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.

Worth the Wait- That Adoption Wait Doesn't Always End When Our Child Comes Home...

When an adoptive parent hears the words "adoption wait" one thing usually comes to mind. The long months before the child comes home, months  that often turn into years. Years of filling out paperwork, waiting for approvals, standing in line at the Secretary of State's office, locating floor plans to your home, creating fire drill exit strategies, rearranging work meetings to accommodate getting that second, or third, set of fingerprints. Months of looking at that tiny, blurry, grainy referral photo. Months of loving this child you may have never met, and months of waiting with arms aching to hold that sweet child of yours. The adoption wait. We know it well, don't we?

With the adoption of my second child the term "adoption wait" took on a whole new meaning. The final signatures, the court decrees, the flight across the world and that first walk through the door as a family recently grown by one did not end my adoption wait. In fact, when that front door closed behind my newly formed family of four, our adoption wait was just beginning.

Suddenly everything that came so easily the first time around was a huge challenge. I found myself waiting for so much. Waiting, really, to be a mom, again. Waiting for the eye contact. Waiting for the anger to stop. Waiting for my new son to stop racing about the room as though driven by a motor. Waiting for that first hug. You know, the one where he actually hugs me back. The first good report from daycare.  The first family dinner without chaos. The first calm bedtime. The first calm car trip. The first calm anything.

Waiting. Always with the waiting. The first 27 months of our lives together were spent mired in the adoption wait.Waiting for the storm to pass. And when it didn't, I found myself waiting again. This time, waiting for therapists and doctor's appointments. Waiting for diagnosis and treatment plans. Waiting for spots to open in special schools and IEP's to be created. And then to be updated. Waiting for return telephone calls and emails. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And just when you think you can't wait a moment longer, some new reason to wait pops up.

With our first adoption wait we knew what to expect. Fill in all the blanks in the paperwork, make the required five copies of everything, visit FedEx for the 100th time, and then wait. While that first wait wasn't easy, not by a long shot, it was, at least, predictable. At the end of the wait, if we followed the plan laid out by our adoption agency, and if nothing went wrong, like political unrest or a natural disaster, we would have our child. Maybe I was naive during those two "first" waits. Looking back, and knowing what I know now, seeing how the Russian ban on American adoptions has torn families apart, I am sure I was very naive. Thank God I was naive.

With this second adoption wait, the wait that started the day we came home with our 24 month old son, there was no "plan". My plan was to follow the same steps I took with our older son, steps to bonding that worked beautifully. Practically from day one my little Chinese son and I were glued together, bound by a love so deep that nothing could tear us apart. Meeting each expected growth and developmental milestone, cruising through surgeries with flying colors, our bumps in the road were small stones. The second time around, those bumps in the road were huge boulders that threatened to tear my family apart. Spouses arguing. One child craving the attention he suddenly lost when his little brother came home. One child pushing me away at every turn. And a tired, lost mother, with nowhere to turn. After all, I had asked for this. I wanted  this. I did this to myself. And so, on top of all of the other waiting, I waited for that mommy bliss I felt the first time. I waited for that bliss for two years.

So with all the waiting then came all the guilt. Why wasn't I more excited about this child? Why couldn't I make this work? Where was my heart?

I added waiting for the love to kick in to my list. Don't get me wrong. I loved my young son from day one. From the first moment I saw him toddling down that dingy hallway at the orphanage I loved him. Maybe that was why this adoption wait was so difficult for me. Because my love for him was so strong. My desire to have that family I had always pictured was strong. And so I waited.

The funny thing is that despite all that waiting, that perfect family never showed up. And as each day passed, full of tears and fighting and thrown food, that perfect family picture changed a little. Maybe I didn't need perfect. Maybe I would settle for a dinner without a meltdown. Maybe I would trade perfect for less bruising at the hands of a two year old. Every day the perfect picture faded and eventually a new image settled into my heart.

Happiness replaced anger. Grace replaced selfishness. The wait came to an end. The end snuck up on me, really. We are not through with the issues. My son may always have early life trauma related baggage to carry around. But I will always be there to help him carry it. And I no longer feel as though I am waiting for anything. I think I realized it for the first time the other day, as, ironically, I was waiting for our behavioral therapy appointment to begin. My son and I were sitting together on a sofa in the waiting room, surrounded by older kids and harried looking adults, and as we snuggled together to read a book I realized something. I was not holding my shoulders so tight they ached. I was not practically sitting on my son to get him to sit still. I was no longer holding my breath. I was simply a mom, reading a book to her four year old son. Yes, he still cannot sit still. He still has food issues and he still has moments of total meltdown. Yes, a good part of the reason that he is doing so well is all of the work we have put in to getting him to where he is. And yes, there are days that it is exhausting. But I am no longer waiting. No more do I wait for the anger to pass, both in him and in myself. No longer do I wait to run an errand because I just can't face taking him with me. No longer do I dread bedtimes or family dinners. No longer do I feel as though I am simply housing this lost little boy. No more. Now when I look at my persevering preschooler, I see my son. And it makes me smile. Because we made it through the wait. There will be more waiting in our future. More therapy, more issues, more meltdowns and, I am sure, a lot more frustrating moments. But during all of those waits  it will feel less like waiting and more like what it is- living. The wait is over! We may not look like the perfect family, and we may not look like the family I always pictured as perfect, but we are perfectly placed together. And that was worth the wait.

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!

Happy Family Day- I Can Always Feel the Joy

Happy Family Day little Alexander Artur!

holding my new son for the first time- 21 months old

 

Two years ago today my sweet husband and I stood in a Russian courtroom, surrounded by Russian officials, a Russian Social Worker, a Russian Judge, and our interpreter. We had been told ahead of time that in a Russian court it was customary for the man to do the speaking; I was to keep quiet unless I was directly asked a question. This worried my sweet husband, seeing as I am the talker in the family. But I wasn't worried. When it comes to protecting and standing up for our little family my husband is always spot on and well spoken.

I cannot remember how he answered the questions posed to him but I do remember that just a few questions in our interpreter, Anna, suggested that perhaps "Mrs. Wilkison would like to speak.", suggesting that the judge needed more information. And speak I did.

I told the judge that I loved this tiny little boy. That he had held a special place in my heart since that moment when I first saw him toddling down the long hallway in the orphanage some three months before. I explained that we understood adoption, that we had adopted before, that this little guy had an older brother waiting for him at home. What I didn't say, what I had been instructed not to say was that this tiny almost 2 year old brought me joy. It had been explained to us by our Russian adoption facilitator that there is no Russian translation for the word "Joy". This word would not translate in a way the Russian judge and lawyer would understand. And that gave me a great insight into the country of my youngest son's birth.

