The post I wanted to write

The post I wanted to write went something like this:

"Thank you all for your loving wishes on my last post. On the big day YH cheerfully put on his hospital gown, held the anesthesiologist's hand and waved good-bye to us happily as he walked down the hall to the operating room. His surgery went without a hitch, and he is now up and running as if nothing happened!"

Sounds great right???

Sadly, the reality is not so great.

YH did not put on his hospital gown willingly. He screamed and cried out for me as the anesthesiologist took him away, and I wanted to die on the spot.

YH's surgery *did* go well--and for that I am SO thankful.

 But his recovery is very, very painful. And he is crying most of the time that he is awake, despite being on multiple pain control medications. There is a reason that most kids who undergo similar procedures do so at 6 mos of age; with YH's heightened awareness of his body, and of his bodily functions, the pain is more present for him than it might be for a younger child.

When he moves he is reminded of the pain, and all that he wants to do is sit in my lap and cry on my shoulder. He leans his full weight against me, tries to meld into me, and sobs. I rub his back and make "wuss wuss" noises to him. Tell him he is brave, tell him he is strong. Try to convince him to eat something, anything.

I try to enjoy the sweetness of his body pressed against mine. Try not to be overwhelmed by his sadness. Try not to let him see how much his pain is hurting me too.

In addition to the near-constant crying, YH has had a resurgence of anxiety behaviors. Things like bouncing in his seat or while standing. Rocking back and forth while sitting alone on the sofa. Talking and/or humming constantly, and using repetitive phrases.

These are all behaviors that had faded over the last few months as his need to self-soothe lessened.

Now they are back.
Now they are, once again, the only means for him to control his environment. To try and outrun, outsmart, and outdistance the pain.

It sucks.

We have been in contact with our pediatric urologist and all is progressing normally. We are all doing our best to manage YH's pain and make him more comfortable. As his swelling decreases over the next 48 hours we anticipate big improvements for him. And while his pain is still near-constant, the intensity seems to be waning.

I am hopeful.

Courting Karma

There is a lot going on with us these days.
A lot of hard stuff.
A lot of hard stuff that is unbloggable.

I hope that some day I can write about the unbloggable stuff, and the ways in which it has impacted each member of our family, but the person/s at the center of the unbloggable-ness do not wish to be a part of this internet record.

And so I let the keyboard rest.

***                   ***
One thing I can blog about, however, is that tomorrow YH has surgery.
Surgery!

That long off date we set with the pediatric urologist months ago is suddenly upon us.

Two weeks ago a nurse from the pediatric surgery center called me to go over the particulars of the surgery schedule. She talked me through each point.

She told me we should dress him in something he will feel comfortable in--does he have some pajamas? She told me he could bring a comfort object with him if we thought it would help.
She said I could hold his hand right up until they put him under and then I would have to leave him.
Leave him on a big bed, surrounded by tubes and wires.
Go wait in the special room for parents and family members of the tiny bodies being worked on by skilled hands.

At the end of our conversation the nurse asked if there were any particular religious or cultural practices that we wanted observed.

And I started to reply, "Well, he's only been a part of our family for six months and we've worked so hard to build a secure attachment...."

And that's when I lost it and began sobbing over the phone to the nice lady.
Because it seems so wrong to have carefully knit trust and attachment and the beginnings of love with this little boy, only to have it undone by a potentially traumatic medical procedure.

I am nervous.
Not so much about the procedures itself.
Nervous about the aftermath, about the look in YH's eyes when they put him on the bed.
When he wakes up from surgery and begins to feel pain.

I'm sorry baby.
I'm really, really sorry.

****           ****

So in preparation for this unraveling I've been courting good karma.
I have joined a million committees.
I have signed up for multiple care calendars for new parents.
I have funded kickstarter projects, bought from bake sales, donated to worthy causes.
I hold doors open for older persons and/or parents carrying babies.

I am hustling to put positive energy out into the universe in the hopes that the universe might pay me, my family, back in kind.

Ten days ago my facebookery news feed was inundated with messages about our city animal shelter being overcapacity. All fees were waived--the shelter was so desperate for space.

I took YH there "just to look". So that I could advocate for a specific critter, lobby my friends and family to take home a new best friend.
Not for us.
Oh no.

We looked at the small dogs, and the kittens. We watched their paws skitter across the plexiglass walls of their enclosures. Pick me! Pick me!
We went outside to the big dog kennels, where dogs with impossibly large heads leaned against the metal bars hoping for ear rubs.

