Some truth: Three Months post-placement

There is a recent blog post that is quickly making the rounds of adoptive parents:
Jen Hatmaker: The Truth About Adoption One Year Later

Jen Hatmaker is a wonderful writer, and the words of this piece in particular resonate with many of my friends in the adoption community. Several of these friends are singing the praises of this post because it says out loud what some of us are afraid to admit is happening in our own homes. It is comforting to see that other families are also struggling, that our childrens' reactions and behaviors are not unique--especially when there are so many other adoption blogs that document a seemingly flawless transition to family life. That with time our family lives will return to something close to 'normal'.

It is a relief to read the post and identify which stage your child is currently in; are we still in "Spaz out?" Could we be in "Triage?" You nod your head in sweet agreement when you find the description that matches your reality.

And I get that, and I appreciate that.

But, as Ms. Hatmaker herself writes in the start of her post, the "One Year Later" timeframe is specific to HER family, and HER experience. For many children the truth about adoption one year out is that the challenges are *just* beginning. Some children, like my child, have irreversible brain trauma that may manifest in behaviors that *never* go away. Other children are so overwhelmed by stress that they can't self-regulate. For some families the first-year post-adoption is a whirlwind of doctors appointments; urgent medical needs masking the equally-urgent emotional needs beneath the surface.

So while seeing a list of stages with specific time-lines attached can provide relief for some families, for  others it can only lead to frustration and feelings of failure. What if at five months post-placement your family is nowhere *near* triage? What if your child's grief-fueled rages get stronger with each week that passes? How does the family with a child recently diagnosed with PTSD feel when they look at that post?

Of course this is all part of the bigger issue, right? Just as the "happily ever after" adoption blogs don't tell the one true story, nor do the posts like Ms. Hatmaker's--the ones that are supposed to speak to the rest of us. The truth is that there is no *one* true story. The truth is that the story shifts and changes for each child, for each family.

The truth is that while your your family may identify with Ms. Hatmaker's post today, tomorrow could bring you to your knees in unexpected ways.

****             ****

In our home we are barely able to speak to the truth about adoption *three months* out.

YH and I walk the big kids to school each morning. We wander back home together and do chores, or wait for our Early Childhood Intervention Specialist to come over, or go to tumbling class. Starting next week we will spend Tuesday and Thursday mornings in YH's preschool class.

In the afternoons we pick up the big kids and go to a park, or out for ice cream. We play until Sean comes home from teaching high-school math and we eat dinner together. YH takes a bath and then goes to bed while the big kids finish their homework or clean their rooms. The big kids are asleep by 8:30pm and Sean and I have some time to ourselves. We could  use this time to cleaup, or play cards, or make-out but mostly we sit on the couch and watch "Breaking Bad". It could be worse, we think. At least we're not meth dealers. It could be much worse.

And from the outside it all looks lovely--like a "happily ever after" post.

But inside the house, inside my heart, it is hard.

I love this child so much more than I ever thought I could at three months post-placement. Before we took custody I had prepared myself for the fact that we might need to "fake it until we make it". That we may need to demonstrate love to YH, without actually feeling love (this is not uncommon for families joined by adoption).

But from the beginning the love was there. I LOVE him. I do.

And he loves me back--at least a little. We are at the point now where I am his preferred care-giver. He does not reject Sean, but if he has the choice between the two of us he will choose me. He gives both of us hugs and kisses--sometimes without us asking. He follows directions for both of us--with the occasional two year old tantrum/protest.

When it is just the two of us he needs to be aware of my presence every minute. "Mom? Mom? Mommy?" I cannot be outside of his line of vision. If we are in the same room he needs to be touching me. Meals are consumed at the dining room table, sitting on my lap. If he is playing with his toys he will stop every few minutes and come over to me, needing a hug or a pat on the back. We hold hands when we are walking next to one another. YH will sometimes get out a sling or baby carrier and bring it to me, asking me to wear him while we walk around the neighborhood.

Sean and I try to make sure that we alternate which one of us puts YH down for bedtime and naptime. During the week this means that Sean usually covers the bedtime routine. He tells me that when he leads YH back to "his" room (in reality a part of the master suite) YH happily drinks his milk while Sean reads him his books, then he lies down and pulls his blanket up tight under his armpits. He smiles as Sean leaves the room, sometimes blowing him a good night kiss.

 When I put YH down for bed/naptime the routine is different. We read stories, yes, but YH insists that I climb into his toddler bed with him. I sing lullabies to him and he pats my face. We rub noses and whisper things to one another. Sometimes we just whisper words: "car" "truck" "bird" "airplane". Sometimes we whisper the names of all the people who love YH: "Miss A" "Sweet Bubs" "Daddy" "Appa" "Nuna" "Umma" "Halmoni"...and so on.

YH pulls my arm across his body. He wants the weight of it on his stomach as he tries to fall asleep. When I kiss his cheek and say "Sweet Dreams" in advance of leaving, he cries. He pats the mattress over and over. "Stay. Please. Stay."

I give in and stay for five more minutes. I am in desperate need of some time to myself; time when NO ONE is touching me. But I stay--how can I leave?

By the end of the day I am fried. The sensory overload of having somebody touch you all day long is intense. I am an extrovert and yet despite this I am still depleted by meeting this child's needs all day long, every day.

I do not feel like myself--ever. My skin feels like it doesn't fit quite right. I bristle and chafe every time someone other than YH touches me. His little hand grounds me at the same time that it saps me dry. I feel like my only purpose is to lift him up.

I go to a boxing class, or a hip-hop dance class, at my gym three or four times/week. It sounds like a lot of time when I type it out like that, but those hour-long blocks of time are often the only chance I get to start to reclaim my body as my own. My mind as my own, my heart as my own.

Parenting YH is a lot like parenting an infant. I remember feeling similarly depleted when my big kids were three months old--and in terms of tenure in our family, YH *is* only an infant. He has the physical prowess of a toddler, but the dependent heart and soul of a baby. We need to prove to him that we are worthy of his love and trust, just as you do with an infant. When an infant cries you pick him up--and I do the same with my 30-month old "newborn".

The challenge is that lifting a 10lb newborn takes a fraction of the energy that it takes to "lift up" a 31lb newborn. I should have been in training for this months and months ago.

There is more. There are self-soothing behaviors that YH exhibits that worry me. I know they are behaviors that he exhibited when living with his foster family too, but that doesn't make my heart stop clenching when I see them resurface. I know they are driven by anxiety. I know they are an external expression of the turmoil in his wee heart. I know they help him cope.

But man, I wish I could take them away.

(I can't. I know this too.)

All I can do is softly clasp his hands, stroke his cheek and say "Please be gentle with my YH." All I can do is try to provide alternate stimuli for him: deep pressure back rubs, stroking his arms, rubbing his scalp--all in hopes that his reliance on these behaviors will lessen each day.

I watch and wait. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I take stock of my arsenal each night and prepare to fight for him anew each morning.

The worst, the best.

One day last week the worst thing ever happened.
YH came up to me distraught. In his hand was THE microphone--the one with his foster mother's recorded message on it. He held the microphone out to me, saying and signing "Help. Please. Help. Please." over and over.

I took the toy and pressed the "play" button.

Nothing.

No words. No Umma's voice delivering her message to YH.

Just a tinny "click" followed by sickening silence.

YH stood before me with tears in his eyes.
"Help. Please. Help. Please."
His little hands smacked together harder and harder each time he signed "help".