So maybe I didn't speak that day about the joy in my heart. But that doesn't mean it wasn't there. And it is still here today.  Two years home already! And he has brought so much joy to me. So much joy. It seems as though sometimes we focus on the struggles. We only see the chaos. We do not take the time to celebrate the successes. We miss the joy. But not today. Today I am thinking only about the joy.

I remember looking down at you, snuggled on my hip in your baby carrier, as we stood on the curb outside the Incheon Airport in Korea, waiting for the hotel bus to pick us up. I remember thinking how surreal that was, me, wearing a baby, dragging a suitcase, alone on a curb in South Korea. I remember surreal, but also remember  joy.

finally coming home- waiting for our plane in South Korea- 24 months old

I remember watching your little body asleep on the floor of the Continental Club at LAX, my body tired as well but unable to sleep. I watched you, thankful you had fallen asleep and I could relax and let my arms, tired from holding you, and my back, weary from wearing you, have a rest. I remember tired, but I also remember joy.

I remember walking off the plane, finally back home, and seeing my oldest son, just four years old, leaping about, trying to climb into my arms. I sat down on a bench, with my husband on my left and my four year old on my right, climbing into my lap, totally squishing his new little brother who was still in the baby carrier strapped to my body. I remember looking down at my new son, clueless to what was going on but not seeming bothered. I felt my husband touching my shoulder as he re-acquainted himself with his new son, who he hadn't seen for two weeks. I re-acquainted myself with my oldest son, who I hadn't seen for four weeks. I remember the joy as I felt the warmth of my growing family around me.

I remember my four year old playing on the floor with his new little brother in those first few days home. Brothers! So much joy.

There have been missteps these past two years. There has been pain and sorrow and longing and not as much peace as I would have liked. But there has also been a new special needs preschool that is helping us figure out how to help our little guy cope and learn. There has been an amazing day care teacher who has worked with us to guide our son. There has been Sunday school teachers and other adults at our church who have stepped up. There have been close friends cheering for me, telling us we are doing OK. There have been in-laws who babysit and give us time to ourselves, and who are making an effort to learn more about early life trauma so they can help even more. There has been so much joy, and this is what we celebrate today, on our son's second Family Day.

brothers, two months home

two months home, checking out a petting zoo

 

We celebrate this path that has made it very clear to me that I need to step up and add my voice to those screaming for adoption reform. We celebrate the broken road my youngest took to get to us because it showed to us what true suffering is. I have seen unexplainable things and I know what life lies ahead for those orphans left behind. And while this is terribly sad and it may be too late for some of them, still I find joy in having found my passion, so to speak. And I will do good with that passion. I will make changes, however small.

We celebrate this path that has taught me how to be a more patient and kind person. We celebrate this path that has made me an advocate for special needs and has taught me how to stand up for my children. We celebrate this path that has shown to me what compassion truly is, and also has shown me that perhaps I could have stood by my friends a little more strongly when they had young children and struggles of their own.

We celebrate every smiley face on the behavior chart from daycare. Every check mark on his chart at home. Every book that he lets me read without wandering away. Every hug that he returns. Every meal that he eats without melting down.

my rock star, two years later!

I feel joy when my son sings with me and when I see him using his imagination to play with his older brother. I feel joy when he tells me he loves me or signs "I love you". I feel joy when he pumps his arm up and down and says, "YES!" because he is super excited or super proud of himself. I feel joy when he spells his name out loud or names colors or numbers. If I remember, if I can push the chaos away. If I choose, I can always feel the joy.

I am choosing to label him "loved"

This is a great time of change for my little family. I can sense changes happening in my Big Five Year Old. He is looking older. He is calming down and having great behavior days in school. He is talking football, really talking football, with his dad. He is beginning to understand his little brother's challenges and starting to show compassion towards him. He handled the death of his first guinea pig with appropriate amounts of sadness and understanding, and he stood in our living room this morning and explained what it meant that he "rescued" his new guinea pig- he was proud to have taken in this little creature that, in his words, no one else wanted. Oh. My. Change is afoot. He will be six years old in three weeks. Halfway through kindergarten, attending church youth group activities weekly, showing an aptitude for math and engineering. Sometimes these growth spurts are harder to see, and you wake up one day and notice your kid is suddenly heavier when you pick them up, or using words you didn't know he knew. This is not one of those times, no. This time I can clearly see the changes in my oldest son, and it makes me proud. He is maturing yet still oddly weird. He still marches to his own drummer, as they say.

My Big Five Year Old has never really asked about his adoption. He knows his story, and he has heard the words. Birth Mom. Adoption Plan. Orphanage. But he has never really expressed an interest in the finer details of how he found his way to our family. In treating him like the growing boy he is I have begun to explain to him how his little brother came to be born with the challenges he now faces. And in doing so, those words that are sometimes hard for me to say have been coming out of my mouth left and right. Oh yes, change is afoot.

We have come as close to a diagnoses as we will be able to get to with the Tiny Toddler. And now we have "labels", which I don't like but which I know are needed. We have an IEP. We have goals and targets and a plan. We have hope. And we have all of that because we have those dreaded labels. Now I know what research to do. I know how to arm myself with information. I knew before, but I was all over the place. Maybe it's Reactive Attachment Disorder. Maybe it's Oppositional Defiance Disorder. Maybe it's Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. Maybe it's ADHD. Maybe it is all of the above. But now we have our best educated guess and we are moving on to the living of our lives. Not to the fixing. To the management, and the living. To the fun, and the family vacations, and the celebration of successes and to all those teaching moments that lay ahead. Because we can't fix. And I am so relieved.

Now we accept. I have a beautiful, healthy, smart, fun little boy. He has trauma, yes. He may always have challenges stemming from poor decisions made by his birth mother. He may never connect all the dots the way I wish he would. We may forever walk through this life armed with techniques and flash cards, and behavior modification charts. But it is a life I am thrilled to be walking through with my amazing son. What he has overcome I cannot imagine. I complain if it is too cold or if we run out of diet root beer. His challenges? They must have seemed insurmountable to him. These new challenges? This time he won't have to do it alone. Again, I have to say how relieved I feel. I have taken my fears for his future, my fears for my family's future, and my fear of the unknown and I have turned it into acceptance and fight. I am ready to step into this new role, as a mother of a "labeled" child. But watch out, because I am the only one who can label my son with any moniker that really matters. And I am choosing to label him "loved".