In the third outdoor building, at the end of the row, a small dog curled into herself at the back of her kennel. We peered in at her and made kissy noises at her. All around us dogs barked.
The little dog thumped her tail, ears flattened against her skull. Slowly she put her paws forward and belly crawled across the concrete to the front of the kennel. She barely lifted her head from the ground and I could only get one finger through the bars to stroke her chin. When I touched her she flopped into a relaxed pile of fur.

All of this to say: we brought her home the next day.

I could not leave this shy, sweet creature in the overburdened shelter.

And so now we have Petunia. And she no longer belly crawls. Now she walks with her tail held up. Now she curls up next to Ruthie on the dog bed. Now she licks the cat's ears and piles into the car with the kids when we head to soccer games.

She's my good luck charm.
And today while I wait for the surgery center to call and tell us what time we need to be there tomorrow morning, I will rub her velvety ears. I will listen to her snore.
I will take comfort in my living, breathing bit of karma.

Blinders off.

Our afternoons have become a lot more hectic now that Miss A is attending a new school.
A new school located across town.

Now when YH wakes up from his nap we hustle to get to Sweet Bub's school where we wait in the hallway for his class to file past at the end of the day. We swoop in and pull him out of line so that we can all pile into the car and battle traffic to get to Miss A's school in time for pick-up.

Despite the frenzied pace, YH loves to spend time at Sweet Bub's school.

There is often a large man there with his impossibly tiny baby, also waiting for an older sibling. The baby has sparkly eyes and her hair is usually in tiny twists punctuated by candy-colored barrettes. YH loves this baby and he loves to sit and watch her every move.

He also loves the large fish tanks that adorn the hallway and office of our school. He watches the aquatic plants sway in the movement of the water and turns to me and says "Mom! Mom, trees. Mom, trees wind."

When the pre-K kids come out of their classrooms and sit against the wall outside of the gym to wait for the bus, YH tries to sneak into line with them. He walks backwards up to the wall and carefully scoots down next to the last kid in line. He waves at the other kids and kicks his feet happily.

Any time a teacher or staff member stops to chat, YH checks their school ID. I have no idea how or why this started but he insists on inspecting the plastic id cards at close range. He scrutinizes the pictures and, when satisfied, releases the cords and watches the id zip back up towards the teacher's shoulder. One of the school's Special Ed teachers has placed a puppy sticker over his picture, just to delight and surprise YH.

YH feels comfortable at Sweet Bub's school.
Which, in part, is why I was rattled by an incident that occurred there yesterday afternoon.

As per our usual routine, I carried YH as we walked into school.
There was an SUV out front, parked in the loading only zone.
The windows were all rolled down.
There were four or five teenagers in the car, one of whom was smoking and dropping his ashes out of the window.
The music was booming.

YH heard the dance beat and started wiggling his arms in his signature move.

The kids in the car saw him and started laughing.

"Yo man, look at that chinese baby!"
"That chinese baby has glasses. Do those glasses help you see out of your chinese eyes baby?"
"Hey chinese baby: ching-chong-ching-chong"

And so on.

And as I heard their words my heart started pounding.
And my throat got hot.

And I stopped where I was, about ten feet from their car, and I bellowed.

"STOP. The words you are using, the things you are saying about MY SON are NOT acceptable. You need to stop RIGHT NOW."

And they did stop.
For a moment.

And then they said "Whatever, you effin b***."

And I continued my walk into the school and went immediately to the principal's office. Another parent had witnessed the incident and taken down the car's license plate. She followed me in to provide back-up for my account.

The administration moved quickly to identify the people involved and as I walked into the hallway, a staff member pointed out that the mother of the teens was walking towards us.

I stopped her and introduced myself.
I said, "Hi, my name is Nora and this my son. Your children, the ones in the car outside, just verbally assaulted us. They used racial slurs to insult my son."

The mom said, "Was it the black kid int he car? 'Cause he's not mine."

(No, no it wasn't.)
(and also: WOW.)

As we talked, the little girl at her side watched with widening eyes.
She piped up, "That baby??? They made fun of that baby?"
And her incredulity broke my heart again.

****                          ****

The school district police were called and I am awaiting an update from the principal.

I posted about this incident on the facebookery and got a lot of comments.
And it was interesting.

Because my friends who are white were mostly outraged on our behalf, and appalled that this had happened to a toddler.

And my friends of color were also outraged--but not surprised. Because each of them has their own history of similar taunts, similar incidents.

Birth certificates that list their race as "yellow".