I pulled him into my lap and told him there was nothing I could do. Umma's voice was gone. Someone had accidently deleted it; no way to know who.
I'm sorry baby. I miss her too. Should we look at some pictures of her? I'm so sorry baby.

Then I burst into tears as he said "No. No. No." over and over.

****               ****

We've been a family for three months now.
THREE MONTHS.

We are riding the waves of grief and transition as they come--for all of us.

The big kids are grieving the way our lives were before YH joined us. Back when we could be more spontaneous, stay out at the pool later, eat at any restaurant. When it was easy to buckle themselves into their booster seats (no cumbersome car seat smushed in between in the backseat of the Honda Fit). When our days weren't carved into tiny windows of time between meals and nap.

YH is grieving his former life too--his foster family, his first home, all that was familiar. His grief shows up in many ways. Fussiness. Tantrums. Frustration. Constant eating. Crying. Needing lots of physical contact.

Along with the grief there is joy. My Sweet Bubs has found his groove as a big brother--and YH *loves* him so much. YH calls out his name and follows in his footsteps. He repeats every word Sweet Bubs teaches him and copies everything he does.

Miss A also loves to teach YH new things and she claps loudly at his every accomplishment.

YH has started calling us "Mommy" and "Daddy". He draws out "mommy" into at least eight syllables, rising and falling like a song.

That part is bitter-sweet. We miss being called "Umma" and "Appa", but we are happy that he knows he is loved by a Mommy, a Daddy, an Umma and an Appa. (And his first mother).

At three months home we've found a normal, but I don't think it is the normal. I imagine it could take years to get to that point. I do know that I love my little family. I love the work we're doing, and the way we can laugh our way through the uncertain parts.

****                   ****

The day after the worst thing ever happened, I received an email from YH's foster mother. I try to send her a written update (translated into Korean) on YH's growth and development every other week. I know she is worried about some of his special needs, and I want to be sure she knows that we are doing everything we can to help him rise up.

This email was the first response we received from her. She said she was glad YH was doing well and receiving the medical attention he needs. She said it has been hard for her family to be in their apartment without YH. That she was very sad and missed him very much. She thanked me for sending emails and lots of pictures of YH in our home. She asked after the health of my mother, and sent her love to the big kids.

Then she said she was sending three videos to YH--would we show them to him? Three videos: a video message from each member of the family, each telling YH he was loved.

I cried when I watched them (I cry a lot these days).

As soon as YH woke up from his nap, I sat him in front of the laptop and pressed "play".
There was Umma--her face, her hands, her  voice.

And YH's face LIT up. The hole left by the deleted microphone was filled. He laughed and waved at the screen. He kissed his foster family's faces. He turned to me and yelled out "Mommy!" in delight when his Appa appeared on the screen.

And I cried again, but this time it was happy tears. What a gift--and what perfect timing.

It was the best thing ever.

                              (Please forgive my high pitched squeal--it couldn't be helped)

Glasses!

At the end of our first meeting with YH our social worker expressed some concerns. She said she had been worried about him, about his tendency to fly from one activity to the next. He would pick up a toy and then drop it in favor of another one. He wasn't interested in books and hardly watched videos or television. He liked commercials, but mostly for the music.

She said she had hoped he would naturally grow out of his "busy-ness" but that she was very, very worried about him. She asked what we thought when we observed him--was his behavior what we expected?

To a large degree his behavior was exactly what we expected. YH's risk factors often result in a comorbid diagnosis of ADHD/ADD--we knew ahead of time this was a potential challenge for our son.

And certainly, the first few weeks with him were in keeping with what we had observed at that first meeting. His busy-ness knew no bounds. Each day every toy in the house would be taken out and dropped in pursuit of something new. By 9am our floors were carpeted with toys. YH was always good about helping to clean-up, but the sheer volume of playthings strewn about was overwhelming (I know: first-world problem).

His interest in books slowly increased. We read him the same five board books at bedtime and naptime and he grew to anticipate the rhythms of the words. We have books of trains and cars (his current obsessions) that he would flip through, occasionally glancing at the pages. The books he seemed to pay the most attention to were a series of small board books focusing on different vocabularies (food, around the house, toys, etc). Each page held a single image--BALL. APPLE. PANTS.

He would ask to watch Korean cartoons on the laptop but would wander off after one or two minutes of viewing.

Inattentive. Easily distracted. Hard to keep engaged.

And then.

Then his glasses came in.

And his world suddenly came into focus.

And *everything* changed.

It almost happened overnight. Once he started actually wearing the glasses (instead of taking them off every few minutes) his attention span quadrupled. He started really seeing the world around him, and paying attention to the things that interested him. I can only imagine that prior to glasses his visual world was a blur of indistinct colors and shapes--and now with glasses, he is able to completely rebuild his mental maps.

Now he really watches his Korean cartoons--more than one 10 minute episode at a time. He really studies his favorite books--pointing out things he sees on the pages. Look, a piano! Look, a dog! Look, Little Pookie is a pig!

He has started to put shape puzzles together--instead of just playing with individual pieces. Yesterday morning we did an art project together--something I never would have attempted in life pre-glasses. But he loved it! He concentrated on putting the stamps in the ink and then pressing them onto the paper, in just the patttern he wanted.

When you are parenting a child with irreversible brain damage the ability to positively change his environment--to augment his abilities--is so, so sweet. I know that the glasses were a relatively easy fix for a tiny piece of his larger challenges but oh! What a beautiful piece they are. 

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Well.

As it turns out, we went to Maine.
I know, I know.

My "perfect on paper" plan fell by the wayside once we realized how much we all--especially YH--missed the big kids.

And so we packed our bags and followed them north.
And it was lovely.

It was the kind of vacation that defies a linear narrative--you know those experiences that seem to happen beyond the scope of time and place? It was one of those.


****                       ****

YH at the lobster pound.

It is hot inside our rental car and the sun is shining so bright. The heat is unusual for this part of the country, this time of year. We laugh because it is rainy and gray at home in the South and so so sunny bright here in the North.

We have decided to surprise the big kids--they do not know we are coming. We are giddy with thoughts of our subterfuge. We stop at our favorite lobster pound (Lunt's) for lunch and place a call to my parents' house.

We talk to Sweet Bubs, who is busy helping my father build a set of stairs down to Ghost Hollow. We tell him we will call him back at 5pm--make sure he is at home. Make sure Miss A is there as well.

We kick our feet with anticipation as we eat our lobster rolls. YH sticks to french fries and lemonade.

****                          ****

On the ferry.

 When we arrive at the ferry terminal the line of cars stretches down the road and over the hill. So many! We slide into a "reserved" spot and wait for the chance to board.

On deck there is a new ferryman guiding us into parking spots. He looks like the character "Skinny Pete" from Breaking Bad. He has a New York accent and fidgety movements; he is not who we expected. He parks the cars four across instead of three (as is custom) and we find we are trapped in the car for the duration of the ride.

Sean scoops YH into his lap and lets him "steer" the car. We roll down the windows to let the smell of salt water and kelp in. It stings my nose and fills my lungs. We are so close!

Once we reach the island we roll off of the ferry and begin the short drive to my parents' house. We remind ourselves to wave at each car we pass--island etiquette requires it.

I see all the "For Sale" signs dotting the roadway. Taxes on waterfront property were raised last year. Blue realtor signs sit askew at the edge of the treeline up and down the road as far as the eye can see. Gravel roads lead into the pine trees, cloaking houses that have sat vacant for months. Years.

We turn onto our street (peeking to see if the trailer at the corner of the road is occupied this year) and into my parents' driveway. We stop short of the house and call the kids.
Sean says to Miss A. "Hey--you should go look outside." She is skeptical. Why should I go outside?

