Indistinguishable Degrees of Separation

When Brent and I decided to adopt from Ethiopia we had NO IDEA how connected we would become to our kids' birth country. I think I envisioned a deep love for the country, similar to my love for Cambodia, forged on memories, life-altering experiences and simple human connections. I envisioned family trips over the years and books and movies and special Ethiopian feasts.

Over the past year, I've found that the depth of our connection to Ethiopia seems to ebb and flow but continues to deepen beyond anything I ever imagined. There's times it exists somewhere in the background, ever present, but not too demanding of our attention, comforting, like the freeway noise at our new house. At other times, times like now, it occupies the forefront of our existence. For whatever reason, when one connection to Ethiopia opens up, they all seem to. It's times like these that I really can't think about much else, that I truly feel like I've got one foot in this country and one foot in the other one. The same is true for the kids. These days, the ride to school is colored by conversations about E-Tiopia.

Today, completely unexpectedly and through at least nine degrees of separation, I received this picture and eleven others.

Little Miss E as a toddler, taken many years before we met her by someone that has spent more time living with her than we have. Until today, the only pictures we had of Elsa were two baby pictures and then the millions I've taken since we became a family. I cannot communicate the immensity of this gift, nor can I communicate the mess of emotions that bubble up within me as I stare into those gorgeous eyes - those same gorgeous eyes that will greet me first thing tomorrow morning when I wake her up for school. The same eyes, the same nose, the same girl, but a child I never knew.

I've often felt deeply saddened for Elsa as I watch her struggle to define herself and her place in the world. She lived an entire lifetime prior to joining our family, and then poof! Brent and I arrived on the scene and whisked her away from everything she ever knew to a foreign land. There is hardly any proof that her previous life existed, yet she lived it. It formed who she is today. Pictures like this give her just a little piece of that life back.

Many adoptive moms of older children have spoken about their yearning to know their child as an infant. I never really felt that way until today. 

The connections to Ethiopia are wide open right now, information is coming in on many fronts. I hope I can breathe deep enough to truly experience it all.

Morning To Night: Transformation and Paradox

This morning was a typical morning for the Coranski family. I woke up first, had my 15 minutes of Mommy-time, fed the dogs, and proceeded to wake up the kids so they could get ready for summer camp. Both kids were already awake, lying in their beds, waiting for hugs and the official start of the day to be issued. Brent woke up as the kids were putting on clothes and figuring out who's room would house the lotion bottle for the daily lathering.

I headed off to the kitchen to scramble up up some fresh eggs and pack lunches. Daddy doled out big hugs and headed outside to feed and water the chickens before taking out the trash and rounding up the kids for some more big hugs and a tease or two before heading off to work. The kids proceeded to get ready; it was swim day at camp, so they rounded up goggles, towels swim suits and swim hats, before slathering sunscreen over their freshly applied lotion. Breakfast was eaten. The trash cans that Daddy put out were drug back in by Ashagre after he gleefully watched the garbage truck empty them. Hair was done. Teeth were brushed and everyone was buckled in the car. A quick swing by the coffee shop and then off to summer camp.

Camp counsellor as I am signing in the kids to camp, "Um, we played baseball yesterday, and, wow!"

Me: "Oh ya, they're really good. They've played for two years already."

Counsellor: "I mean Elsa stepped up to bat and no one had really be hitting and she slammed it. A beautiful line drive right past the pitcher. It was awesome. Her stance, everything."

Me: "Yeah, they love it. Ashagre joined a team only a month after moving to America. They just wrapped up their second season."

Counsellor: "No. She was amazing! Not even close to your typical beginning baseball player..."

******************************************

Tonight was a typical night here at the Coranski household. I got home from work and found Brent wrapping up dinner. The kids were playing independently; one kid was in the playroom with the marble maze and the other was in their room reading. They had gotten home from tennis lessons not too long ago. I joined Brent in the kitchen and started unloading and re-loading the dishwasher, and we began debriefing our days. Brent mentioned that their tennis coach had started to divide the kids up by skill a bit and that Ashagre and Elsa were, as usual, some of the top players. The coach mentioned that Ashagre showed a lot of promise.

