Adopted Children Are Not Merchandise- Using Appropriate Adoption Language

It is common knowledge among anyone not living under a rock that no one likes to be labeled. Schools go out of their way to not saddle a young child with a label that will follow them their entire academic career. Stay at home moms push back against their label, while working outside the home moms often hate their moniker as well. Labels are, by definition, a way to classify a group, to set apart. And labels are notoriously not all inclusive. You can like a particular rock band, for instance, and be labeled a member of their "army" but that doesn't mean you don't also like many other forms of musical expression. Labels are often so offensive that groups of like minded people go out of their way to choose their own defining labels; we know we can't escape them and just be labeled "human", so we find ones we are comfortable living within. Obviously, being labeled a fan of a particular musical group is not really all that damaging. But you see my point.

There are two sides to the label discussion, and both are passionate. On the one hand, what someone else says about you, how they categorize you, really speaks more to the state of their heart than yours. Our worth is certainly not found in a label, even though many strive, at great cost, to achieve their most prized label, whether that be "Mom", "CEO", or "Mr. President".  But on the other side of that argument stand many, many people who have been harmed by the labels others have placed on them.

The labels we use to describe others is such a big problem that many organizations have created glossaries of "preferred language". GLAAD provides a Media Reference Guide of terms to avoid on their website. Many adoption advocacy organizations do the same. And for good reason. A person who has never walked a path outside of the traditional may not know how much damage a casually thrown out comment, (read: label), can do. If that describes you, then pay attention.

In the wake of the 2016 Presidential elections emotions are high. In sharing a well written Huffington Post article, (Read it here.), on why some internationally adopted children have been scared by the anti immigration rhetoric that has polluted this election cycle the following comment was made:

"there are millions of kids in the foster care system..maybe you should have looked into the citizens of the US before you imported brand new kids from another country."

While there are so many things wrong with this short comment, so much hatred and contempt and ignorance, I want to focus on the label. Do you see it? Imported.  Children are not items to be bought, sold and imported. (As in, "How much did he cost?") And when language like this is used, it degrades the person being labeled. Even if that is not the intention, this type of language slowly wears down a person, demeaning them yet again, showing them, yet again, that there are people out there in their world who think less of them. Who think they are less deserving than others, simply because of where they were born. And it's not just adoptees who face this feeling of being less than. Anyone walking their own unique, spectacular and brave journey has faced this type of judgement. Words are amazing. They let us share, feel, think, escape. And they also hurt. 

It is important for adopted children to feel grounded. To truly trust in who they are. This is an extremely difficult task on a god day. Questions of "Why" and "What if" are always floating just beneath the surface. Finding their place in a world where they are not connected on that primal level with their most loved family members is not easy. Adoption, just like walking any other beautiful non traditional path is an amazing gift, but it doesn't come without loss. Truly knowing who we are is hard. To be labeled as merchandise that can be bought and sold and imported makes it so much harder. 

When an adoptee does not feel grounded big problems can occur. In little ones this shows up as low self esteem, focus and learning deficits, and often severe behavior problems. In older teens and adults it can lead to drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and even incarceration. Feeling comfortable in our own skin, knowing who we are and who stands with us is vital to a healthy sense of self. Hearing words like "bought" or "imported" are not just insensitive. They can be incredibly damaging. 

What does all of this mean to you? It means we all need to think before we speak. Those words that we feel are funny or harmless might be like daggers to the heart of the person on the receiving end. Some would argue that we are all just too sensitive, and they might be right. We all want to raise compassionate children who are self aware enough to withstand the labels. But as we work towards that shared goal, let's not make it any harder on adoptees than it need be.

If you would like more information on appropriate adoption language to use with your friends and family, consider this list of suggested language from the Adoption Council: Accurate Adoption Language. For more information on how labels can be damaging to our children, please see this article from Psychology Today. 

If you are an adoptive parent, or the friend or family of an adoptive parent, please consider sharing this  on your social media sites. 

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.

Happy Family Day!

Six years ago today we met you,  our amazing oldest son. In a glaringly modern room full of black and red patterned furniture and overstuffed pillows you toddled in, over an hour late. Just like so many other times in those first 15 months of your life you had an obstacle to overcome that day. A flat tire on the bus bringing you to us. Not your first obstacle, and certainly not your last.

As we wandered around Shamian Island in Guangzhou with you strapped to my hip we were stopped countless times by interested locals, often overstepping our "American" boundaries of personal space. "A boy! You are lucky!". Yes, yes we were lucky, and we still are.

