the problem.

Last month a family friend spent about 15 minutes with my family, watching me struggle to maintain a conversation with another adult while keeping my 4 year old safe and happy. My little guy was climbing into his tiny folding Spider Man chair and then launching himself from the seat of the chair into my lap. No amount of snacks, drinks, or distractions would stop him from this behavior. I know I appeared frustrated. This particular activity hurt me, and I had the bruises on my legs for weeks to prove it. Not to mention how unsafe it was for my little guy! Later my sweet husband told me that his friend had said, "I have heard that you just never know what you are going to get when you adopt, especially internationally." Wait, what?

Hey mom of a beautiful Downs Syndrome baby, did you know your baby was going to be conceived with that extra chromosome? How about you, mother to a pre-teen boy with Asperger's? Did you know? You, over there, mother to the beautiful teenager who cuts herself? Any clue when she was born that this would be your future? But that is what we do. Expect perfection. And for some reason, when adoption is in the mix, that perfection expectation grows. After all, we did this on purpose, right? We asked for this child. We asked for the drastic lifestyle change, the money spent on medications and therapy, the sleepless nights and the distance that can grow between a husband and a wife when so much energy is focused on a child. And it is comments like the one my husband endured, spoken by friends who don't mean to hur,t but, frankly, are clueless, that make it hard for families like ours to reach out for help. It is the constant media scrutiny of international adoption that makes us want to keep our dirty laundry packed up tightly inside the house. Believe me, neighbors, I don't like chasing my son down the street or forcing him into his car seat while he screams, any more than you like hearing our chaos at 7:15 in the morning. I know that you hear me repeating the rules to my young son, over and over again, and think I am just another helicopter mom. You might just thank me for those repeated rules one day, for those rules that, at the very least, keep our chaos in our yard and out of yours.

Unconditional love and realistic expectations, that is what it takes to raise any child, traumatized or not. ADHD or not. Unconditional love. I will love my boys no matter what. When I have been hit in the face during a temper tantrum and there are tears streaming down my face, I will love. When I have left the grocery store without everything on my list. When I have asked, three times, if my little guy wants me to open his yogurt, and then find myself cleaning up said yogurt because he, in fact, did not want me to help him, I will love. Realistic expectations. I don't know what the future holds, for either of my boys, and I will strive to not make them crazy with my expectations. Right now I expect to have issues when we spend more than 30 minutes in the car. I expect to, more often that not, have to eat dinner in shifts, so that we can minimize the meltdowns that lead to food all over the floor. (That particular meltdown leads to a meltdown of my own, every single time!). I expect to manage bedtime, every single night, for a while, to prevent that primal screaming my little guy conjures up when faced with spending even one moment without me. I don't come to these expectations easily. I have to remind myself of them daily. I have to re-commit to this life, every single day.

I don't know what the answer is. I am just now beginning this journey. I don't know what therapist, treatment, medications or supplements are best. I don't know what dietary modifications work or what form of exercise is preferred. I have a feeling that no one knows. This journey, like every parenting trip, is mine alone. I have to find the way that works the best for my family. But in doing that, I am going to make mistakes. And in making those mistakes I know that I going to need to be able to reach out. So I have to push past those perfection expectations. I have to get over the fear of being labeled as "one of those families". One of those international adoption families that can't control their child. One of those international adoption families who didn't know what they were going to get. Because my family, my life, my boys, were not brought together by some sort of lottery. No one wins or loses in adoption, or in raising any family, no matter how that family was formed. Didn't know what I was getting? Does any parent? In a very real way, my husband's friend was right. I didn't know what I was getting. I didn't know I was getting a super smart Chinese boy with very little common sense. I didn't know I was getting a Chinese football star. I didn't know I was getting a Russian boy who likes to wear flip flops and who loves chocolate cream cheese. And I am glad I didn't know. Every day I marvel at what new tidbit I have learned about  my boys. Why would I want to miss out on that?