The kid playing with the marbles, who prefers to greet me on their time rather than mine, heard my voice, ran in, gave me a huge hug and told me a bit about their day before sauntering back to the playroom. The other kid remained on their bed reading.  It turns out the kid in their room reading had a rough afternoon and was in their room for the rest of the night after a long afternoon of disrespectfulness. It all finally ended when they screamed at Daddy after a consequence was given (10 minutes sitting on their bed), screamed louder when a tougher consequence was given (20 minutes), hit the other kid when an even tougher consequence was given (on the bed until dinner time), and finally slapped Daddy in the face while he was driving and screamed in his ear (on the bed until bedtime). Brent was a bit frazzled, but not too worked up about it, and said kid had finally stopped screaming and slamming doors and was engaged with a large stack of books. Brent and I wrapped up dinner and the first round of dishes and hollered to the kids to wash their hands and join us for dinner.

Dinner was really pleasant. The picky kid chose to eat their curry stir fry (gasp! it was vegetarian! so many vegetables!) and not make any faces or complain. The other kid was disappointed because they didn't get any broccoli in their bowl, which we quickly remedied, much to their delight. Conversation flowed and meandered and ended up in Ethiopia.

"Daddy, why did you leave the first time [referring to the first time we met them during our court trip] and then come back [embassy trip to pick them up]? It was a long time."

"In Ethiopia House (generic reference to their orphanages in our house) we ate pasta. I can't remember what we ate for breakfast. Pasta for lunch."
"Didn't you eat bread?"
"Oh, yeah, bread for breakfast. I didn't like the food when I first came to Ethiopia House."

"In Ethiopia showers were COLD. There was no lotion. We wear our clothes for bedtime. No p-jamas."

"In Ethiopia the adults would leave at night and it was scary. Monsters."

"Not at my Ethiopia House; at my house there were adults at night, but they left and came back and talked a lot while we were supposed to sleep. I didn't like to sleep there."

"In Ethiopia big girls picked me up by my hands and feet and carried me to the square and made me get in. I said no ten times. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Then I said no three more times. No. No. No. I said No thirteen times but they wouldn't listen."

"In Ethiopia big kids not nice. They pushed me, but I told someone and they had to go play somewhere else."

"What did you eat before you lived at Ethiopia House?"
"Nothing. I ate nothing. There was no food."

"In Ethiopia on weekend they wouldn't let you pick me up. I sad and angry and mad and frustrated and sad and angry. They not nice."

"What did I say when we come to America? I talked gibberish"
"No, you spoke Amharic, and you always said mindenow (what? what is it?)"

"What did I say?"
"You liked to say yinne (mine)."

Giggles.

Later on that night after dinner wrapped up and the kid that was required to cooperatively headed back for more bed-sitting and reading, the other kid and I, at their request, watched some videos from our first few days together in Ethiopia. I think even they couldn't believe the transformation. As I watched, for the first time, I realized how many developmental stages my kids have passed through in just a little over a year.  In all seriousness, the kids were operating at toddler level at best developmentally when we met them. No wonder it was a rough year. Even as new parents we've realized that some of our kids' worst behavior surfaces right before another huge developmental leap. They've literally leapt from age three or four (two?) to age six or seven in one year. That's a lot of rough patches before the sweetness of the new growth on the other side of a new milestone is actualized.

As our days grow smoother and the kids' gifts begin to shine brighter and brighter it's easy to forget where we were and where they came from just over a year ago.  For the most part, I'm happy to forget, as I don't want it to be the only story that defines them. But then there's days like today where it's important to remember because they remember and because it colors our days - making the dark moments a bit darker and the bright moments oh so much brighter.

******************************************

Brent and I wind down the day in typical Coranski fashion - talking about the kids as they settle into slumber in their respective beds. Thinking back to those first few days together, we both ponder in utter disbelief how far the kids, our family, has come in such a short period of time.  How little we knew each other; how much better we know each other now and we'll know each other as time marches on. We relish in just how good everything is right now. We bask in the excitement for the year to come and the goodness it will surely bring.

The transformation, contrast and paradox of this whole experience. It leaves me typing and typing, but unable to put it into words.

Maybe a photographic contrast will solidify my point instead.

Cheers to change and cheers to the past because without it, we wouldn't be where we are right now. Cheers to paradox because without it, the present wouldn't taste quite as sweet.

What "We Are Not Ok" Really Means

I remember to turn down my music before I shut off my car so as not to blast out the kids at 7:45 tomorrow morning (despite the fact that they love it when we start our day off with some high volume tunes). Lately this song has required loud, repetitive play on the drive home from work (thank you for the intro Mary Beth!).