Once back on American soil that lucky sentiment became somewhat mangled. "He is SO lucky!", we heard all the time. No, he's healthy. He's loved. He's happy, we think. If you must assign luck, assign it to us, please. Americans, always thinking that our way is the best way.

Now that you are a strapping and active seven year old, we don't hear those lucky sentiments very often anymore. And, thankfully, we don't hear the invasive adoption questions much anymore either. We do hear questions about your relationship to your brother, but that is a story for another day.

Until your little brother joined our family we really didn't fully understand the loss of adoption. We do now. You have lost so much. You are starting to ask questions, questions that we can only speculate the answers to. Questions that probably will never be answered, not to your satisfaction, at least.

Did my birth mother love me like you do?

Where was I was found?

Why? Why? Why?

You are seven and just beginning to question. As you get older I know you will have more questions. Sadly, I won't have any more answers. So bear with me, sweetheart.

And in the meantime, I will love you, support you, give you every opportunity I can. And in return, you will continue to give me so much.

Your tight hugs. Your bright crooked smiles. Your wild dreams and engineering mind. Your thirst for knowledge. Your entrepreneural attitude. You have one foot in the world of big kids, with your football and your desire to go off and explore the world. And one foot still in your early childhood, with 15 stuffed animals on your bed and your fright of loud noises.

You are just the best big brother, getting your little sibling to listen, play, calm down. The patience you show with him is astounding. You are a teacher. A leader. A role model. I can't wait to see where this crazy life of ours takes us!

Six years ago I sat on a very hard brightly colored sofa, waiting for you to arrive. My Guangzhou delivery room. You were late to arrive, as so many babies are. You took my finger and held on tight. And I pray that you never let it go.

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!

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

A Hard Word For Me To Say

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have to stay in the game...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

What I wish everyone knew about adoption

This post was originally written on September 13, 2011. These are my thoughts on what I wish everyone knew about adoption. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.






A few weeks ago I was at a friend's home attending a home sales party when my friend asked me how life was going since our return from Russia with our new son. This was a good friend and so of course she knew about our adoption adventures. And everyone who knows us knows that we wear our adoption badge proudly - in our trans racial family it is certainly no secret that our boys are not American by birth. I don't mind a friend asking an innocent question about my family. What I do mind is what happened next. Another guest at this party, someone I had not met until that evening, made the following comment: "Why didn't you just have your own children? Can't you have children of your own?" While I was processing these questions another guest followed up with the statement nearly every adoptive mother has heard a million times: "You know, now that you have adopted you will surely get pregnant." I then did something I don't normally do at these types of events. I accepted the glass of wine the host was pushing into my hands and I smiled as I responded through clenched teeth: "Oh, well, with two little ones at home I am not interested in getting pregnant!" (cue awkward laughter.)

Adoption touches so many lives that nearly everyone knows someone who has joyously grown their family in this way. It's time to set the record straight. I am sure that most of these comments are meant with no harm intended. After all, people are naturally curious. But it's not just the thoughtless comments that burn into the memories of adoptive mothers everywhere. It is also conversations we are not included in and assumptions that are made about our decisions and our families.

I don't enjoy being left out of conversations about pregnancy and birth. Just because I didn't carry my child for nine months doesn't mean I didn't do all of the things an expectant mother does. I planned the nursery. I worried about the health of my new child. I dreamed about counting fingers and toes. I wondered what my baby would look like and if he or she would be more like me or my husband. I shopped for clothes and would sit in the chair in my baby's room, looking at the empty crib, full of anticipation. I didn't wait for labor pains to hit; I waited for the phone call and the travel letter to arrive. And once it did, my labor wasn't over in hours or days. The time between notification of travel to meet my sons and the day I held them in my arms took months. So don't think I don't have anything to offer to your conversations about pregnancy or labor.

And your stories about caring for newborns? Don't leave me out of those discussions either. While both my sons were older when they joined our family we still had our share of "newborn" type concerns. My oldest son was fifteen months old when he came home but his sleeping habits mirrored those of a much younger baby. He was difficult to put down and then once asleep he would wake frequently throughout the night, screaming. His night terrors lasted for over a year. I may not have cared for an infant but I understand sleep deprivation. I understand feeding difficulties and worrying over how much, or how little, formula the baby is taking. I have thoughts to add to your conversations, but so often I am not asked.