Tell Me, Which is Better?

On Saturday my three year old son squealed with delight as he opened presents from Santa.  If he still lived in the orphanage there would be no presents, no holiday, no squeals of delight.

On Sunday my three year old visited his Aunt Debbie and his cousin Katie and played with their dogs. If he still lived in the orphanage he would have played with mismatched or broken toys, if he played at all.

On Monday my three year old went with his Grandparents to a party at his cousin's home, where he played with his little baby cousin and ate hot dogs. If he still lived in the orphanage he would have eaten thin potato puree that was too hot to swallow but that he would have gulped down anyways, to fill his always empty stomach.

On Tuesday my three year old visited his Aunt Becky's home where he played with his cousins and watched deer in their snowy backyard. If he still lived in the orphanage he wouldn't have been able to see the world outside from the small high windows that were smudged with mud and snow.

On Tuesday night my three year old rode home in the backseat of his family's car while watching a movie about Curious George, his favorite show, with his older brother. If he still lived in the orphanage he wouldn't have seen any educational shows on television, or had a brother to share them with.

On Wednesday my three year old played in the snow, all bundled up in his snow suit. If he still lived in the orphanage he might never be warm enough, and wouldn't have been able to play in the snow, as there was no yard, only a small concrete parking lot surrounded by gray buildings.

all smiles as he plays in the snow with his older brother

Tomorrow my three year old will go back to preschool, where he will learn his letters and colors. If he still lived in the orphanage tomorrow would be the same as every other day. No education. No love dedicated just to him. No choice in meals or toys. No clothes of his own, no family of his own, no mama of his own.

Tell me, which is better?

So many people tell my husband and I that our children are "lucky". "They are soooo lucky that you adopted them." "They are lucky lucky lucky!" And we have always said that we are the lucky ones, not them. I am lucky when I hear my boys laughing with each other. I am lucky when my three year old says "I wanna kiss you mama" and kisses my leg. I am lucky when one of my boys catches my eye and smiles at me. I am lucky lucky lucky. But now, with Russia on the verge of possibly banning adoption to Americans, I feel as though my little three year old is lucky too. Less than 1,000 children came home to their forever families from Russia in 2011, but he was one of them. He was one of the lucky ones.


There are an estimated 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages.  A number of those children have already been placed with waiting American families, and those adoptions are threatened to be disrupted, or, worse yet, not occur at all, if the ban on Americans adopting Russian orphans goes through. These American women and men are not "parents to be". They are already parents. They have visited their Russian child. They have held him, fed her, played. They have bonded. They have promised to return. And now their lives, and the lives of these innocent children, may never be the same. Contact President Obama. Sign a petition, like this one.
Pray.

I have done all of the above. And I will do one more thing. I will be ever joyful that my little boy made it out of a country that didn't want him, but who didn't want anyone else to have him either.

A Letter to President Obama

On December 18, 2012 the Russian Parliament voted to take action that would ban the adoption of Russian children by American citizens. If Russian President Vladimir Putin signs this bill into law without making a change to the adoption portion, thousands of Russian orphans will lose their chance at finding a forever family of their own. This action by Russia was taken as a result of a law our President recently signed regarding human rights violations in Russia. Innocent children stand to lose their chances at a healthy, happy life in an American family because of politics. My letter to our president:




Dear President Obama,

I am writing to alert you to an urgent concern regarding adoption. Congress recently passed the Sergei Magnitsky Rule of Law Accountability Act and President Obama signed it  into law on December 14, 2012.

In response, Russia's legislature has voted to pass the Dima Yakovlev Law, named after a Russian-born child who died in the care of his adoptive parents. This law would ban from visiting Russia anyone involved in the case of Dima Yakovlev or other Russian born adopted children who died in the United States. What is of most urgent concern is that a recent amendment to this law would also end Intercountry Adoption between Russia and the United States. I believe it is absolutely important to protect the rights of every child and there should be a measured response to the death of each of these children. We mourn the loss of these Russian-born children as they were dear to us as American children. However, it is important to note that these children are a very small minority. Many thousands of Russian born children have been adopted and thrive in the love and care of their American families. If intercountry adoption between Russia and the United States were to close, many thousands of children would likely languish in orphanages instead of finding their way to safe, loving, permanent families in the United States.

 

Now, let me tell you our story. Our son, Alexander Artur, came home to his forever family in May of 2011. My sweet boy was born in Vladivostok, Russia and never left the grounds of the baby hospital where he was born. He lived with seven other children in a hallway of the hospital. let be me clear about that, Mr. President. A hallway. Take a moment and walk out into your hallway, certainly much larger and brighter than where my precious son spent the first 24 months of his life. He ate his meals in a tiny room off this hallway. He slept in a crib pushed up against other cribs in another tiny room. He played in the hallway, with windows too high for him to see the world outside. He was malnourished and sickly when we were awarded the honor to be his parents by a Russian judge.

 

I am not going to tell you that this past year and a half has been easy. As adoptive parents we knew what work lay ahead of us to allow our new son to come into his own, so to speak. And while we still have a ways to go, our tiny little Russian born child is now a strong three year old boy. He loves to sing and dance. He loves animals, especially monkeys. He has nearly caught up developmentally to his American born peers. He is physically healthy and thriving. And our whole family is better off. My children, both internationally adopted, are the light of my life. Both of them have seen so much loss in their young lives, both have left the countries they were born in to become a part of a forever family.

 

I cannot help but think about all the children left behind. When we visited the orphanage in Russia these children would flock to us. They were intrigued by our camera, by the toys we had brought. They wanted to be held and loved. I watched them play with broken toys. I heard them crying as they ate food that was too hot to swallow but they were so hungry they didn't care. I saw worn clothes on one child show up on another one the next day. I saw caregivers with only so much time and energy to give. Tell me, is this better? Is it worth it? These laws will keep those children living in that small hallway, and, even worse, will keep many more in crowded orphanages throughout Russia.

 

 

 

 

If intercountry adoption between Russia and the United States closes, other children, like my little Alex,  will not be able to find their way to the many U.S. families willing and waiting to call them their own.

 

Please contact President Putin of Russia and ask him not to allow this amendment to become part of Russian law. U.S. diplomacy at this time is essential to save the lives of many young Russians waiting for a family of their own.