The door opens as our car drifts into view. Miss A comes spilling out with the receiver pressed to her cheek. She sees Sean and grins. I jump out of the car I am so happy to see her. YH yells out her name and struggles to be free of his car seat. Sweet Bubs is not far behind and he gets swept into the love crush.
My family. My beautiful family.

****                    ****

The secret place

It is dusk. I follow the kids down a narrow path into the woods. They are taking me to their secret spot, their clubhouse. We wind through saplings and fallen trunks. The hollow, with its briny tides, is to our left--barely a glint peeking through the trees. The path is soft with pine needles. It dips and rises on a whim, trying to trip you with a lattice of slick tree roots.

This way, the big kids say. They are impatient with my cumbersome adult form. They slip through the brush with the ease of hares--I am not so swift or fleet of foot. My parents' dog, Nina, stays behind to make sure I stay with the pack. She has become Sweet Bubs' constant companion over the last two weeks.

Suddenly we are there. Carpets of moss unfold around large gray boulders that reach to the sky. Rays of sunlight break through the treetops and warm patches of the moss, creating magnificent spots to curl up with a book. I catch my breath--it is the most perfect secret spot ever.

The kids spend hours here. Miss A is a queen and Sweet Bubs is her royal guard. He works for a three hour shift, wielding a staff to ward off intruders. After his shift is done he gets a two hour break, during which the Queen throws him a party--complete with cake.

It sounds like a good gig.

****                     ****

Sweet Bubs has gone feral. When he wakes he runs out the door, hurtling towards the trees, the mud, Ghost Hollow. He clutches swords made of sticks and brandishes them at imagined foes. He scampers up and down the rocks and over the tree stumps. He is agile and fearless in a way I never noticed before.

At the quarry he leaps into the deep water with abandon. He dog paddles furiously, and hauls his little seal-form onto the floating dock in the middle of the expanse. He knows the other boys there by name and soon they are engaged in an elaborate effort to wrangle an inflatable raft from one end of the quarry to the other. His laughter bounces off the sheer granite walls that surround his swimming spot.

He discovers something new and amazing at Fine Sand Beach. He walks over the rocks that ring the beach until he comes to a quiet and sandy cove. "Secret beach! I found a secret beach!" There are submerged rocks a few feet off shore that keep the water in cool, shallow pools made vibrant by seaweed and schools of bright green eel-like fish. There is a large flat rock that tilts toward the water-- it becomes a water slide for the intrepid at high tide.

At night, after YH is in bed,  he insists on playing ruthless games of Disney Princess Uno. He plays by his own set of rules--a trait that was encouraged by his grandparents, but that drives his father crazy. Sweet Bubs says things like "Pretty savvy move there Dad, pretty savvy." When one game concludes he says "Ok, ok--just 100 hundred more..."

****                         ****

Miss A waiting for her musical number in  the island review

.

If Sweet Bubs has gone feral, Miss A has become shockingly civilized. Shortly after we arrive on island my parents hand me a piece of paper dotted with colored squares. It is Miss A's calendar--the schedule of all her social commitments. She attends Rec Center two times a week, Library Program two times per week, and rehearsals for the Hockamock Players Musical Review. She also has playdates with her friend Sage.  Where the rest of us retreat into solitude on the island Miss A is taking after her paternal grandmother: a woman who loved to socialize and entertain.

At the beach she hones in on any other child around her size. She walks up to her target and says "Hey--do you know how to catch a hermit crab? Let me show you!" and soon she and her new best friend are thick as thieves. One dy she manages to get a group of six Quebecois kids (who are only speaking French) to help her round up as many hermit crabs as they can find. The little tribe builds an elaborate habitat out of sand and water and fills it with over thirty terrified crabs.

"Mom", she says, "I don't care that my new friends aren't speaking English--we're having fun anyway."

Miss A helps us clean out the barn. She comes across an old blue metal trunk in the corner. Inside are old furs, a musty silk pillow, and several dusty scrapbooks. There is also a yearbook from an international school--class of 1958-59. She studies the signatures on the inside cover intently, determined to solve the mystery of who the trunk items belong to.

She makes lists and cross-references them with the black and white pictures of girls and boys in tightly lacquered hair-dos. She comes up with several theories about who might own the treasures--the most plausible being a member of an island family that owns several houses near us. She makes up her mind to go to the closest such house and ask if they might know who the owner is--she has figured out a first name based on the looping scrawl in the front cover.

She marches up the drive and knocks on the door. A woman comes and Miss A asks if she is the homeowner. The woman says no, hold on...And then she turns and yells out the name from the yearbook cover! Another woman comes to the door and against all odds, it is her. The trunk's rightful owner.

****              ****

YH is thrilled to be with his siblings again. They all play together in new ways: scampering across the front yard down to the harbor, collecting rocks at the end of the lighthouse trail, curled up together with books.

His sleep is rocky at first. He wakes in a strange place and calls out for me. I scoop him up and bring him into my bed. He presses his cheek against mine and kicks his feet in a rythmic thump...thump...thump until he falls back asleep.

He loves the beaches we go to, alternating between warm sand and cold cold waters.

It wasn't such a dumb idea to come here after all.

****                    ****
We leave the island with sand in our pockets and heavy hearts. Sean and I have a list of things we need to do to the house next summer; it is overwhelming in the best possible way.

When we get home things are not so great. A big storm has delayed our flight so that we don't get into our home until 4 am. One of our dogs has had high anxiety in our absence and she is wounded. Our loved one is struggling with his/her addiction again. We realize our careers in education are unlikely to fund all of our dreams...

It's life. It's ugly and it's beautiful all at once.
We are together again, and that's the best thing we can hope for.

Front Yard.

Our front yard is not beautiful. The grass is patchy and plastic toys are scattered as far as the eye can see. There is a low fence surrounding the yard, built from wood and hog wire. The fence is in keeping with the casual style of our neighborhood--kind of wonky, kind of kitschy, and very friendly.

We spend a lot of time out here. More so now that YH has joined our family. We're out there every day, weather permitting. The fenced in yard has proved a perfect buffer zone for our youngest son. He can play safely within its boundaries, nestled in our "family space". But the view out onto the street, and of passersby, allows him to exhibit his friendly and sociable nature.

Whenever a neighbor, or a hipster on his way to the coffee shop, or a lady walking her dog stroll past YH rushes the fence. He stands on his tippy-toes, waving his little hand furiously and calls out "Hey-la-la!"

If it's a neighbor he recognizes YH will call out again and again until the friend comes over to say hi up close.  If it's a family walking with little kids we usually invite them in to play--all these plastic toys shouldn't go to waste.

YH is comfortable in our yard. He is comfortable having visitors drop by to hang out in the front yard.

He is not comfortable having visitors in the house.

We learned this last week, after the Early Childhood Intervention team came out to evaluate YH for services.

Three very nice, professional women came to our home to test YH's abilities in a range of areas. They were kind and soft-spoken. They liked YH very much, and he seemed to like them.

What he didn't like was having these strangers in our home--which up until then had been almost entirely a "family space".  The evaluation necessitated that the team sit in close proximity to YH. Much of the test was eye contact intensive.

About 30 minutes in I could see that YH was becoming uncomfortable.
He did not like having these people in our home. It was confusing, and unexpected.
He became clingy. He was fussy. He paced restlessly. He left the room and didn't want to come back.