I had someone comment once to me about how adoption must have been "easier" than a traditional pregnancy. Just because I may not have talked about every part of our adoption process doesn't mean it was "easy". If your obstetrician chose to meet with you in the waiting room of his office, ask you very personal questions about your finances, your marriage, your extended family, your health, your home, your career, your fertility, or lack of fertility, while everyone in the room listened in, how would you feel? If you had to welcome the fire marshal into your home and allow him to poke into every closet and check your fire extinguishers, just to have him tell you that they weren't placed exactly in the right spot, or have him wait, impatiently, while you ran around placing outlet covers in the outlets on your counters, because "babies climb, you know", as if you were completely ignorant of how children behave, how would you feel? How about having to take off your clothes in front of doctors (note the plural there) that you have never met, in a room in a foreign country while other total strangers milled about just outside the not completely closed door, and everyone in the room talked about you in a language you didn't understand? Or having to meet with a psychologist to prove that you are appropriate parent material? What if you went to the hospital to deliver your baby but was not guaranteed to bring that baby home with you? What if a judge held the fate of your family in his or her hands? After undergoing two rounds of invitrovertilization I know how invasive the pregnancy medical appointments and delivery must be. I am not saying that adoption is more difficult than traditional pregnancy and birth. But I am saying that just because I didn't receive an epidural doesn't mean that somehow adoption is the easier choice.

I need you to know how frustrating it is when I am told about women who adopted and then found themselves pregnant. First of all, no one knows the story of our fertility except us. When these types of comments are made so are a lot of assumptions. I may be able to have biological children. I may not be able to have biological children. Either way, our choice to adopt was not some convoluted way to conceive. It was not "plan B". And I never want my children to ever think that it was. It was God's plan for me to have my tender hearted, smart, music and football loving Chinese boy and my sweet, tough, dancing Russian boy. And we all know that God doesn't have a backup plan. There is no "plan B" where my boys are concerned.

I wish as my boys grow older they will be seen for the wonderful individuals they are. I hope that they will not be introduced as my "adopted" boys but simply as my boys. I have never once introduced my niece by saying, "This is my niece. She was born prematurely but is doing great now!" Sounds crazy, right? But that is how my boys are referred to every day. Every day. And while I write about adoption and adoption related issues frequently I do not push that onto my boys. I want the history my boys have from the months they lived before they joined our family to be cherished and remembered, but I also want it to be placed appropriately in the overall scheme of their lives. I want people to look at them and see just them.

I want the questions about my reproductive system to stop. I am not going to tell you how much it costs to adopt internationally. If someone is seriously interested in adoption I am the first person to share the joys and the low points of the process. I love love love to talk about growing families through adoption. But I will not answer a question that makes it sound as though I somehow purchased my children. Please stop reducing my family to dollars and cents.

So many people assume that our children arrived to our family just the way they are now. With a biological child you learn to parent as the child grows. The child learns the language you speak. The child learns to love you and bonds with you, never for a moment thinking that you might one day be gone. My children learned to sooth themselves because maternal figures came and went. They learned to speak, or at least to understand, in a language different from my own. And my husband and I learned to parent in hotel rooms and airports. When our son needed medical attention we didn't have the luxury of calling our pediatrician or running down to the corner drugstore for antibiotics. My tiny, underweight fifteen month old was treated at a hospital in a foreign country. He screamed as I handed him through a window, a window, to have blood taken. I could hear him screaming but could not hold him or comfort him. I tried to keep him clean as I watched parents wring out not just wet, but soiled diapers onto the concrete floor of the hospital waiting room, which was outside, so that the diaper could be used again. I struggled with the question of whether to give my new son the mystery powder with the unreadable label or just hope the bronchitis worked itself out on it's own. We didn't have the luxury of making our parenting mistakes in the privacy of our own home. We made our slip ups in public, in airports, hotels, and flights full of witnesses. Talk about feeling judged.

I don't think about these issues very often. It is important to me that you understand that. I don't dislike the way we are viewed as a family. I don't think that every kind smile or comment is a reflection of our adoption story. My kids are adorable and high energy; it's hard not to look. I get lots of great comments as well. One of my favorites came after I returned home with my youngest son. The entire month long trip had been difficult and the three day journey home, alone with a toddler, was difficult as well. My sweet friend Karen probably had no idea how much her words meant to me when she said "I have no doubt that your labor was much harder than mine." Harder, I don't know. But at least just as difficult, in it's own way. So there are great comments made. But there are also times when I just wish the world out there knew what I knew. So now, a few more of you do.

I will smile

This post was originally published on July 25, 2011. It is an essay on smiling through the feelings of always being on display as an transracial family. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.