Respectfully,

Beth Wilkison
Mother

I have to stay in the game...

A few years ago, back when I had only one child and he was still quite young, I knew a mother with a son with significant behavior issues. "Knew" might be too strong a word. I "saw" her frequently enough to recognize her and her son, and I spent enough time around her kindergartner to know first hand the issues he faced. I am proud to say that I don't feel as though I judged her. I did notice that she always looked exhausted. I also noticed that sometimes it looked as though she had "checked out" when someone was speaking to her about her son's behavior. Sometimes she just seemed as though she couldn't hear another word.

I don't know when her son's behavior challenges began. Maybe she had been dealing with them since birth. Maybe she was an adoptive mother. I don't know why the behavior challenges occurred. Maybe it was trauma. Maybe it was DNA. Maybe it was lack of structure. I don't know if the behavior challenges have worked themselves out by now, some four years later. I hope so.

Yesterday the tiny toddler did not have a good afternoon at day care. He hit. He threw a few toys. He basically attempted to tear the room apart a few times. He refused to nap, disagreeing with even laying down and trying to rest his obviously over tired little body and mind. On the way out of the school he refused to walk, forcing me to carry him to the car while he swung at my head and spit at me. I held him, half in his car seat, half in my arms, whispering to him that he is safe, he is loved. I finally had to hold him down while I buckled him into his seat. Halfway home he stopped screaming, but not until after he took off his shoes and threw them at me. We both came out of the scuffle with war wounds, he with a scratch by his eye from my fingernail and me with a large bruise on my shoulder from him kicking me.

I sometimes feel as though it is a love/hate relationship we share, my tiny toddler and I. When we got home he put on his apron and helped me make dinner before he spun out of control again. Eventually I gave up and took him upstairs to bed, again kicking and screaming. Finally in his crib, surrounded by books and toys, with me sitting in the rocking chair across the room, he calmed down. Another day done, some good, some not so good.

We have worked hard to get our little guy to the point where he isn't having bad days every day. We have so many days of joy with him. He is sweet and caring, and likes to play jokes on Daddy. He loves to sing and is starting to ask question after question about everything. He is beginning to learn his colors and numbers and he is starting to babble as he pretends to read books, which is a strong precursor to learning to read. But when we have back to back downward spirals it is hard not to spiral down right along with him. It is hard to push through and stay in that place he needs me to  stay in. Unlike my tiny toddler, I don't have the luxury of fighting back.

This morning we spiraled down over tennis shoes and coats. Not able to fight yet another battle we headed out the front door, one kid wearing a coat and backpack, with DS in hand. (Having taken advantage of my distraction he managed to walk out the front door to school carrying his DS, something he doesn't usually get to play on short car trips.), and one kid in a t-shirt, arms bare, stomping to his side of the car. Then the tears started, because he was cold.  Seriously??

By the time we walked into his classroom his coat was on and all was well with his world again. We stopped and checked out the lunch menu. (Happiness over the mashed potatoes listed but unsure of the turkey being offered.) He walked into his room carrying a plastic bowl of cut up grapes, his offering for the "Friendship Fruit Salad" his class would be making today. I was beginning to relax. And then a teacher appeared out of nowhere to talk to my little man about something destructive he did yesterday. And it happened. I. couldn't. hear. another. thing. I could not take anything more in to my overloaded brain. The teacher didn't seem to want to talk with me, and even though I knew I should stop and have the conversation with her, I didn't. I chose to turn away from her. She was kneeling down in front of my son, helping him take off his coat. He was crying, like he does every morning when I walk away. (I love you! I hate you!). She had it under control. And in that moment, she had more control than I. I placed my hand on my big five year old's back and guided him out of the room. I could feel the tension in my shoulders creeping back in; I could barely remember the relaxation I was starting to feel just moments before. And then it hit me.

I am that mother. The one I knew four years ago. The one whose eyes glazed over when the topic of behavior popped up. Now I know I am not always that mother. I know that the mother I met four years ago wasn't always that mother either. Usually I am checked in, ready to tackle these challenges together. Together with my husband, Together with the teachers. Together with my son. But this morning I was at my limit. I walked out of the school wondering what those teachers were thinking of me. Did they think I didn't take them seriously? Did they think that if only I offered more structure at home these issues would disappear? Did they think I didn't care? I'm not going to lie to you. This morning, I didn't care. I just wanted out of there.

It affects every aspect of our lives, this trauma. It affects my marriage, as we sometimes struggle to contain our anger and to remain united. It affects the big five year old, who sometimes see his little brother get away with behavior he can't. It takes time away from him, which is heartbreaking. Knowing that my big five year old was all alone downstairs watching TV, or raiding the pantry, or doing Lord knows what, when I was upstairs dealing with the tiny toddler's behavior last night was enough to make me cry. When it's good, it so good. And when it's challenging, it's heartbreaking.

I know it's time to have the "child of trauma" talk with the day care. I have filled in his main teacher but I don't really think she fully understood. And how could she? His behavior is so inconsistent, frequently with many good days in a row. It is hard to understand that his behavior may worsen as he trusts more, as he tries to push his teachers away because he is starting to feel too comfortable there. It is hard to understand that he is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this great thing he has going on to be pulled out from under him. It is hard to understand that he might not do well in larger groups of loud children because he has internalized the feelings of his first 24 months of chaos. I don't even always understand it.  I find myself frequently wondering why he just can't get with the program. Why something so seemingly small as a 10 second wait for grapes can sometimes cause him to clear everything off the breakfast table before throwing himself on the floor. If I have a hard time fully understanding his feelings then I know others don't get it. And I don't want him labeled. He needs to find his path in his own time. And I need to stay on that path with him. I need to be always stable, always consistent, always loving, always 100% present. I can't let myself be that other mother. My tiny toddler has seen loss. Birth mother. Caregivers. Friends in the orphanage. I can't be another loss to him. I have to stay in the game.

holding up that safety net a while longer

Last night both of my boys went to bed early for not having their listening ears on. This lack of listening led to a large floor lamp being knocked over and my sweet husband's birthday dinner being interrupted. The tiny toddler took it like a man and seemed to understand what was happening. Once he calmed down and stopped swinging at me he easily let me help him into his jammies and lay him in his crib with a few books. Even though it was early he was out cold in less than 10 minutes. Proof, obviously, that a lack of listening ears is a symptom of something larger, like sleepiness. The big five year old, on the other hand, did not take it so well.