I don't know the details of any of the adoptive families who have sadly had their lives delivered to the microscope of millions of American homes by the media. I can't speak to their decisions. No one can. The only thing we can do is admit there is a problem here, and work together to create the solution. Better mental health resources. Therapists who understand the trauma an orphanage can create in even the youngest of children. Teachers who can see our children more holistically. I know my son doesn't fit the typical ADHD mold. He has other issues at play, as do so many of our kids. Friends who don't say stupid things. Strangers who look at our family, see no obvious challenges, and then judge our parenting. Oh yes, we see your looks. We know that you are thinking, "If that were my kid..." We know you are wondering why we appear to be "giving in" to our kids, or why we are offering so much hands on assistance when our children are clearly old enough to do things for themselves. Family members who outright question the validity of our children's unseen trauma. We need to become a community, working together for our children. For all of our children. Because right now, it's me and my family with the "issues". Next week, it could be yours. Don't worry, I'll be there for you!

While You Fight Me, I Will Fight For You

There were so many beautiful moments today. You climbed into my lap while watching your new favorite movie on TV. You leaned back into me, something somewhat new for you. You laid your head against my shoulder as you sucked your thumb and rubbed your hair between your fingers. You giggled at the movie, looking back at me to see if I was laughing too.

You shared your snack with me, walking over to me and placing your precious fruit snack into the palm of my hand. "Really? This is for me?" "Yes, Mama. Eat it!"

I listened through the baby monitor as you and your brother played upstairs in your room, something truly new and exciting. Later I learned that the two of you had built a little city on the floor of your room, out of train tracks and buildings. There was even a large dinosaur in the middle of your city, standing watch over your playtime. I could hear your brother orderingyou around  leading you through setting up your city. I smiled, as I do so many times with you these days.

You sat in your chair at dinner and ate. One quarter of a sloppy joe and one french fry. A slice of peach stolen out of your daddy's fruit salad. There was no food thrown on the floor. No screaming. No need for me to remove you from the table. No spilled drinks or purposeful spitting at me.

A nice day. Still full of pull up changes and screaming "no!" when I try to bring you to the potty. Still full of "use your gentle hands" and "please look at me". Still loud and crazy and full of boyish energy. Still full of cars flying across the kitchen floor, screaming over not being allowed to play with your big brother's stuffed baby hamster, still full of dirt and grass stains and the normal little boy fun and messiness. Still full of hyper activity. But a nice day. A good day.

Good days or not so good days, bedtime is still a mystery. So often, nearly daily, really, you break my heart. You break my heart almost every night. It is especially painful after a good day. It is so hard not to wallow in the pain of your disinterest. It is difficult to remember the good over the not so good. You climb into your bed and roll away from me, refusing to show me your beautiful eyes. You demand books but you refuse to sit still or listen as I read. You chatter over me or simply wander away. If it is a particularly bad moment you scream and spit at me as I lie next to you on your bed, trying to figure out what the trigger is, trying to figure out what is happening here. I pull you towards me and hold you against my body. You scream at me, telling me I am hurting you. I am barely holding you. This is not pain, little one. This is a hug. This is love. And it doesn't hurt. It helps, if you will only let it. You escape my grip and roll away from me. I duck as you wing your books, toys, and shoes at my head. If it is in your bed, you throw it at me. I catch each item and toss it behind me into your large toy basket, which makes you even angrier. I wait until your missiles are gone and you have nothing to throw. I pull you towards me again. You scream and spit and kick at me. Sometimes I can feel you relaxing in my arms until your head falls onto the pillow, and we can start the bedtime process all over again. We can talk about your day and look through a book. Sometimes we can get to that place where you allow me to cover you up with your favorite blanket and sometimes, if I am really lucky, you repeat it back when I say "I love you."

Sometimes I walk away while you are screaming, calling back to you that I love you and that I will always be here for you. Sometimes I go into the office, which shares a wall with your bed. I sit in my desk chair, tears in my eyes, absent mindedly surfing the net while I listen to you thrash about in your bed, screaming at me. Screaming for me. I walk back into your room. You have reloaded, and so now you throw a pillow or another shoe at me. I walk out. I hear you screaming my name. In and out. In and out. Anger, mixed with sadness, creeps into my body. Sometimes this passes and you are calm when I walk out that final time. Sometimes I tag your daddy in and go hang with my super loving six year old. Sometimes I walk away and go find the wine.