This stuff is real, and it STILL happens. All over the country.
It happened in my small wealthy college town outside of Philadelphia. It happens in urban Texas. It happens in rural Vermont, beautiful Berkeley, and everywhere in between.

Five months.

It is morning.
YH sits at the dining room table, carefully scooping yogurt out of a bowl.
He selects an O with his thumb and index finger and places it on the tip of the spoonful of yogurt.

"Good moring O, good morning 'ogurt" he says, laughing out loud before popping the whole thing into his mouth.

He chews and says "Mmmmm! Mom! Mmmmm!"
There is yogurt on his forehead, and a tiny smudge of it on his glasses frames.
He smiles at me and lowers his spoon back into the bowl, ready to do it all over again.

This kid.
This kid is so full of joy.

After breakfast we head to his preschool. He attends two morning per week, in a class with seven other two-year olds. His teacher is sweet and kind, with a quiet gentle manner. YH *loves* school. He spends the car ride over listing all of his classmates names.

"Mom? Mom? 'Mmily. Ooown. Oz. Tom. 'liza. 'livva. 'Omi. Kaaaai. BEA!"

We open the door to his school and enter the lounge-y common area. Moms and babies are making good use of the sofas and comfy chairs, chatting before heading out to their cars and bikes. YH makes a beeline for whatever baby is closest and leans over the infant.

"Hey baby! Good morning baby! Tickle tickle.."

 After his initial greetings are delivered to all of the babies present, he makes his way around waving to the adults and finally makes it into his classroom. We sign him in and wash his hands before heading outside to the play area. He finds a truck to push around and gives me a cheerful kiss goodbye.

I dawdle for several minutes before leaving. The leaving is still hard on me. (Not so much on YH, though he is always happy to see me when I come to pick him up.) I don't know what to do with myself when we're not together. More times than not I take the dog for a walk, belatedly remembering all the important errands I *should* have run.

YH has been with our family for five months now.
In that time he has made amazing (AMAZING!) strides.

When we first met, YH didn't play with toys so much. He picked up toys, and smashed them down again with great force. Or he pulled them apart bit by bit and discarded the shreds in an unsentimental heap. He moved with lightening speed from one destruction project to the next with few signs of engagement or imaginative play.

After a few weeks in our home he began to use toys for play. Pure play. He developed an interest in toy cars first. He would spin the wheels and zoom them around the house silently. Then his brother taught him to make zoom zoom noises and now we live within the deafening roar of a never ending speed trial.

But the toy cars don't just zoom around--oh no. Now they are nurtured by YH as well. Technically they are not allowed on the dining room table but YH will cautiously set one next to his placemat at snack time and say "Mom. Mom, car food mom. Car food." and pretend to feed the little car bites of cracker and GOOD LORD PEOPLE. How can I resist such a display of cute?

Last week he started making the cars talk to one another.
"Good morning orange car!"
"Good morning tractor!"

**followed by several strings of gibberish, punctuated by laughter.**

He makes the cars hide under a napkin and then pulls it off with glee yelling "Ta-DA!"

His language skills are hugely improved. He now speaks about 65-70 English words, mostly in two or three word sentences. I am probably the only human on the planet who can distinguish these 65 words--but still. We count them. Some of the words surprise me ('unbuckle' being a prime example). His receptive language skills are also vastly improved. He follows directions easily and delights in cleaning up and other daily routines.

One of my friends remarked on the Facebookery that it seems like there was a certain point in time when he started *smiling* in every picture that we took of him. She's right. After I read her comment I went back and clicked on each image, watching his tiny mug stare back solemnly at me through June, July, August, part of September...and then. Then the grins began. The big goofy grins, the sly smiles, the mugging for the camera. (Happy cry. Big giant ugly happy cry).

YH's tantrums have also changed recently. At the beginning of his time with us he would dissolve in tears or screams multiple times per day. He couldn't tell us what he wanted and we couldn't understand his desires. More importantly: we were not the droids he was looking for. The mere fact that he was hurt and sad and his best people--his favorite people--were thousands of miles away only added to his distress.

As his language skills have improved (and our toddler-mind reading skills have improved) the screaming-because-nobody-knows-what-I-need has lessened. I can read the signs of stress on his body before it escalates to tears. I know what times of day are hard for him, when he needs a snack before attempting a task, when rowdy play will be too much of a sensory overload for him. I can swoop him onto my lap and rock him back and forth while whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

He used to stiffen against me and put a forearm between his chest wall and my body when we would sit this way. He was ready to push free at a moment's notice. Now he wraps his arms around my back and gives my shoulder blades a few gentle pats as we rock. It always get to me--that he can softly thump out love to me, even while in the middle of a giant wailing fest. It's like he's saying, "Hey! This is rotten, isn't it? You're doing a good job mama."