And understandably so. According to him his little brother knocked down the lamp because my big five year old was trying to take his DS back from him. The same DS that I had told the big five year old no less than three times to move because your little brother is going to get that thing! So here is what I think went down:

Thing Two saw the DS sitting all alone on the coffee table and knows that it holds the key to all sorts of fun and games. Thing Two also knows that he is not allowed to play with this toy, which makes it all the more irresistible to him. Thing One sees Thing Two with the DS and decides the best way to get it back from him is to grab it out of his hands. Thing One has been told repeatedly to ask your brother for what your want, don't just grab things from him, but Thing One obviously knows better. Thing Two sees his brother coming at him and in a move not unlike one you would see on an old television cop show he throws the floor lamp down in front of said brother, attempting to block his path. Mommy, (played by me), hears the crash and races into the living room, where Thing Two has scrambled away from the lamp and is now making a break for the door by way of the sofa and Thing One is standing over the lamp, amazed, DS forgotten. Both Things are then put to bed, stat.

These shenanigans frustrated me for a variety of reasons. Both boys had been told not to fight and to, in fact, stay away from each for a while. The big five year old had been told to put his DS away. The big five year old had also been told to ask us for help when his little brother takes his things. And the tiny toddler has been told that there is no need to fight back. But it's easy for me to tell him to stop fighting back. It's quite another thing for him to believe that he is safe. And when his older brother, this guy he loves and looks up to, pushes him and steals his toys, he immediately goes into fight mode.

I hate to punish my children. I really really hate it. It breaks my heart and makes me feel just horrible. I know it needs to be  done and I know that my boys are better off for it, but still, I hate it. And isn't our role to educate, to mold, to refine these little sponges into productive human beings? Holding true to that thought my sweet husband went and had a talk with our crying five year old. And another little piece of his innocence was gone, this time torn away by our own hands.

My husband shared some of the story of our youngest son's first 24 months in this world. He described the orphanage and the lack of love. He explained how the children would fight over the toys and how there wasn't enough food. He explained what it feels like to our youngest son when someone just walks up to him and takes a toy out of his hands. He explained how we all need to speak calmly to him, to tell him what we are going to do, to approach with care. If we don't scare him, he will eventually do as we ask. How yes, this seems unfair.

And I know my big five year old doesn't understand. He didn't see it first hand, his young mind can't process the effects of institutional living. After all, he lived in an institution himself for the first 15 months of his life, and he doesn't have these issues. This is a conversation I didn't want to have with either of my boys. I don't even like to think of it myself. When I think about what may have happened to my sweet young boy that makes him lash out when he feels threatened my heart hurts. That being said, when I am in the thick of whatever behavior is currently turning our household upside down it is hard to remember what he has gone through. There are so many unanswered questions here - am I sending the wrong message if I punish him? What if I don't punish him? What message does that send to my oldest son? Am I doing the right things to make him feel safe and loved? Will this behavior stop? It has gotten better- is that because of what we were doing and the approaches we are taking or is it because he is growing up? No matter what action I take I sometimes feel as though it is the wrong choice.  And even though I know he can't help it, his actions still make me crazy and angry and frustrated. And then I feel guilty for being mad at my son. I know that a post institutionalized child needs to feel in control. He needs to build his self esteem and to feel safe and loved. I have reasons to believe that my tiny toddler may have his own very good reasons for not trusting adults and logically I know that 17 months in a Forever Family is really not that long. He needs more time. More love. More safety nets around him.  This parenting a previously institutionalized toddler is not for the weak- it is often a vicious cycle and sometimes I just feel trapped.

And now we have sucked the big five year old into the trap as well. We have shown him a little more of the negative out there in the world, and asked understanding of him that he may be too young to offer. We have asked him to help us hold up that safety net a while longer.


 It is always worth it, but some days are harder than others.

odd behaviors, angry outbursts and car seat dancing

We took the tiny toddler to the Nationwide Children’s Hospital Behavioral Health Center this morning to finally look into what is going on with his odd behaviors and defiance. The good news is that even though he displays a few markers that would place him on the autism spectrum the assessor did not think that we need to worry about that. And even though he also displays a few markers for oppositional defiance disorder, she didn’t feel that was a concern either. Whew. She also reinforced that my sweet husband and I are, in fact, not crazy. Having the chance to witness just a tenth of his total lack of interest in behaving in a manner that would welcome him back to her office, she informed us that we were not over reacting in bringing him in for a visit. Whew again.

The first few days/months of his life with us were not easy, as many of you know. His young life, measured still in months at that point, had seen so much loss and confusion that I understood the acting out.  We ripped him away from the only home he knew. We sounded funny. We smelled funny. I am sure he had seen other babies leave the orphanage, never to return, and so he quite possibly may have been terrified of what his fate was going to be as we walked him down that dingy hallway, through the heavy wooden door and into the gray, cold night. It brings tears to my eyes still to think about the wild look on his face as we drove away, me holding him tight and attempting to whisper comforting words into his little ear. So his outbursts at the hotel, the airports, those first few months home- I understood.

Then those first weeks stretched into months and before we knew it a year had passed. Our tiny toddler spent most of that first year continuing to display his anger. Again we thought adoption related.  It is not uncommon for a child adopted as a toddler to push away people who love him, in an attempt to protect his heart. He had already lost a birth mother, never feeling that loving touch that begins to build that lifelong connection. He had seen caregivers come and go, possibly never bonding with any of them.  He had lost the only home he had ever known. He had no guarantee that we weren’t going to leave him as well. So he spent months pushing us away. This was super frustrating for us because during all those months of fighting and pushing us away he was also bonding and pulling us in to his heart. Every day was filled with hugs, kisses, screams and punches. And my heart felt as though it was being pulled apart, “I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you” is very exhausting.  But through it all I kept thinking, “This will pass. He will soon trust that we love him and that we are not leaving him and he will settle down.” Only he never did.

The days got easier, I guess. Or maybe we all just got used to it. I really don’t know which. Some days are better than others, as it is with any parenting hurdles. My sweet husband and I read books and took online parenting classes. But so far we really haven’t found what works consistently. Which brings us back to this morning, and our appointment at the behavioral health center.  And the relief of finding out that our sweet little angel probably is just a stubborn and defiant toddler.