Later, when I have finished that wine, or when I have kissed your older brother goodnight, or when I have cried to my sweet husband for the hundredth time, I sneak back into your room and sit on your bed. I cover you up and rub your back and whisper into your sleeping ear. Later, I can remember the great moments throughout the day, and I can tell myself that this was just a moment. It was not a definition of our lives together, you and me. It was just a moment. Yes, there are many moments like this. Too many moments like this, right now. But it was just a blink of an eye. And we will do our dance again tomorrow. Because what I whispered into your sleeping ear is true. "I am your mommy. I love you, and I always will. I will help you lose this anger and confusion, your "angry insides", as we call it. I will fight for you, my son, every day. While you fight me, I will fight for you."

The Ups Give Me Energy

Last night the Wilkison clan all rolled into the tiny toddler's new preschool for a fundraiser carnival night. And I say "rolled" because that is how I feel we travel, everywhere. Loud. Always in motion. My boys are like bowling balls just rolling around, not a care about who, or what, they might knock over. We do so many things for the super six year old- the three year old hangs out at church while his big brother attends the weekly kids programming. He tags along to the swim lessons, the flag football games, the school art shows. (Which we attended last evening as well.) The life of a younger brother, right?

So when we have the opportunity to celebrate the tiny toddler, we go for it. And while our evening, true to form, eventually melted down into a puddle of tears and defiance, for a short time we did just that. Watching my  little man walk around his school, knowing where everything is, showing us his room- was priceless. And so worth the chaos of too  many tired parents crowded into the small school hallways, too many wired little ones hopping up and down, too many heavy winter coats that had to be carried because children just can't seem to do this for themselves. We took the fundraiser up on it's cheap food and fed our boys dinner for $4.00. We sat in the tiny cafeteria/gym while the boys ate their hot dogs and pizza and I watched in amazement as my tiny toddler got excited about a boy sitting three tables over. He mumbled something about going to hug this boy, climbed down off the bench seat and ran over to his new friend. I quickly followed, trying to remind him that "Not everyone likes hugs- please ask first!" The other boy's mother looked startled as my little guy ran straight into her son. Her son looked a tad startled too and for a brief moment I thought, "Oh my God, he doesn't know this kid!" But we sorted it out. Somewhat. The other boy, who looked older than mine, may, or may not, be in the tiny toddler's class. He may, or may not, actually know the tiny toddler- he did seem to recognize him, but he wasn't talking. But my heart perked up a little- my tiny toddler might have a friend!

I watched as the preschool staff that know my little guy waved to him and gave him high fives. While there was still some indifference over showing me his classroom there was also a glimmer of light. The tiny toddler attends this school four afternoons a week, riding a school bus to get there from daycare. Every evening I ask him what he did in school, and every evening he tells me that he didn't go to school. Or that he didn't ride the bus. Last week he told me that he walked all the way there, in the road.  He tells me his teacher is never there. He simply refuses to say a word about this school.

Parenting this child is like being forced to ride a roller coaster every minute of every day. At his school, watching him smile at teachers and wanting to hug other kids who he may, or may not know- I was at the top of the roller coaster, screaming with joy, laughing and having fun. But just like every roller coaster ride, even though I was momentarily thrilled, there was the thought of the scary moments that could be just ahead always lurking in my mind. The moment when he takes his shoes off and throws them at his brother's head in the backseat of the car. The moment when he repeatedly unbuckles his brother's seat belt as we are hurtling down the highway. The moment when his eyes are angry, or, worse yet, empty. And just like every other day, last night we made it through the scary part of the roller coaster ride and put a sleepy tiny toddler into his bed, peacefully. We don't always make it to bedtime peacefully, and often bedtime is a trigger for my little guy, but even on those nights we wake up in the morning with the scary behind us, at least for a while.