Earlier this week he had the first tantrum I've seen that was very clearly a "Hello, I am two years old." tantrum (and not a grief tantrum, a life isn't fair tantrum). I told him to get the toy train off the table at breakfast. He looked at me and said "No." And then he tried it again, but this time with a raised voice,"NO! No. No. No. Noooooooooo." and he flung himself to the floor with dramatic flair.

And I have never been so happy to watch a two year old writhe and flop at my feet.

He's two. He's my baby and he's two.

 On November 30 we will drive to San Antonio to stand before a judge and legally cement our lifelong commitment to one another. We will dress in fancy clothes and go out for dinner afterwards. We will laugh and cry and at least two of us will fall asleep on the car ride home.

And the next morning we will wake up to forever.
I can't wait.

Scraping burnt toast

Do y'all watch Parenthood on NBC?

It's one of those shows that I officially watch "because there's nothing else on"-- but in reality I watch it because I love it. Some of the storylines make me groan out loud, and it is absolutely preposterous that any of those families can afford their homes in the Berkeley hills.

 I still love it.

Of course there is an adoption storyline: At the end of last season Julia Braverman and her husband accepted the placement of a 9 year old boy whose mother was incarcerated and had just terminated her parental rights.

The episode ended with an image of this small, terrified boy being welcomed from the dark night into the warm and modern home of his adoptive family. I rolled my disapproving eyeballs and my tiny cynic's heart clenched with visions of the rosy family that would be portrayed in episodes to come.

Here we go--I thought--another "happy ending" adoption story.

But I was wrong.

This season the character of Julia has said things out loud that many adoptive parents *think* or say only to one another. Things like "I don't think I love him yet." "This is so hard." "I can't do it all."

She is struggling. Her work is suffering. She is extending all of her resources to connect with her son. She is failing her biological child.

Her work colleagues react to her sudden unavailability with scorn and disdain. Her extended family members seem oblivious to the chaos that is her new reality, to the burden she is carrying.

She is burning the toast and scraping it like mad over the sink to get to any good part, any salvageable piece.

And man, do I get that.

We've been scraping a lot of toast in our house too. There have been hard times, times that no one else could see or understand unless they'd been through something similar.

The kicker of it all is that our son is relatively easy. He sleeps well, he naps consistently, he is a good eater and has a cheerful attitude. He loves his siblings and he is spontaneously affectionate with us, his parents.

When he tantrums he is easily comforted. His tantrums rarely last more than a few minutes. He is kind to our pets, if sometimes overenthusiastic in his demonstrations of love to them.

And yet it is *still* hard. It is hard to give every piece of yourself to a child new to your home and family. It is hard to spend every minute of the day alert and aware of the attachment process, ready to drop what you are doing at a moment's notice in order to help your new family member feel secure.

It is only recently that I wake up in the mornings feeling relaxed. For the past several months I would awaken with clenched fists, mentally filling the blocks of hours between dawn and YH's bedtime. I would grit my teeth and stiffen my body against the day--trying to block out the endless assault to my personal space that was about to being.

Ok, I just have to get through breakfast, then walking the big kids to school, some playtime, lunch and then it's naptime. I can do this. If we go to Target that will fill an hour...We can walk the dog and fill another hour...

I can do this. 

Now I wake up with fingers loosely curled, excited about the activities YH and I might experience together. What will he notice on our morning walk? What new words will he use? Should we see if his best bud Jacob is available to play?

It's a subtle difference, but an important one. Starting the day with my defenses up was exhausting and contributed to the feeling that I could never win, I could never get caught up. In retrospect I am sure I suffered from a mild case of post-adoption depression. PAD is real, and like post-partum depression it can be crippling.

Add unexpected illness, the death of a beloved pet (our tripod beagle passed away two weeks ago), conflict with loved ones, changing schools for my eldest, juggling work and sport schedules...it's easy to feel overwhelmed. Easy to feel suffocated and trapped by your circumstances.

I feel lucky that I am able to see the past few months for what they were; that my family is safe and whole, that my youngest child is healthy and so well-loved.

I think our days of scraping the burnt toast are lessening--and I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.


 

Pneumonyuck.

This blog has been silent for the past few weeks because I've been recovering from pneumonia. And let me tell you friends, pneumonia sucks. I am now three weeks out from my initial diagnosis and I still feel deeply, deeply exhausted.