OK, so now the real work begins. We don’t know if he will outgrow this behavior. We don’t know if this is somehow adoption related, seeing as he spent the first 24 months of his life in basically a free for all setting, where it was OK to hit other kids and where he had to fight for everything he got.  I’m choosing to believe that he will work it out. I’m choosing to believe that I will not have a tall, strong teenage son who is quick to anger and can’t handle his emotions. I’m choosing to believe that I will not have a 7 year old who can’t focus on the activity at hand and who’s favorite word is “no”.  I’m choosing to believe that if we put in the work and help him through this now that we can have calmer days and my tiny toddler can have the calm and happy life he deserves.

So we will participate in the program being offered by the hospital. We will read the recommended books. We will take deep breaths and walk away before we explode and we will take turns handling the odd behaviors. I will research diet changes and alternative medicines and make an appointment to discuss having the metals removed from his body. We will run our lives on routines, something it is very clear our little guy needs. We will anticipate and redirect and teach teach teach.  We will be thankful for our beautiful son, for the times that he laughs so hard that he instinctively covers his mouth with his hand and when he dances in his car seat. We will not lose sight of our big five year old, who soon will be starting kindergarten and may have his own struggles pop up.

So we really don’t know any more now, at the end of the day, than we did this morning, before our appointment. We know what our tiny toddler probably doesn’t have but he remains a mystery to be unlocked. And even though I am often exhausted and frustrated and ready to throw in the towel, I will happily plug away at finding the key to unlock the beautiful little person I know is in there.

a handful of poor parenting choices can lead to thousands of children with no chance of a forever family

It has been a few weeks since I have posted anything and there are so many topics I want to write about. I need to complete an update on our Positive Parenting adventures. I want to share an amazing new app I found for my iPhone that helps me organize my days and weeks- basically it takes my household control journal and puts it on my phone in a totally customizable way. This little app has changed my daily routine, made me even more useful and has helped to create a little more time for the fun stuff, like playing with my boys.  We are coming up on the tiny toddler's one year anniversary of joining our family and there is so much I want to share as I look back over this most amazing and challenging year. But all of that will have to wait. Because I have to talk about this:

aren't they just adorable?

These twins seem to be the latest in the bad adoption news coming out of Russia. These 15 month old babies were allegedly left on a freezing Russian Street by their American adoptive mother with a note stating she had given them up. Children are not to be discarded, people. Birth mothers may "give up" their children but they normally do so with a plan. It is important that you understand the difference. I am not bashing responsible birth mothers who are realistic enough to know they cannot parent their child and make a plan, out of love. I am eternally thankful to the two birth mothers I will never know who gave me the best gifts of my life, my boys.

Statistics are all over the place but I can say with some confidence that there are approximately 700,000 children living in Russian orphanages and foster homes. And that is just one country. There are children needing parents all over the world, including right here in America.  And there are families working their way through the adoption process as you read this, families for whom the adoption process may now be stalled or totally stopped altogether. Because of the actions of adoptive parents like the mother mentioned above these 700,000 children may never find their forever families.

As someone who has made this adoption journey I can tell you that the blame lies in a variety of places. Maybe the adoption agency didn't thoroughly explain the issues often related with bringing an institutionalized child into your home. Maybe the required pre adoption parenting classes didn't cover bonding and behavior management as well as they should have. Maybe the orphanage wasn't able to create an atmosphere in which children learn what it's like to feel love. Maybe the adoptive parents wanted a child so badly that they chose to ignore the warnings of what all can go wrong. One thing is obvious- these parents, and others, like Torry Hansen, were not prepared.  And they were not invested in becoming the kind of parent a child needs in order to be prepared for life.

I can say this because it happened to me. I wasn't 100% prepared for my tiny toddler. I had his room ready and the baby toys had been brought up from the basement, washed, and added to the toy box. The tiny clothes had been put into the drawers in the baby's new room and his older brother had been prepared for the new addition to the family. I had taken the classes and my adoption agency had been very clear about the issues we may face. I had read the books and, maybe most importantly, I had done this once before. I knew how to parent, I knew how to bond, I was confident in my abilities to mother my new son. But in hind sight, I was not 100% prepared.

Our second adoption journey was very different from our first one. The paperwork was different. The hoops we had to jump through were a little higher. The trips were a little more difficult and the things we saw were a little harder to see. And I was just as naive as I was the first time around. I expected that if I followed the rules about bonding and just loved this child, the outcome would be just as amazing as it was the first time, with our oldest son. And I was wrong.

Maybe it was post adoption depression, which I firmly believe I was experiencing for months after returning home. Maybe it was the fact that the tiny toddler was 9 months older than his brother was when he came home. It may not sound like a long time but the difference between a 15 month old baby and a 24 month old toddler can be astounding. Maybe it was the lifestyle differences; the tiny toddler had more ability to roam around his little hallway at the orphanage and had experienced the need to fight for food and toys and love. The big five year old had been taught from birth to sit quietly in his crib and wait for the busy nanny to hand him a bottle or carry him to the bath. It is quite possible that he rarely played with toys or spent time with the other babies in a social setting. One learned to cling to love when it was offered and one learned to fight and push it away.

So I was caught off guard, initially, when we opened our front door off that plane from Russia and walked into what felt like someone else's life.  But I had been prepared, at least a little. I had the knowledge to solve the problem and I had the resources to help me. I, like 90% of adoptive parents, did what had to be done. I got a handle on the situation. I worked with my husband. I learned to walk away when the frustration got to be too much. I learned to take deep breaths while holding the refrigerator door closed when the little guy wanted to dump it's contents on the floor. I learned to duck from his swinging arms and to hold him so he could see my eyes but couldn't hit me. I had never done those things before. Teaching a toddler to trust and love when he had been burned every time he gave that trust away before was the hardest thing I have ever done. And there are days that I feel I'm not done yet. But through all of it, I never once thought that I made a mistake. I never once thought of not parenting this child. I am his mother. Period. I shed a lot of tears, but through it all, I loved him.

And I am nothing special. I am no different from nearly every other adoptive mother out there. We all understand that there is no difference between biological children and adoptive ones. We know that you get what you get. We know that behavior and health issues could pop up at any time and just because we adopted our child doesn't mean we have any less responsibility.