There used to be a time when it seemed as though the roller coaster only went one way. As though there was no opportunity for those thrilling, happy screaming moments. Now my roller coaster gives me the ups and the downs. The downs are horrendous. The downs threaten to tear apart the family. The downs push seeds of doubt into my mind and push my husband and I apart. The downs make me worry about my tiny toddler's future, about my whole family's future. The downs leave me with bruises from being kicked, colds from being spit on, and dirty clothes from thrown food. But now we have the ups sometimes. The ups give me hope. The ups bring tears to my eyes as I watch in amazement at whatever new task or emotion my tiny toddler is mastering. The ups make me see his future in a slightly brighter light. The ups give me the energy I need to live through the downs.

Last night, for a short time, was a huge up. And it's those little moments that make parenting this goofy, classic rock music loving child so worth it.

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.

welcome to my adventures in positive parenting!

I think my sweet husband and I are pretty good parents. We roll with the total chaos and try very hard to enjoy every moment of it. Personally, I don't mind the little things. My boys can splash water out of the tub. They can race their very loud trucks around the circle of our downstairs while my sweet husband and I sit at the kitchen table, right on the race track, trying to finish dinner. They can rummage through the junk drawer looking for my Bert's Bees to feed their growing lip balm addiction. My big five year can use his "super powers" to climb up onto the kitchen counter and help himself, and his brother, to candy, or a cookie, or a banana. We change diapers on the sofa and the floor. We change diapers in the way back of our Equinator. (Our Equinox- best. car. ever.) I have even changed diapers on the concrete floor of airport bathrooms in both Hong Kong and South Korea. They can litter the backyard with toys and pick out their own clothes, which means sometimes the big five year old looks as though he was dressed by Helen Keller. Truth be told, I am pretty proud of the way we let our boys be themselves. Family over perfection~ that's my motto.

That all being said, however, there are still countless times that I find myself totally exhausted from the nagging and bargaining it takes to keep this family moving. I hate hate hate giving consequences. Can't we all just get along?

So, take the need to lose the nagging and throw in the behavior issues our tiny toddler presents us with on a daily basis and it was pretty clear- we are good at this parenting thing but we could be better. We needed help!

Which prompted a search of parenting styles/classes that fit our family and our specific needs. As an adoptive parent there is no question that some of my parenting techniques must reflect the special needs adoption brings to the table.  I started with Beyond Consequences because I was hearing a lot about this approach from my Families With Children From China Friends. And it seemed like a good system, albeit maybe a tad pricey. I have heard nothing but good things about the techniques used through Beyond Consequences. This program was created by an adoptive mother who truly understands attachment issues and how early life trauma can lead to very severe behavior problems that affect the entire family. Which is exactly what we were facing, but still, the program sounded a tad too severe for us. We don't have violence in the home, we don't have totally unmanageable children. Now, we might, one day, if we don't get a handle on all this now, have those major problems, but right now our issues are not that drastic and I am not ready to label our family in that way. So I kept looking.

Then I found Positive Parenting Solutions. Yesterday I participated in a free online seminar with this organization and I learned a few things. First of all, I learned that I am not alone. In fact, I learned that there are families out there with far more serious behavior problems than what my two little guys throw at me. I also learned that we need to get a handle on this now, before my boys grow into teenagers. I learned that I was doing a lot right, which was unexpected and very cool. I learned that you don't need to have kids with major behavior issues to want to have a calmer more loving household. I walked away from that seminar more excited about parenting than I have been in a long time. So I jumped in with both feet and signed up for the online classes and resources. I began using just one of the techniques I learned about yesterday with my big five year old during our visit to the library and we managed to have a perfectly pleasant library visit, complete with kiddy computer time, a game of checkers, and books checked out, all with no whining when it was time to end each activity. Score!

Tomorrow morning I plan to start using a few techniques to make our morning routine run a tad more smoothly. Does it make me a nerd that I am so excited about this?  And in my true fashion, I plan to blog about it all the way. What worked, what didn't, what changed my life. So stay tuned, my adventures in positive parenting are just beginning!