The best way to recover from pneumonia is complete bedrest, for 1-3 weeks. HA! That's hilarious. My three extremely active children laugh at your "bedrest"! Bedrest is for LOSERS. The two year old especially gets irate if I try to lie down on the sofa--he says "Mommy! No mommy, no!" and tugs and pulls at my arms and legs until I sit up. He cares not for television, so there is no respite bought by a simpering Thomas the Tank Engine DVD (believe me, I tried. Oh how I tried.)

The funny thing about having a serious illness is that your house does not automatically clean itself when you are unable to do so! The dogs do not stop shedding; in fact, one of them (coincidentally the one with the biggest bladder!) may become so anxious about your new state of lethargy that she decides to pee on the hallway rug. Over and over. The dishes continue to be used, and as such continue to pile themselves in the sink. Little droplets of milk left in sippy cups quickly transform into reeking sludge. And you watch all of this from behind the shackles of your infected lungs, because you lack the strength to even push a freaking vaccuum cleaner.

All food tastes revolting. If you are lucky, you can force down half a can of soup once a day. Gone out the window are your lofty nutrition standards. No more baby kale and fresh berry smoothies for breakfast, no locally sourced roast chicken with sweet potato hash for dinner, no poached eggs quivering atop a bed of brown rice. Nope. The antibiotics you are forced to swallow once a day make the act of eating repulsive. But in order to protect your gut from the evil medicine you *have* to eat, so you try to do so quickly, with absolutely no joy.

At nighttime you crawl exhausted into your bed. You are freezing, so you pile on the blankets and lean against a towering mountain of pillows. You spend the first hour in bed coughing every two minutes. You try to cough into a pillow, so you don't wake the two year old slumbering nearby. Eventually your body gives up and you sleep fitfully until morning. You wake up sore from coughing--it feels like a metal band is wrapped across your ribs and upper back.  You can't ever get a deep enough breath.

You feel terrible for your poor spouse, who has to pick up your slack on the homefront. You haven't had a meaningful interaction with your kids for days. You expend all your energy just trying to stay conscious--nothing extra.

And while this all transpires, while you are at your weakest, the world around you slowly explodes. One of your children is profoundly bored at school and is not able to work to reach his/her full-potential. You try to make it work. You meet with the child's teacher, hacking and sweating your way through an hour long discussion about differentiated learners in a typical classroom. You come to the realization that your beloved neighborhood school is no longer the best fit for your child--your child who needs to work at his/her own pace, to go deeper. You scramble and hustle to find an alternative. You put a call out to the universe and the universe responds with an amazing opportunity--an amazingly *expensive* opportunity. You take a deep breath and push forward--you can make it work. You *have* to make it work. You feel relief at the solution for your brilliant child and deep regret at the loss of your neighborhood school.

Somebody close to you takes it upon him/herself to help you through the illness. You are unable to connect with this person to discuss what "help" means to both of you, and the person arrives on the scene unable to contribute in a way that would make a difference for your daily struggles. There is conflict. A lot of conflict. A lot of extra draining, extra not-helpful conflict. You are angry that this person can't just actually "help" in the ways you need him/her to help, but at the same time cognizant of his/her limitations. You won't ever have the help you need and you need to get over it. You are angry at the other people involved, the people who won't stand up for you in the conflict, who refuse to take sides. At this time more than any other in your whole life you really just need to feel like someone has your back. Your achy, tired, weakened back.

At the same time someone else close to you steps up to the plate in a most unexpected and delightful way. This person has his/her own struggles, yet he/she drops everything to come to your aid. This person does not accept your pitiful attempts to refuse his/her help; he/she shows up on your doorstep and takes all three kids to the park. Even the toddler goes happily with this person, cheerfully blowing you kisses from the backseat of the car as it pulls out of the driveway. Your gratitude to this person knows no bounds.

Most of all you are angry at yourself for still being sick. You hate feeling weakened by illness. You cry with frustration at the things you can't do, things that are necessary for your family's health and happiness. You feel betrayed by your body. What was the point of eating well, exercising 5 days a week, nurturing your mind/soul--what was the point of all that self-care if you were going to be felled by a secondary infection anyway? You might as well have been stuffing your face with peanut m&m's and watching "Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo" all day long.

You wait it out. You have to; there is no other option. Slowly you will regain your strength. Slowly you will pick up the pieces of the broken relationships around you, of the frightening transitions in schooling, of the neglected pets and dirty house.

You will get better. You have to.

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.