After the team left--amid heaps of praise for our sweet boy--YH didn't want to eat lunch. He fussed when we tried to put him down for his nap and woke up agitated. He sat rigid in my lap and grasped at my shirt with clenched fists. He needed to be near me at all times.

This behavior continued for the next few days, lessening over time--but still noticeable.

I felt like a fool for not anticipating this.

We have been working so hard to meet YH's needs as he transitions to our family. To nourish his little soul in the hopes that a healthy attachment might grow and unite us in family love. To have his health issues diagnosed and treated as soon as possible so that he doesn't suffer needlessly. To get him the therapies and interventions he will need to thrive.

In a perfect world all these goals would fit seamlessly together, united in the goal of lifting YH up higher and higher. In reality the pursuit of several of these goals rub and chafe against one another, causing irritation where they meet. In this case the race to get YH early intervention services before he ages out (in 6 months) rubbed up against our efforts to keep his world small, to protect his "family space" and build attachment.

So we took a few steps back. We met YH where he was at with love and grace, and tried to re-establish the security that he felt was lost.

I realized that I had overlooked something important. I should have told him ahead of time that the eval team was coming, and how long they would be here. Even though he is 2.5, and in many ways living between languages, I need to take the time to explain to him beforehand when something out of the ordinary is going to happen.

I need to take the time to hold him close (if he wants to be close) and look him in the eye (for as long as is comfortable for him) and say "Hey little man, tomorrow we are going to the doctor's office. It will be a quick check-up..." and so on. I need to do this early and often--repeat the sequence of events and try to set expectations. He may not understand the words but the rhythms and the tone of my voice can convey what he needs to know.

I will do this. I have to do this.

One month

One month ago we met YH for the first time.

Is that possible? Hasn't he always been a part of our lives?

Hasn't our house always had a layer of toys covering every surface?
Hasn't our grocery bill always been this high? (The boy can eat.)
Haven't I always felt his heavy weight in my arms first thing in the morning? Had his warm cheek pressed against my neck as I walk to the kitchen?

Hasn't he always been there to delight us with a nose honk/fist bump/high five?
Hasn't he always rushed the fence when a neighbor walks by, in order to call out "TRALALA" in greeting?

Didn't we always automatically open the sun roof when starting the car, because we know he loves it so?
Didn't we always call the dog "Roooo-tie" because that's the way YH says her name?

In some ways our family routine has quite naturally expanded to include our newest member. We for sure love this little guy--each and every one of us. Even the newly-middle child, who yesterday asked me, "Mom, wouldn't you agree that YH is sometimes annoying?"

In other ways each day is a challenge.

It is a challenge to pay enough attention to the "big" kids (who are really not-so-big-after-all) when my littlest needs constant supervision.
It is a challenge to make time for my husband when our schedules are pulling us in opposite directions.

It is a challenge to feel like myself when there is someone small who needs every piece of me (inside and out) every minute that he is awake.

If I'm being honest, this third child--my 30lb "newborn"--is the first one who has brought me to my knees to this degree.

It's not that *loving* him is hard--that part is sooo easy.
 What's hard is giving up personal space, emotional space, time to think, time to shower, time to wash my clothes, time to exercise, time to read, time to be spontaneous.

I know that before long I will start to feel like myself again.
But for right now I am a little bit lost. I am drowning a bit in this little boy, and his needs.

There are times when it seems like he is adjusting so well to our family, that I almost think "Maybe he is at a good place with his grief. Maybe we got through the first wave."

Then there are times when little things happen--tiny tremors--and I can see that we are just at the base of the swell of his grief.

Like when we were all enjoying a shaved ice at a picnic table, and a white van pulled into the parking lot and started to turn around right in front of us.

YH's eyes grew wide.
He dropped his spoon and scrambled--literally scrambled--across the table into my arms.
He grabbed my shirt with both fists and started to moan, head turned away from the parking lot.

It was a white van.
Just like the white van that took us from ESWS to the hotel on the day we took custody.
A white van that took him from the people he loved.

Or like the day when he fell and scraped his knee and a tiny spot of blood appeared.
And he couldn't bear it. Couldn't stand to look at it, couldn't let anyone touch it.
He just needed to sit in my lap and sob--heavy, wrenching sobs--for over an hour.
(This is a child who regularly crashes into things, climbs tall objects and acquires the bumps and bruises of boyhood with zest; nothing phases him--except a scraped knee)

The grief is there.
The loss is there.

But also: The joy is there. The love is there.

We're family. No doubt about it.

7/14

On one side of the gym stands 7.
Or should I say, on one side of the gym bounces 7.

7 leaps and flips and contorts her body in myriad ways.
Her coach makes a minor correction to her form; tells her to tighten a specific muscle, to remember how it feels.

7 knows instinctively how to do what her coach asks.
"When I do it that way I feel springier! I feel, like, lighter. Like I am actually flying."

7 tries something new and doesn't succeed. 7 laughs out-loud at her mis-step and gets up to do it right.

7 lands a back-tuck for the first-time and yells out "That was AWESOME! Let's do it AGAIN!"

7's coach nods his head and tells her to get a drink of water.

He turns to me and says, "In all my years coaching I have only known a handful of athletes who are so in tune with their bodies. She not only knows exactly what to do to correct her form but she can tell you about it. It sounds like she's telling you a poem!"

I nod my head, baffled by this wondrous creature who somehow is born of my blood.

7 is amazing.
7 works hard for her coaches and for herself.
She is proud of the results and finds joy in the process of getting stronger and faster and more precise.

7 is amazing and she knows it.
She's not ashamed of being amazing, it's just how she is.

****              ****

On the other side of the gym 14 is working through a private lesson with her coach.

14 is tall and lean; her legs are strong and tanned. She has clear skin and a perfectly swooshy blond ponytail. She is a gifted athlete--her front tuck is breathtaking.

14 is also amazing--but she doesn't want you to know it.

14 starts apologizing for her performance before she has even fully landed a round-off. She does so in that mumbly, self-effacing way that teenagers do so well. She almost flinches when her coach gives her feedback.

In between exercises, 14 stands slumped at the foot of the mat. Her shoulders are rounded inward, her belly hollowed. 14 is making herself small and unremarkable. (I know this trick well, sweet girl. I really really do.)

Oh 14, you hurt my heart.

****               ****

7 is watching 14 ---and I am watching 7 watch 14.

7 is lying on her stomach with her feet kicking in the air. Her chin rests in her hand and her head is slightly cocked. She is watching 14 with wide eyes, studying her every move.

7 could very well grow up to look a lot like 14. Their coloring is the same, they both are 70% leg.

Please let the resemblance end there.
Please let 7 remain so very *7* for a long, long time.

I've been 7, and I turned into 14 (long before I was *actually* 14)--and more than anything I want to spare my daughter that perilous slide from self-confidence into self-criticism.

I want her to always know that she is amazing and that that is ok.
It's better than ok--it's amazing.

And there's nothing wrong with that.

 

Before there were three.

Before there were three there were two.

 

Before there were two there was one.

Before there was one there was me, not yet aware of the expanse of my heart.

****                ****
Each time a new child joins our family, my heart breaks for the ones already there. The ones who will have to share the attention, who will lose their places as the center of the world. The ones who are patted briefly on the head while the new child is swept up by adoring arms.

It is hard to share the spotlight, the love, the everything.

This time around it is the child who was most excited about having a baby brother who is feeling conflicted about the reality of our new family demographic. The child who most wanted a little guy to lead by the hand, another sibling to wrestle with and whisper to at night; this is the child who now sulks in the corner, feeling ignored.