It has been three years since my oldest son joined our family. And these first three years have been filled with joy, laughter and the unwelcome stares of thousands of complete strangers. That's how I have been thinking of them - unwelcome. I ignore the looks, usually. But they bother me nonetheless. I just want to parent my child. I am going to have my bad parenting moments, just like everyone else. I am going to have tones of frustration in my voice sometimes. I am going to have to pick up a screaming child and stuff him under my arm as I practically run from the grocery store, or the library. There are going to be times when the floor under the restaurant table is covered in food thrown there by my two beautiful angels. Mama said there'd be days like this, right?

The problem is, before these moments pop up, while we are just that quiet family in the library or that happy family at the restaurant we are still gathering the stares of many of the people around us. So when the tide turns and the bad behavior rears it's ugly head we are already on display.

The other night I couldn't sleep, something that has been happening to me a lot lately. At first I couldn't sleep because I was just so content- suddenly I had all this energy, all from being just so gosh darned happy with my life. Then I couldn't sleep because my return to work date was looming and I knew I was going to walk right back into total craziness. But I found another more family friendly job and gave notice at the old job and so why I couldn't sleep the other night is beyond me. I decided to spend some quality alone time with myself and catch up on my magazine reading.

Skimming through the family and adoption magazines made me think about that day's trip to the grocery store with my boys. As usual, they were relatively well behaved albeit their normal level of boisterousness. And par for the course, we turned our share of heads. But that night I really thought about it. I can't stop staring at my boys. I find them beautiful and sweet and I make eye contact with them on a near constant basis. I truly stare at them. And it is not because they don't look like me. It's not because I am trying to figure out what nationality they are. It is simply because I love them and because they are so cute. So am I that different from everyone out there staring at my boys?

I have to entertain the possibility that people stare because my boys are beautiful. I know a handful of them are trying to work out how they could be related, or what country they may be from. I know some of them are trying to figure out why I chose international adoption over domestic. Some of them are wondering about the situations that led to these beautiful boys needing forever families. But most of them are probably staring because they are sweet and loving children. Simple as that.

So I need to stop letting these stares get to me. But I need to stop ignoring them as well. Next time I will tear my eyes away from my boys and make eye contact with the person admiring my children. And I will smile.

we are all lucky

This post was originally published on September 17, 2010. It is an essay on show Hope and the great work that the Chapman family is doing for orphans all over the world. It is being re-posted in honor of National Adoption Month.




When people find out that our son joined our family through adoption I am often told how "lucky" Matthew is. Now that we are working on our second international adoption the platitudes continue. "What a great thing you are doing for these children. They are so lucky!" And I always respond the same way. "No, we are the lucky ones." And we are. We truly are. Matthew's grandparents, cousins, friends- they are all lucky. I have always held true to my belief that while my son certainly has been afforded opportunities he would never have seen had he stayed in China, including the love of a forever family, we cannot say for sure that ripping him from the country of his birth makes him "lucky". His life in China would have been different, yes. But our American ideals and my son's ability to attain them aren't necessarily better. We, as Americans, think they are- the nice house, the home cooked meals, the toys, video games, educational opportunities - these are hard to say no to. That is how we think, but that is is not how our whole world thinks. Tradition, culture, simple pleasures, honesty, hard work- these ideals, while not tangible- are important to the people of my son's birth country. So I really don't want to say that he is "lucky".

Last night my husband and I attended A Night With The Chapmans. It was a great night of music with Steven Curtis Chapman and his family. His wife, Mary Beth, spoke and read from her new book, Choosing to SEE. The tour is basically a fundraiser for show HOPE, an organization started by the Chapman family to help orphans around the world. As we settled into our seats the big screens began to display a video about this amazing organization. Images of babies and children from all over this world filled the screen. Many of the pictures were of Chinese babies with cleft lips and cleft palates. It was a very emotional moment for both my husband and I.

Later in the show a fellow musician and close friend of the Chapman family took the stage to talk about show HOPE. He talked about Maria's Big House of Hope, an orphanage recently opened by the show HOPE foundation in the Henan province of China. Not too long ago a medical team came to Maria's Big House of Hope to complete cleft lip and palate surgeries on the babies and children living there. The speaker then explained that the Chinese officials were so impressed with this project that they are talking to show HOPE about running a floor of already established orphanages for special needs babies. Special needs babies, like our little guy. We toured the orphanage Matthew lived in when we traveled to China and we saw the special needs "room". Crib after crib of forgotten and discarded children. Our son's crib was in that eerily quiet room.

