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.

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.

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.

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.