My precious love.
I know how hard this is. I know that you never expected to feel this way, that it is embarrassing and weird to feel this way. That more than anything you want it all to go back to normal.

A normal where your parents aren't too busy changing diapers, or tucking a baby into bed, or reading board books over and over--where they have the time to play legos with you. To snuggle with you and listen to your secrets. A normal where you don't have to fight with your sister for the baby's attention. Where *you* are the one who is the funniest, cutest and most special.

Sweet boy. I promise you, normal is coming.
 It will be here before you know it. One day you will wake up and the black cloud will be lifted from your tiny stressed-out heart. One day you will hear your younger brother calling out your name with joy, and together the two of you will roll and tumble in the grass like milk-fed puppies.

One day soon we will spread out a picnic blanket beneath the stars. You can curl up in the nook of my left arm and I will cradle your brother in my right arm. Your papa and your sister will be by your side and together the five of us will watch the clouds race across the moon. We will laugh and tell stories until one by one all three of my babes will drift off into sleep. Without knowing it your sleep ballet will bring you close to one another--and by the time all three of you are snoring you will be nestled into one another. Your limbs will be entangled and you will breathe deep the dreams of your siblings.

You will forget that life was any other way.

Until that time, please know that I am well aware of your bruised and tender insides. I know how you are trying your best to put on a brave and happy face.

You can let it go. You can cry and scream until the ick is gone.

I'll be here. Your brother will be here.

We've got nothing but love.
For you.
Forever.







 
 

Big feelings.

Our household is boiling over with big feelings this week. It should come as no surprise that beneath the excitement of our trip, and finally meeting our son/baby brother, we are each struggling with some less-than-happy feelings. Complicated feelings. Miss A described them as "purple feelings".

For Sean and I, the big feelings are expressed through spurts of manic activity. For instance: on Monday I decided we absolutely could not go to Korea unless I cleaned and organized our hall closet. Obviously. We keep our hands moving so that we don't have to listen to the nagging worries in our heads. We act like we have it together because we *have* to have it together--for the kids.

The kids, blessed creatures, are free to wear their big feelings on their sleeves. And they have, in impressive ways.

Yesterday was supposed to be Field Day at school and Miss A had a very specific idea of what the required dress code should look like. The knee-length shorts that I picked out for her (to protect a healing patch of poison ivy rash) did not fit her definition. And we battled over it. And I saw her frustration mounting, and I saw anxiety taking her over. Instead of insisting "Put on the shorts--no argument. I am the adult here." (or some related directive) I put down the shorts and wrapped her in my arms. I asked if she was nervous that she would get into trouble if she didn't wear shorter shorts, and she nodded her head. I offered to write a note for her to give to her gym teacher, explaining the wardrobe choice; would that help her to feel less nervous? Yes it would. At that point her anxious little body softened in my arms and the angry tears turned into just straight up tears. I said "It's hard to be seven, isn't it?" and she said "It's hard to be seven when everything is changing!" She talked, I listened.

(It's hard to be 36 when everything is changing, too.)

Sweet Bubs is usually harder to read, but this week he has made it very clear that his feelings are muddled. During the day he is loud, clumsy, quick to argue with his sister. None of these traits are his norm. At bedtime he becomes softer and quieter; for the past several nights he has skipped reading Harry Potter with his dad and sister. Instead he walks up to me and says "Mom, can I invite you snuggle?" We cuddle up together and he tells me about his day and burrows his head into my neck.

Yesterday a friend generously offered to have Sweet Bubs over for a playdate after school. When I went to pick him up he was like a different child: angry, crossing boundaries, not following any directions I gave him. It was a struggle to get him out of the friends' house and I was pretty embarrassed. On our evening walk he brought a toy sword and furiously whacked at every signpost we passed. This morning he told me he had nightmares, but didn't want to talk about them.

I tell him I love him, he will always be my boy. I tell him I am a little nervous about our trip; is he nervous too? He doesn't answer.  I hug him and rub his back.

Big feelings can be scary feelings. Scary feelings can creep in when you least expect it. It can be surprising to feel sad, angry, or worried about something that everyone else tells you is a happy event. I get it son; I really, really do.

Six.

On April 21, 2006 I sat with my very large and very taut belly pressing against the side of our dining room table. My husband and mother sat across from me, pretending to be interested in their own activities as they gave me side-eye glances. For three weeks my mid-wives had been telling me I was 3 cm dilated--I could go into labor at any minute.

"At any minute" turned out to be a cosmic joke; my 3cm dilated cervix and I walked around for close to a month with no further signs of labor. I carried my 19 month old daughter, wandered the aisles of Target, and watched hours of television. Waiting for my boy-child to make his debut.

Finally, eleven days past my due-date, I called my midwives in tears. I was trying so hard to avoid a hospital birth and if I made it to 14 days past my due date I would have to be admitted. My midwives, knowing that I had exhausted all other "natural" means of induction, brought out the big guns: castor oil. One midwife recommended 2 Tbsp in a blueberry smoothie. The other recommended 4 Tbsp followed by a glass of wine. They told me to expect a lot of gastro-intestinal movement, follwed by labor--5 or 6 hours after taking the castor oil.

I went the smoothie route. Nothing happened. Hours passed. NOTHING HAPPENED. I began to weep and panic. My husband took our daughter out for a treat at the coffee shop, so that she could escape the oppressive atmosphere in our house.

15 minutes after they left I began to pace and pant like a caged tiger. Sean hurried home from the coffee shop and handed Miss A over to my mom. I got into the car we drove as fast as we could to the birthing center.

The midwives met us in the parking lot and escorted us into the birthing suite. I complimented one of my midwives on her cute shoes and began to push. 40 minutes later my son, my love, my heart, came into the world with a full set of wild dark hair.

I love this child SO MUCH it is physically painful. At almost-six-years-old he is the most amazing creature. His limbs have suddenly grown long--while still shorter than most of his classmates he is at least 75% leg. His face has thinned out and his bone structure is becoming more apparent.

He is hilarious. His comedic timing is enviable. He is nurturing and a dedicated friend. He loves his big sister best out of anyone in the world, and this love and admiration make him want to be the best big brother to YH possible. He is sensitive to other people's feelings and if he thinks he hurt a friend it will break his heart.

He wore a princess dress over his "street clothes" for a year. Slowly he added different pieces of a Darth Vader costume to his standard ensemble (starting with the cape) until finally he transformed fully into the Dark Lord.

He loves to build ships and castles with his Legos. He loves his cat. Over the course of a day he went from being a pre-reader to a child who reads books out loud with fluency. He is an asthete. I always ask him for sartorial advice because he appreciates a bit of fancy.

In preschool he was friends with twin girls. The girls gave him a straw fedora for his fifth birthday and he wears it all the time. It suits him perfectly.

He is a cuddler. He is still content to sit in my lap and I dread the day that he stops wanting to be wrapped in my arms. He inherited my monkey-like feet (long knobby toes and fallen arches), but somehow on him they are adorable.

For his birthday he wants to do the following:
1) eat chocolate chip pancakes, followed by dessert
2) Play miniature golf
3) Eat lunch, followed by dessert
4) Take a bath with his new rubber ducky
5) Open presents and play with them
6) Eat dinner, followed by dessert
7) Sing happy birthday and blow out candles--but not on a birthday cake; he wants a pork pie

Sweet boy--I will move heaven and earth to make your dreams come true tomorrow and every day that follows.

Have passport, will travel

Now that our trip to meet YH is imminent (pleasepleaseplease), many of our friends and neighbors have been asking what our travel plans will look like.