We fight for our right to parent our children like every other mother. We get upset when we are referred to as "adoptive parents" or when we are asked if our children are "real".  We stand up for our rights when the hospital wants us to show the court paperwork that proves our child is ours. We point out that biological parents don't have to prove these things. We cringe when our children are introduced by their adoption status or birth country. "This is Matthew, he's from China." ugg. You never hear, "This is little Johnny, he was born in Akron, Ohio at Akron General Hospital." Yes, we have a lot to fight for, where our kids are concerned. And we do it gladly, because we love our kids. But we can't have it both ways. We can't fight for equality if we don't perceive our children as truly "ours". And it is obvious that the adoptive parents who make the news, the ones who hurt their kids or try to "give them back" do not feel the same way.

Help is out there. There are books and doctors and social workers and other mommies who have been there. There is somewhere to turn. There is never a reason to do anything to hurt your kids. And make no mistake, no matter how they came into your life, they are your kids. As my big five year old often says, "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Well said, little man.

Are our adopted children losing more than we think they are by losing the culture of their birth country?

About 14 months ago, after my husband and I had decided on pursuing a second international adoption but before we made our first trip to Russia, a friend of mine asked me a question that weighed on my mind for months. As an adoptive mother I am frequently asked invasive, crazy, and sometimes downright rude questions. This was not one of those kinds of questions. This was a thoughtful and simply curious question, and, to be honest, it was one I had posed to myself a few times along the adoption path. "Are you worried that your children are losing more than you think they are by losing the culture of their birth country?" In other words, which is better? Growing up in a stable, loving family or staying connected to your culture?

If you have been reading my thoughts for a while now then you know how I feel about my oldest son's potential future had he stayed in his Chinese orphanage. If you are new around here, you can read up on my epiphany here.

But just because I was confident that my oldest son's future was hopeful due solely to his leaving the orphanage didn't mean I felt like that about every orphan. Truth be told, I didn't know how I felt. I wanted to believe that internationally adopted children were better off in loving families, no matter where those families lived. But if I am being completely honest with myself I know that the real reason, the first reason, my husband and I decided on adoption was purely selfish. We wanted a family, simple as that. We were not looking to save a child. And while we planned from day one to mesh the American with the Chinese, we really weren't thinking about the effects  the loss of daily immersion in his culture would mean to our new child.

The answer to the birth county culture/forever family question is not easy. Even adult adoptees cannot agree. There are many who say that the amount of birth country culture their American adoptive parents offered was more than enough, that having loving parents and the American dream were more important. But there are other adult adoptees who feel they missed out on something very important by not having the opportunity to grow up in the country of their birth. Just like any other parenting crossroads, you just put your head down and try to do right by your kids.

But then I had the amazing experience of spending time in the orphanage of our youngest son. I saw loving caregivers. I saw worn wooden toys mixed in with newer American toys brought over by previously visiting parents to be. I saw the same worn pants and shirt on different toddlers each day. I saw little ones who were hungry. I saw different caregivers every day and children fighting over the best toys. The building my son lived in didn't reflect the beautiful architecture of his birth country. And neither did any of the gray buildings he could see from the high windows of the first floor where he lived. Eventually my precious little boy would have been moved from the baby hospital to the local orphanage, with pretty much the same view. Every day, the same. Same view, same food, same worn toys and shared clothes.

So when the birth culture question comes up now I am no longer second guessing myself. It isn't just that I want to believe it. Had my boys grown up in their birth countries they still would have grown up in an orphanage. There is no way to separate one from the other. I doubt my boys would have been able to attend concerts or go to art museums. I doubt they would have had the opportunity to travel the countryside of their respective birth countries. They wouldn't have learned what is was like to grow up in a Chinese or Russian family. They wouldn't have shopped in a grocery store or participated in cultural traditions. In fact, both of my boys probably experienced more of their birth countries after the adoption, while they traveled with us. My oldest son saw Qingping Market and The Temple of Six Banyan Trees where there are hundreds of Buddha statues. He experienced, in a very small way, a part of the rich history of his birth country. My youngest traveled with me to the baby store, the grocery store, and a local mall, experiencing, again in a very small way, a tiny bit of everyday Russian family life. Then they boarded a plane and flew across an ocean to live in America, as a part of a forever family.

Had my boys stayed in the country of their birth I believe they probably wouldn't have experienced the true culture. They would have experienced the culture of the orphanage in which they lived. Orphanage culture. Which, believe me, is much much different than being a part of family in any country. So, to answer my friend's question - I will always worry a little that my children won't feel grounded as they grow. I pray that each of my boys eventually finds the perfect balance between America and the land of their birth. I pray that I can help them bridge the gap between unknown birth family and themselves. I will travel with them to China and Russia, as many times as they wish. I will listen if they come to me one day, upset about being different. I will be OK if they go through a phase of not wanting to embrace these differences. But do I believe they would have been better off staying put? No way. Do I believe that the benefits of gaining a loving family outweigh the repercussions of losing full immersion in their culture? Yes I do. Now I do. And I have to believe that the limited exposure to birth country culture that we can provide our adopted children is at least as much, if not more, than they might have received anyways. It's all about perspective.

one less

I turned off the TV and made sure the coffee pot was not brewing. The boys were out of the house, having left earlier with my husband to head to daycare/preschool. The cat was in the basement. The entire house was silent. I hit the locator button on the phone base and started tiptoeing around the living room, head cocked to the side, listening for the responding beep beep beep. Not in  the sofa cushions. Not in the toy box. Not in the media drawer. Maybe the phone isn't even in the living room. I wander out to the dining room, through the kitchen. The beeping grows faint. getting colder.... finally I find the phone stuffed into the play tent, hanging out with about 100 balls, 2 stuffed monkeys, and a shoe. My search made my day. It made me smile. I love my boys.

Which made me think of how very thankful I am to have them in my life. Which made me think, as I sometimes do, of what their young lives would have been like if they hadn't come home to us. Which made me think of that Matthew West song, One Less.



And it is true. There is one less orphan in this world. Actually, there are two less orphans. And I am realistic. I have a pretty good idea of what their lives would have been like had they grown up in their respective orphanages. I am fairly certain that my big four and a half year old might not have survived childhood, being unable to take in adequate nutrition without having his cleft palate repaired. Had he lived he most likely would not have been educated, and certainly would not have found love in a world of too few girls to begin with. My handsome, loving and oh so smart boy would never have known the potential locked inside his soul. He wouldn't be able to speak properly, if at all. He wouldn't be able to hear. He wouldn't know the joy he now gets out of his life every day. My tiny toddler would probably grow up fighting - fighting for toys, for food, for affection from caregivers. He would eventually have been moved to a larger orphanage with older children, stronger children. He might have gone to school, maybe. And eventually, at much too young an age, he would have been turned out into the streets, left to fend for himself. So yes, my boys are very lucky.