As I sat there vacillating between hope and tears brought on by the inspirational music and powerful words it suddenly hit me. I can't believe I never figured this out before. I guess I always knew but didn't want to think about it. We are a family first, and a family brought together by international adoption second. The daily ins and outs of being a family always come first- the baths and bedtimes, sippy cups and games of tag- that is what I am all about these days. It may not always seem that way because so much of my writing is about the adoption side of our life, but it's true. So maybe life just got in the way. Or maybe I needed to be a little further removed from the adoption journey to fully understand the positive implications of what we have done by bringing Matthew into his forever family.

Our little man talks from the moment he wakes up until his eyes close at night. He sings and hums to himself constantly. He loves to snack on cheese curls and apples. He would not be able to do any of those things had we not brought him into our family. He wouldn't be able to hear the music as well without the tubes in his ears. he wouldn't be able to eat crunchy food without the repaired palate. He wouldn't be able to form understandable words to talk and sing. He was malnourished when we first met him and the fact is that babies with unrepaired cleft palates grow into children who are sickly and weak, if they grow into children at all. An unrepaired palate means difficulty in school and in forming relationships. And in China, where there are already considerably fewer girls than boys, an unrepaired cleft palate means no bride. No significant other as best friend and confidant. No intimacy.

I sat in my seat while everyone around me was standing up and clapping to the upbeat music, letting the truth just wash over me. We did save him. He would not be the boy he is today. He would not have the potential he has today. He would not light up a room with his smile or be the life of the party. In fact, he might not be.

Next time someone tells me how "lucky" Matthew and his future sibling are that we adopted them, I will still respond by saying "no, we are the lucky ones." And that will be true, we certainly are lucky. But in my heart, I know that my kids, the one here today and any future wilkisons, are lucky also. When you can suddenly see a part of the big plan God has for our lives, it's awesome. Last night, a small part of that plan became a little more clear.

just call him "albex"

To most people it wouldn't seem like any big deal. Nearly all three year old's can say their own name, right? But to me, it was huge. Huge! The new daycare that my tiny toddler attends sent home a 36 month old developmental assessment for me to complete, so I was sitting on the floor last night asking my little man to zip up his coat, (he can!), hop on two feet, (he can do that too!), hop on one foot, (he cannot and fell right over.) He looked totally puzzled when I asked him to put his shoe on the table and his book under it. After all, I have spent months teaching him that it is the other way around. My little guy drew a line and circle and he pointed to every body part I named.

When I glanced at the test the day my sweet husband brought it home I figured that my son would do well on it. I knew he could do most of the tasks listed. But one caught my attention : ask your child to say his name. I have been doing this for months now, and every time he either ignores me or says "me". He knows his name; he answers when we call him and he recognizes the letter "A" and will point to it and say "my name". But I had never heard him say his name.

Maybe it's just me but as an adoptive parent I have often wondered what it must be like to suddenly have these strange looking people calling you a name you do not recognize. How disorienting that must be. We did keep both of our son's birth country names as their new middle names, and we did call them by these names at first. In fact, we still call our oldest son "Matthew Zhao" so often that his little brother has called him "Zhao" from day one. But still, you worry.

Identity is so important to an internationally adopted child. I am quick to anger. Like my mother and her Italian father. I am musical, like my father. My sister and I have very similar voices- sometimes on the phone it is hard to tell us apart. I have very visible roots. In college most of the music professors knew me first as "James Kirk's daughter" and would often greet me by saying, "Hi Beth, How's your dad?" And I hated it. I was so much more than this amazing music teacher's daughter. Having my identity so tightly wrapped to my father's name bothered me so much that I started college majoring in education, only to change to music education two wasted years later.  And being labeled a "Kirk" was nothing compared to the identity crisis internationally adopted children often face. So I worry, sure.

But last night I sat on the living room floor with my little man and I asked him what his name was. And he said "Albex". I cheered. My big five year old cheered. I made him repeat it over and over again- it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. My "Albex" is one step closer to his identity, and I am one proud mama!

every day married is better than any day alone

Marriage is hard. Well, a good marriage is hard. And a good marriage is what we all want, right? It’s what I want. It’s what my husband would say he wanted, if I asked him. Actually, his answer would probably be more like, “We have a good marriage, stop over thinking everything!” But us girls, we know the truth. Marriage . Is. Hard. It is oh my god did I just see you throw your dirty underwear on the floor not two minutes after you watched me pick up every article of clothing off the floor hard. It is really, you’re just going to leave that mess on the kitchen counter when the wipes are right there hard. It is why can’t you put the kids to bed on time so I don’t have to deal with cranky little ones in the morning which makes us crazy and late but you wouldn’t know because you leave before you witness our morning chaos hard. It is did you not see that I was watching that, you can’t just change the channel without asking me hard.