Since we don't know *when* our travel call will come it is difficult to book plane tickets and hotel rooms. It is kind of scary to sit and watch flight prices sky rocket with each day that creeps by. I thought I was being smart and managed to reserve a 3 bedroom hotel suite for a couple of weeks (intending to cancel without penalty as needed), but just found out last night that the 3 bedroom suites are booked for the foreseeable future. So much for smart. We anticipate traveling in the first two weeks of May but can't say for certain that that will come to pass.

What we do know for certain is that our older kids will be traveling with us.
No question.

It would be SO MUCH CHEAPER to have them stay at home and make this just a Nora-and-Sean trip. They wouldn't have to miss school, or have their routines disrupted, or deal with the 14-hour-plus flight to Seoul and the ensuing jet-lag.

They also wouldn't get to experience the sights and smells of their little brother's home country. They wouldn't get to practice their burgeoning Korean language skills, to ride a subway, to try new foods, to visit ancient palaces and ultra-modern shopping malls.


They wouldn't get to experience what it feels like to be a visible minority in another country, to develop the empathy that can come from being constantly visible and remarked upon. To experience being in an unfamiliar city, where signs are written in an unfamiliar script, and where everyone around you speaks a different language.

I cannot think of a greater opportunity for learning and personal growth. I cannot think of a better investment in my children's education than to foster frequent and meaningful international/intercultural experiences for them.

The truth is that the extra money we are spending to have the children accompany us on this trip is money that we would have spent on international travel anyway. We live in a modest house. We drive modest cars. I have a thing for shoes and Sean is a music collector--but overall we are not big spenders on "things". In our family the biggest rewards come from investing in experiences, and as long as our heads are sheltered and our bellies are full at the end of the day, we have no qualms spending any extra resources on exploring the world with our children.

When I taught a course to undergraduates that focused on "Integrating the International Experience" I had my students complete a self-audit that listed the skills and characteristics they had gained from studying abroad. The intent was to help prepare the students for future job interviews--but the content of the audit beautifully articulated some of the goals I have for my children:

"I have a greater capacity to accept differences in others and to tolerate other people’s actions and ideas that may be vastly different from my own.

I am more knowledgeable about another culture and lifestyle.

I have improved my ability to communicate with people in a second language

I have a greater ability to empathize (i.e. to sense how an event appears and feels to others).

 I understand that there are many ways to accomplish the same task and that those approaches are only “different,” not necessarily better or worse.

  I have learned to improve interpersonal communication through increased abilities in listening well, speaking clearly, and paying attention to nonverbal cues.

 I have more curiosity about, and respect for, new ideas.

I am more flexible and able to adjust to changes in others.

  I am more tolerant of ambiguous situations, that is, of situations that are confusing and open to differing interpretations.

 I realize why stereotypes can be so harmful and hurtful, both to others and myself.

 I have learned how to recognize when I have made a cross-cultural mistake and can use culturally appropriate language and measures to repair any damage.

  I understand and appreciate how much educational systems can differ across cultures.

I have a greater willingness to take on roles and tasks to which I am unaccustomed.

I understand more fully my own strengths and weaknesses.

I feel more confident in undertaking new travels or projects. 

I can accept failures and shortcomings in myself more easily.

I am more confident and assertive when facing new situations.

I have become a more patient person.

I am more willing to share my thoughts and feelings with others, and to be open when others wish to share theirs with me.

I am less afraid of making mistakes or being laughed at than I used to be. "

(Adapted and expanded from: The AFS Student Study Guide published by the AFS International/Intercultural Programs (Washington, D. D., 1979), reprinted in: Clyde N. Austin, ed., Cross-Cultural Reentry: A Book of Readings (Abilene: Abilene Christian University Press, 1986), pgs. 273-27.)


Yes. Yes please to all of the above.
I am so excited to see my children discover another part of the world and to recognize the commonalities that unite all of us. I want them to meet Mrs. S and to show her what YH's life will look like as the "baby" of the family. I want them to play with other kids at Lotte World and learn that the same things make them all laugh out loud.

I want this to be our first, but decidedly not last, trip to Seoul as a family.

Coming together, coming apart

Underneath the tidal waves of excitement that I feel is a strong current of sorrow at the thought of all that YH is about to endure. As I shop for last minute toddler items, Mrs. S is putting his things away. As I look forward to bonding with YH, Mrs. S is slowly detaching from him.

For the second time in his short life my son will lose everything he knows and all the people who love him. First it was the familiar rhythm of his mother's heartbeat, the smell of her skin and hair, the warmth of her touch. Now it will be the loss of a foster mother who dotes on his every move, a foster father who takes him exploring in the park, a foster brother who makes him laugh with games and tickles, and a foster sister who holds his hand in restaurants. He will lose his routine, his language, his favorite foods, the sights and smells of his city.

It is horrifying and heartbreaking to think of my sweet little boy trying to process all that is about to befall him.

When YH joins our family he will be grieving these losses. He may rage. He may withdraw. He may seem to adapt immediately, and then melt down six weeks later. He may not sleep. Ever. He may refuse food. He may reject me/Sean/both of us. He may "shop around" for other caregivers in group settings. He may bite, scream and hit. He may weep inconsolably.

In order to support our son during this difficult transition we will be keeping our world small during our first weeks as a family. We will be cocooning at home. We will be declining invitations to big gatherings, we will eschew unnecessary trips to the market/target/etc.

We will not allow other people to hold YH, or feed him, or get him drinks/toys/snacks. This is not because we don't want our friends and family to LOVE him; it is because we want YH to learn that we are his parents. We will fulfill his needs and we are the ones he should trust to take care of him.

We are so thankful that we have such a fantastic community. Our friends and family are amazingly supportive--and we wouldn't be able to do this without them. We very much want to celebrate YH with all of our loved ones, but that will not happen during the first few weeks/months that he is with us.

 Instead we hope we can rely on our friends and family to offer playdates for Miss A and Sweet Bubs, meals for the whole family, sympathetic ears to listen to our growing pains, and a hug when we need it.

As frustrating as our wait has been, it pales in comparison to what YH and Mrs. S are about to experience.

Bust that mutton.

Lest you think my poor children had to spend all of their Spring Break with a morose mother who was consumed by thoughts of addiciton/adoption related anxiety, let me assure you: WE HAD FUN Y'ALL.

We went to the RODEO!

Boy howdy, as a native of the North East nothing makes me happier than the annual opportunity for our whole family to don western wear and gorge ourselves on fair food. This year there was red velvet funnel cake. RED VELVET FUNNEL CAKE PEOPLE.

For the past two years the main draw to the rodeo for my littles has been the opportunity to participate in a real-live-actual-honest-to-goodness rodeo event: MUTTON BUSTING. Now those of you who don't live in my state, who hail from my homeland, are probably thinking "Say what now?" (Except for my friend and former classmate who is now a real-life barrel racer! HI DEBBIE!)

Allow me to explain: mutton busting is like PBR for the elementary school set. Children between the ages of 5 and 7 are clad in protective head/chest gear, placed on top of a large sheep, instructed to "bear hug" the wooly beast and released into the arena. The children cling with all their might to the sheep for as long as they can, tumble into the sawdust and then get scooped up by a rodeo clown. The kid with the highest score wins and gets to kiss the rodeo queen.

Are you unsure whether to call PETA or Child Protective Services first?
It's cuuutttteeee you guys, for real.
And my kids freakin' LOVE it.