But this song makes me think of me, really. It makes me think of the mothers out there with empty arms. The fathers with so much love in the hearts. The couples with empty houses, with no toys all over the floor and no crib in the extra bedroom. No bath toys in the tub or cheerios in the cupboard. Those couples - their houses and cars are clean. Their time is their own. But their longing is real, and palpable. That is what this song makes me think about. Yes, there  is one less  orphan in this world. Two, actually. But there is also one less childless family. There is one less mother with empty arms. There is one less father with a wealth of football knowledge he is aching to share.  When I trip over the matchbox cars in the living room, when I hold my tiny toddler tight against me as he fights to get loose and hit me, when I watch my boys splash water all over the bathroom floor and when I spend seem less hours tracking down shoes, coats, stuffed monkeys, and socks, I am thankful that I am one less.

it is never too late to do what God calls you to

I just started reading The Boy From Baby House 10: From the Nightmare of a Russian Orphanage to a New Life In America, written by Alan Philips and John Lahutsky. The book's dedication, To the children who never made it, makes me very sad. I have read all of 10 pages so far. Eventually I know I will finish this book. Maybe. In a while, down the road. Maybe when there is a little more distance between my recent trip to Russia and the present day escapades of my little Russian boy. Maybe not. I like to think that the orphanage my son spent the first twenty four months of his life in was not like the one I will read about in this book. I felt love in that hallway of the baby hospital. I think. The caregivers smiled and laughed with the children. The doctor seemed caring. If what I saw is to be believed, then I think that my little guy was loved. He was obviously well cared for. While he came to us malnourished he was clean, free of bruises. So I don't think that his life would have been like the life of the boy in the book I cannot bring myself to read. I don't think that at all. But I did ask enough questions about the futures of the children left behind in that baby hospital to know that his life would have been hard. He may or may not have had an opportunity to go to school and he certainly would not have been able to further his education in college. He would not have known relationships or how to form them. He would have been a number. Just a name and number to a government already overwhelmed by the names and numbers of so many in need.

I attempt to read books like this one for a few reasons. I want to know. I am interested in what is happening in orphanages in the countries my children hail from. I feel a responsibility to one day be able to answer any questions my boys may have. I feel very close to the children we saw, played with, left toys for. I often wonder what will happen to them and I pray that they will find their way out. The attempt to read this particular book about a young boy who would have surely died had he not found his forever family reminded me of the moment I realized my oldest son may not have survived had he not found us. Had God not led us to China my big four and a half year old may not have survived his childhood. I came to this realization during a Stephen Curtis Chapman concert. Read about it here.

I don't think about it very often. We have sports practices and music classes, Sunday school and preschool homework. Oh my God the preschool homework! All I can say is thank goodness next year, when the big four and half year old is in kindergarten the tiny toddler will not yet be in preschool. The year after that though, with a first grader and a preschooler the homework may just overtake me. And by then, another year removed from the dirt roads, the boarded up buildings where tired citizens still work every day, the large ballroom with the beautiful gold and glass chandelier up the two flights of stairs with the peeling paint, holes in the drywall and unlit light fixtures dangling from the ceiling - another year removed from the gray and feeling of heaviness, another year immersed in giggles and kisses and hugs and potty training and preschool homework- by then I bet I will hardly think of my boys big escape.

I often wish there was more I could do. I want to go back and bring them all home. The little boy who always asks when his mommy and daddy are coming to get him. The little girl who wanted my full attention. The tiny Chinese babies, all dressed in little pink and blue outfits staring up at me from row after row of cribs. I can't, of course. But once you've seen them, hugged them, played with them- these children are real to me now, and their needs are real as well. That is why I like show HOPE. This amazing organization provides orphan care, adoption aid, and so much more to the world's most needy. And right now you can help. If you are still in need of a last minute gift for a hard to buy for loved one, consider a gift from show HOPE's online Gifts of Hope. I like this gift catalog because you can select how, and where, you would like your monetary donation to be spent. Food, shelter, baby supplies - what is your heart saying to you? Christmas is right around the corner, but it is never too late to do what God calls you to.

It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids

The topic last night at my MOPS meeting was "naming rights". The discussion flowed from biblical babies to our own real time ones, and how their precious names were selected. We talked about how important our names are - they are our identity, a gift from our parents. Sometimes they are a link to our past. Names are so very important.

We talked about that first moment when you hold your new baby in your arms and look in his or her eyes for the first time, and how you just know, you just know the name you selected fits this tiny creature. Being the only adoptive mother in my MOPS group I am used to conversations about our little ones frequently being framed in the context of pregnancy and birth, and that is fine with me. All those mothers, having their babies the old fashioned way! Last night's conversation was the same - very much centered around those first few moments after birth.

But I can relate. I waited to see my baby's face too. I found out I was having a boy not in my doctor's office on an ultrasound table but standing in my kitchen, with our adoption agency on speaker phone. It's a boy! I remember hanging up the phone and sinking down into a kitchen chair,  thrilled and stunned that we were having a boy. And the great baby name debate began.

It was funny, last night, participating in this conversation about meeting our babies. I saw my baby's beautiful little face not in person for the first time, but in a picture. But I was in the hospital. It was  our adoption agency's policy to not show a prospective family the photo of the baby until after the parents to be had reviewed the baby's medical information, which makes sense. It would be hard to turn away from a baby you know in your heart your can't care for after you have seen the picture. So we had met with the doctor, we were confident we could handle the cleft palate and cleft lip our son to be would come to us with. And so we stood in a cubicle in the International Adoption Clinic offices at Nationwide Children's Hospital and waited as our baby's picture loaded onto the assistant's computer. And so that part of our story might be different than other's. But what happened next was the same as every other new parents' story. We looked at the picture of our new little son, a tiny Chinese boy in an over sized white t-shirt, his eyes speaking volumes to us. And we looked at each other and said, "Yes, his name fits him. He is a Matthew." You just know. You just know.

We talked at MOPS about how we all settled on the names we chose for our children. And again, my story was a little different. It wasn't just my husband and I making this decision. We had boys with names already. One given by the orphanage, another by a birth mother. (sometimes I still struggle with that word, birth mother. But no matter the struggle, I am everyday thankful to these unknown women.) Both names were links to history, to birth countries. So it wasn't just my husband and I. Or even extended family. It took two parents, a birth mother, an orphanage director, and two countries to name my kids.