It’s hard enough when it’s just two people in love. Toss in in-laws, careers, bosses, kids, all those times we say “yes”- it’s always for the kids, isn’t it? Yes! I’ll sit on your board! Yes! I’ll join your PTO! Yes! I’ll work in the church nursery! Yes! I’ll work vacation bible school! Yes! I’ll help, I’ll decorate, I’ll make phone calls, I’ll take notes. Yes, yes, yes… But we do it all because we want to do it all, and because every bit of it is important. If I don’t sit on that board my voice won’t be heard. If I don’t join the PTO I won’t know what is happening at the school that is powered by volunteers. If I don’t work in the church nursery every so often then I am not showing my children God’s love, especially since I used that nursery for years.  So I say yes not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because it’s what I want to do. I have spent years picturing my life as a mother. The mother I saw in my mind was involved in her children’s lives, she knew everything that was going on with them, she drove them to school and sports, and music lessons. I always wanted to be the soccer mom. And now I am. J

My version of a soccer mom doesn’t drive a minivan, I drive a small SUV. And in my wildest dreams I never would have thought that one day I would be driving that small SUV to monster truck shows, China school, and Russian festivals. In my earlier dreams my hair was always done, my lip gloss always on, and my underwear always matched my bra. Now I can never find my lip gloss, and I have found that my hair looks much more acceptable at 5:30 in the morning than you would think. And don’t get me started on anything matching… But I have it all because of my  marriage and my sweet husband.

 

As I sit here writing this I can hear all three of my boys struggling downstairs. I can hear the frustration mounting in my husband’s voice. And I think about the decision we made sometime last year that we would hold each other accountable when we got too upset with the boys. When they push us to that point where we want to yell, we would step in and hold each other up. And I am sitting here weighing the options. Do I call my sweet husband and remind him of this decision, which will surely push his frustration from the boys to me? Do I let the three of them figure it out on their own? Do I like it when he steps in to help me when I am frustrated? Yes, marriage is hard.

 

I am thinking about all of this because our 10^thwedding anniversary is coming up this week. Ten years! I have been attached to my husband in some way for the past 13 years. I can barely remember my life before him. He is a part of me, and I could not live without him. Which is a sentiment I have thought of millions of times this past year. Any issues we may have had in our marriage prior to May 2011 were nothing. Nothing. I could tackle those tiny problems with one hand tied behind my back. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that the addition of one child into our little family would cause such ripples of intense feelings, both good and bad.

So yes, our ninth year of marriage was not as easy as our previous eight had been. We argued a little more, we snipped at each other a little more, we occasionally forgot that we are supposed to treat each other better than we treat anyone else. We were a little more sensitive than we needed to be, and we allowed something small to escalate into something big on more than one occasion.

 

Ten years ago I made the commitment to walk through this life with my sweet husband. I have learned a lot in those years. I have learned that even the one who loves you the most in this world will, sometimes, hurt your feelings. I have learned that no matter how angry I get at him I still miss him when he is away from me for too long. I have learned that while he may not notice the little things he will be there for me for the big ones. I have learned that being a Godly wife and mother is a daily struggle but one that I want to continue to strive to achieve. I have learned that nothing that happens outside the home is more important that what happens inside. I have learned about rock music, football, and finances. I have marveled at how someone can wear jeans and a sweatshirt in August. I have learned to let go, to forgive, and to ask for help. I have learned what love really means, and for that I am grateful. I could not be the woman I am today without the man who stands up and leads this family. 

In ten years we have walked through a life of happiness and sorrow. We felt the pain of miscarriages and the struggle of conceiving a family.  He held me night after night after I sat, day after day, by my mother’s bedside in the ICU and he stood up beside me during her funeral, taking over all child care duties and just being there, totally, for me. He kept me sane as we travelled to China and Russia to meet our boys for the first time, and he made me feel as though I could conquer anything as I travelled home from Russia, alone with a new baby son. We have walked together through three job losses and two moves.

Yes, marriage is hard. Our journey will continue, through more happiness and sorrow. Just like our boys, we will continue to grow and change. And I will continue to strive every day to be a Godly wife and mother. Some days will be easier than others, sure. But every day married to my sweet husband is better than any day alone. Happy anniversary to us!

September 14, 2002....