Miss A competed last year and was determined to better her prior score this go 'round. Here she is squeezing her sheep as hard as she can. She had a brilliant ride up until the sheep took a header trying to shake her off and rolled on top of her. She jumped right up and stomped to the other end of the arena. I could practically see her shaking her fist at that durn sheep. Her score was third highest.

Sweet Bubs had his inaugural ride this year, and he spent weeks developing strategies for  how best to win. He decided he would try to win the sheep over by telling it how much he loved it, how cute it was, what a good sheep it was--all while pretending he was a sloth with super-grip powers. Works for me kid.

Sweet Bubs' ride was pretty great too. His sheep tried to shake him off by rubbing up against other sheep.

In the end some kid named David with a giant belt buckle won. Whatever, David.

But the kids still got to meet the rodeo queen!

Exclusive ownership.

One week ago, before any of the recent crisis with my loved one kicked into high gear, Sean and I had a huge fight.

Over the course of our ensuing "discussion" I complained that he didn't acknowledge how stressful and physically painful our adoption process has become for me. I ranted for minutes at a time about all that *I* have done to prepare (y'all knew that would come up again, right?), all the stress that *I* experience each morning as I fret over whether or not our EP will be submitted, all the fears *I* have about YH's future if he doesn't receive intervention/therapies during this critical age window...

And when the rant was done I sat seething waiting for him to apologize, to bend over backwards to soothe me.

And instead he said "You can't even acknowledge that this is painful for ME TOO."

Ouch.

He's right. I was so wrapped up in my own pain that his pain didn't even register with me. I felt like I had exclusive ownership of the pain associated with YH and our adoption. I felt I had earned this ownership through the copious amount of worrying and energy I've devoted to the adoption over the last 14 months. I desperately wanted someone else (ie: Sean) to help me carry the burden of this pain and worry yet I was unwilling to give him the emotional space to do so.

It was a good reminder and much needed BEFORE my loved one's relapse set off a storm of dysfunctional behavior amongst those of us who love him/her.

When you carry shame or guilt about your loved one's addiction it is easy to succumb to a victim mentality. It is easy to let the feelings of guilt overwhelm you to the point where you can't let anyone else in. The pain is yours and yours only. No one else could possibly understand HOW MUCH this hurts you and so you nurture your pain and cradle it and bury it underground with you. And you definitely don't let anyone else near you to share the burden.

And when somebody else tries to lay claim to the pain, this pain that you have EARNED with your tears and worries, you get MAD. And you fight it--you try to assert your ownership claim with snaps and snarls until everyone else just LEAVES YOU ALONE.

And they will leave you alone. A lack of empathy or understanding, a practice of hoarding pain, is a surefire way to drive people from you. It will be just you and your pain, feeding off of one another in your fortress of despair.

I'm not going to let that happen to me. I'm not going to let the pain win. It needs to be brought into the sunlight. It needs to be talked about and passed around so that my friends and family can say "Let me help you with that". And as it gets passed around it will lose its power. And it may still be there, but it won't control me.

I want my kids, especially my daughter, to see that you can be sad and angry and that is ok. But you work through it, and you find a way to live in spite of the pain. You do not let the pain stand between you and LOVE.

Censored.

You may have noticed a post disappeared from the blog. I allowed myself to be censored by someone who was uncomfortable with the content of my last post, and with my posts about this recent crisis in general.

I'm not 100% ok with that and I'm not happy that I took the post down, but it seemed to be the right thing to do. To be honest I thought about deleting the whole blog and never writing again. I thought about bottling up all my thoughts on this and adoption and everything else.

 It is my belief that *not* talking about addiciton, and *not* documenting how it hurts not only the addict but everyone around him/her, has contributed (at least in part) to patterns of addiction being perpetuated amongst my loved ones.

If you can't name it you can never beat it.
If you dare not speak it you can never triumph over it.
If you are so afraid of the rest of the world knowing your private pain you will die alone.

A few weeks ago I attended a parenting workshop geared towards adoptive parents--but so much of what was covered is applicable to all relationships. Especially the complicated ones, the ones marked by trauma.

And I'll just go ahead and say that addiction is TRAUMA. For everyone who loves the addict. For the addict. For the people who love the people who love the addict. And so on.

The main premise of the training was that all behavior stems from one of two primary emotions: love or fear. Those who have experienced trauma, who come from "hard places", live most of their lives in a state of fear/near fear. They are much quicker to shift from coping with stress to being overwhelmed by it and to reacting in fear. A person who has not experienced trauma may have the same daily level of tolerance for stress as a person from a "hard place" but the person from the hard place starts *each day* with his/her stress cup filled almost to the top. Thus the amount of outside stress needed to push that person into fear-based behaviors can be very small.

Fear drives us to fight or flight situations. It makes us shut down completely. It makes us tear into the people we love and try to destroy them before they can hurt us.

 If I reject you first you won't have the chance to leave me. If I make you cry first you won't be able to hurt me. I'll spit on you and curse at you before I ever let you know how much I need you. I'll pick up a bottle and drink myself into oblivion so that you never notice all the *other* ways I am a failure.

Right now those of us touched by my loved one's addiction are busy fighting each other. It is easier than fighting the addiction itself. We have no control over our loved one or his/her addiction, but we absolutely have control over our own anger and our own fear based behaviors.

We are trying to find a way to be vulnerable and sad around each other, instead of trying to one up each other in a pageant of bad behavior. We are trying to extend one another the benefit of the doubt and to treat each other with grace.

A good friend who has walked this road said "Relationships and addiction are complicated."

Yes. Yes they are.

Questions.

In our household we make an effort to talk about the hard stuff openly and honestly with our kids. Death, sex, money, race, prejudice, social justice, illness, war--all of it. That's not to say that we let our children listen to adult conversations; rather we discuss these issues in an age-appropriate way. Sometimes the grown-ups start the dialogue, sometimes the kids do.

I don't want my kids to grow up with feelings of shame around any of these subjects. I want them to know we can talk about anything, together, as a family.

Yesterday Miss A learned of my loved one's recent relapse. At first she asked a few clarifying questions of my mom and I, and then suggested that my loved one seek out a hypnotist (for reals) and ran outside to play.

But then, at bedtime, the tears began to flow and the questions came.

Here are some questions that keep a 7 year-old awake at night worrying about her loved one and his/her addiction:

What does my Important Person feel like right now?
What does my Important Person's partner feel like?
Will we still see my Important Person's partner at Sunday dinners?

Why would my Important Person feel guilty about being sick?
How does my Important Person's sickness hurt others?
Will this sickness hurt my Important Person's brain?

How does addiction start?
Will my Important Person ever be fully healed of this sickness?

Can I make a get well card for my Important Person?

Does Sweet Bubs know what is happening?
Can I talk to my school counselor about this?


It's heartbreaking to see the strain on her little face as she tries to process all this information. It's heartbreaking to see her worry about her Important Person. It's even more heartbreaking to not be able to tell her "It will all be ok. Your Important Person will be fine."

And so we talk to her about her Important Person and addiction, and how we can love and support her Important Person but we cannot control another person's decisions or actions. We talk about how some grown-ups like the way alcohol makes them feel, and so they have one or two beers while watching "Friday Night Lights" on Netflix.

But some grown-ups can't stop at just one or two beers and sometimes drinking alcohol is the only way they can feel anything (or avoid feeling altogether) and so they drink and drink until they become dependent on it.

We tell her she can talk to us at anytime about this--she can ask as many questions as she wants.

Another day.

As I write this my elderly beagle and our new dog are snuggled up on the sofa together. The beagle is kind of a bossy jerk, so the fact that he lets the new dog press up against him is huge! I bathed the dogs this morning so they smell sweet and their hides are extra shiny and sleek. Their coat colors are complimentary and they look so cozy curled up on the couch.

It is cloudy and humid today and the roses and sweet broom in our yard are almost neon against the gloom.

I spent the morning sorting through the mountains of paper that seem to accumulate when you have a school-aged child. So many assignments! So much artwork! I recycle some and put some in a drawer for safe keeping and for future display on our family room gallery wall.

I check my email and my adoption forums, but not with the urgency I did over weeks past. The emigration process has started--now I just wait my turn. It is a relief to know the gears are in motion, and I am looking forward to my friends' receiving their travel calls.

I look through all the pictures we have of YH and watch videos of him. I marvel over his recent bang trim, over his winning smile. I fret over his latest developmental report--trying to read between the lines. I double check his most recent measurements against multiple growth charts (preemie, WHO, Korean Boys). I start a letter to Mrs. S and have to stop when I realize there are no words to adequately capture how much gratitude I feel for her.

I am at peace with our adoption process today. I have to be, because I have no emotional reserves to spare.

I am not checking my phone because I am afraid there will be messages waiting for me. Messages about a family crisis. One that happened (again) on Monday night. Someone I love is struggling with addiction and right now addiction is winning.

I can't change or control this person's process. I know this. I know to "let go and let God".  I know that all I can do is support the people around me--are my parents ok? Is my loved one's partner ok? If my loved one's partner can't call for emergency services, I will. I will suck it up and tend to the people left hurting in the wake of my loved one's decisions. I will not "fix" anything, or clean up after my loved one, or excuse my loved one's actions/choices.

I will send a text every morning and afternoon. It will say, "I love you. Be kind to yourself. Let me know if you need a ride to a meeting." No judgement, no threats, no bargaining. I will not get a response. I know better than to expect one (but secretly I hope).

Another day. Another obligation to hold it together for my husband, my kids, my parents, my siblings, my friends.

Kind of a big deal.

Well hello interweb friends. My goodness I've been scarce around this space this week. The new pup has me walking 6 miles before 12pm most days and my poor veal-like muscles are struggling to adjust to our new schedule. I'm completely wiped out by the end of the day which is actually a blessing--it's that kind of bone-tired that leaves no room for extra worrying. I keep telling friends and family that "A tired dog is a happy dog!" but really I'm talking about myself.

Today Ruthie-pup and I enjoyed a very windy walk around a local lake with a former student/friend, getting caught up on university gossip. As we walked we passed a man jogging and I said out loud, "Who does that? What kind of life allows you to run at 10:30am?" before I realized, oh right: I do that now. I live that kind of life.

It's been on my mind a lot this week.

I received a message from an old friend asking about my decision process in making this work/life transition. My friend had recently scaled back her work responsibilities as well, in order to spend more time with her family. She asked me how my transition was going and how did I feel about missing out on the challenges/professional benefits that no longer come my way?

The truth is, I feel bummed. It would be a lie to say that I don't think about the professional conferences I used to attend. Conferences where I saw my colleagues from around the country. Where I presented sessions and participated in professional knowledge groups. It would be a lie to say that I don't miss the annual international travel, or the feeling of pride and accomplishment when my students receive prestigious scholarships and grants. I miss the respect from my colleagues; respect that I worked for over a decade to establish.

And it sucks that for my friend and I making the choice to focus more on our young children necessitated that we take ourselves out of the "fast-track" to higher education administration glory. (Such that it is).

At the same time it is amazing to be able to walk my kids to school each morning. To volunteer in my son's classroom every Friday. To meet friends for "walkies and talkies" around a beautiful lake on a Spring morning. To sit and express myself creatively. To have no excuse not to take care of myself.

In the past I worked hard to make sure everyone in my field knew I was kind of a big deal.
Now I work hard to make sure that *I* know the blessings of this life are kind of a big deal.

Who gets to walk the dog for three miles on a weekday morning at 10 o'clock?
I do.

Date with a big thinker

                                                Tending our watermelon crop in the drought


My eldest child thrives on scheduled activity. Never one to spend a day lazing about without an agenda, she gets up at dawn and flits from school to robotics club to running club to cheer class to girl scouts. On her "off" days she fits in a playdate or two, works on projects, adds to her list of inventions-yet-to-build, writes to her penpals, and reads her college algebra textbook.


She is a force. And she is at her best when her mind and body are actively engaged.


She is like me in that she says exactly what she feels as she is thinking it. Not much of a filter on that girl. She feels things intensely and shares that intensity with whomever is near.


My oldest son is his sister's biggest fan and her best friend. But he does not share her temperment. Sweet Bubs is overwhelmingly sweet and silly. He loves to make people laugh and will find subtle twists of expected words or actions that leave us all giggling. He loves to sleep in and on school-days Sean and I fight over who gets to go scoop him out of his bed; he wraps his warm and heavy limbs around you so tight and snuggles his flushed cheeks deep into your neck. He slowly pats your back as you carry him into the dining room for breakfast. It is heaven.


Sweet Bubs is remarkable in that he plays with every child, no exceptions. He has a gift for making other children feel welcome and in preschool he often acted as the "bridge" for socially awkward children who needed some help being introduced to group play. Now in kindergarten he continues to be everyone's pal; one of his classmates recently drew a picture that said "I wish I had a hundred Sweet Bubs".


Sweet Bubs struggles with expressing his feelings--especially the hard feelings. Emotional storms come on him suddenly. I can see the clouds swoop over his brow and down to his quivering chin, followed by a flood of tears. We work on using words to describe what is bothering him, but more often than not he needs to wail while wrapped in my arms. I give in.

Miss A is all about the mind and body, and Sweet Bubs is all about the heart and soul.

He takes time to think things through before he speaks them aloud. In the wake of our Sheila's death he has had many questions about what happened to her. He asks these questions as we drive to pick-up/drop-off his sister.

"Mom, what happened to Sheila's body? Where is it now?"
"Did it hurt Sheila to die?"

He listens to my answers and nods his head thoughtfully. I tell him I will always answer his questions.

Last weekend Sweet Bubs and I went on a date. Sean was working, Miss A was at Girl Scouts. I asked him what he wanted to do and he said he wanted to go to a coffee shop. He said I should surprise him and take him to one he had never been to before, one that was "quiet and cozy" so that we could talk.

We held hands as we crossed a busy downtown street and ducked into our chosen destination. We stood in line behind dozens of hung-over hipsters and Sweet Bubs joked about wanting a cappuccino, no wait a beer, no wait a soda. I got black coffee, he got hot milk and a lemon bar.

As we sat down at our table he stopped to pick up a baby's jacket from the floor and hand it to the child's mother.

We looked at a dinosaur book together and talked about whether T-Rex would like brisket or bacon better. Then Sweet Bubs said "Mom, will YH be sad when we come to get him?"

This was on YH's birthday. My heart was bruised already.

"Yes baby, he will. He will probably be very sad and scared."

"I thought so."

We talked more about how even though we will be so excited and happy to have our YH with us it will be a very different experience for him. He won't know us, he won't ever have been on an airplane before, our house will smell different, our words will sound different, our food will taste different. He might be angry and push us away. He might shut down and sleep all the time. He might be happy one minute and cry the next.

It is our job to love him and show him we are his family no matter what. Do you think you can help me do that Sweet Bubs?

"Of course mama. He's my brother even if he's mad or scared."

My love.