As I open my car door to the clear, crisp evening (as far as crisp evenings go in SoCal) I hear her shriek from inside the house. Moments later Elsa opens the door and runs out to grip my hips tightly in a hug while burying her face in my belly. Out rolls her standard greeting,"Mommy! Amelie was-the-Teacher-of-the-day (deliberately slowed down and enunciated to make sure she gets her prepositions in there - we've been working on this phrase since it's the first statement we hear each day when we see her after school). Do you work good?" She rushes to open the front door for me. As I step in around the dogs who rush out to get a quick smell of the world passing by our house Ashagre glances up momentarily from his legos to acknowledge my presence. He prefers to warm up to the idea that I'm home before seeking my attention.

Brent is at the stove busily wrapping up dinner - homemade lentil soup artfully concocted from last week's left overs with an entirely new flavor to nourish our bodies after a busy day. "It smells great in here. Is that curry?" We chat briefly about our days before Elsa's back again telling me about her day. I pick her up (such a rewarding activity when done spontaneously and not demanded, "Mommy pick-up-a me!" She suggests we snuggle with her blanket and read One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish, and I agree. We're practicing for her Student Spotlight presentation in April; she can't stop talking about it. Elsa, Ashagre and I read together. Ashagre handles the sight words and the pages he's memorized, Elsa takes on everything else with my help on the longer words or the ones she just can't quite remember. "Let's say it ten times together. O-F spells of, O-F spells of..." I take a page or two when she starts getting tired (learning to read is exhausting work).

"Ok. Go wash your hands!" The kids scamper off as Brent pulls warm bread out of the oven and I start dishing up soup. Ashagre doesn't have much to say about his day, "Today, who the Leader is? It starts for a A." I correctly guess Amen, which doesn't impress him much. Elsa rambles on about her day, missing all of her prepositions. We ask her to slow down and add in a few more details so we can understand what she's trying to tell us. Ashagre quickly finishes his soup and asks for more bread while Brent gets back up to pull a special treat from the fridge - a carton of dark red organic strawberries. Ashagre is more than happy to stick around and help Brent and me finish the whole carton. Elsa adamantly responds with a No Thank You when offered. Cajoling her only makes her No Thank You more resolute.

We chat and tease each other while enjoying our meal. Finally, when the strawberries are all gone and we've had our fill of warm bread, Brent, Ashagre, and me get up from the table. Elsa, who spent most of her time talking about her day without using prepositions, remains at the table to finish her soup. She's determined to clean her bowl so she can have more bread. As Elsa finishes up Ashagre engages his dad in a tickling match. Loud shrieks intermixed with belly laughs permeate our tiny bungalow. When she's finished Elsa joins in, and soon enough the whole family is at it, including the dogs. Lola enthusiastically and sloppily licks the kids cheeks and chins when we thrust them in her face and Buster prances around barking in the excitement to keep the energy up.

Finally it's calm down time. The kids handle this once impossible transition with ease and grace. Shortly thereafter its p-jamas, medicine, brush your teeth, story time, hugs, kisses, high fives, and bed.

We are ok. We are a family. These relatively mundane yet deeply rich details are our fabric.

So what about We are not ok? What does that look like, you ask? What can be learned from those four words and the days, moments, life that they describe? Since writing this post, I've been thinking about this question quite a bit. The conclusion I've come to, while not fun to admit, is perfect material for a blog post - perfect, because its not about Them. It's about me, and my shit is ok to write about on this blog because its my story to tell.

So what's the difference? What does we are not ok look like in comparison to the scene detailed above? It looks like huge, wildly darting eyes, irregular, jerky movements, loud, repetitive, non-sensical vocalizations. It looks like kids doing exactly what you asked them not to do and had them repeat back to you two seconds before. It looks like them doing it again moments later after you sternly lecture them some more. It looks like animalistic noises and squirming bodies (avoid eye contact at all costs). It looks like rapid fire questions to which they already know the answers for hours on end. It looks like the complete inability to do something they normally handle with ease. It looks like extremely slow and drawn out half-efforts to complete simple tasks. It looks like pestering one another and treating each other with the same impatience and frustration they feel around them and inside themselves. Sometimes it looks much worse. It is intense. It doesn't go away. It follows you from room to room as you try to step away and take a deep breath and recenter yourself. It looks like things all kids do (please don't use that phrase with parents parenting attachment challenged kids - it cuts so much deeper than you intended). Yes, it looks like things all kids do, but it feels SO different, especially to the parents, who despite their sometimes maladaptive and exasperated approaches to deal with the situation, are acutely aware of and consumed by the depth of their kid's pain and fear. Yes, all kids do those things, but they don't do them from a place of fear, a lack of trust, a desperate need to control the situation at all times, and a suffocating layer of anxiety that kids with attachment challenges do.

In the warm and loving scene detailed at the beginning of this post (which is, by the way, an honest account of this evening) I forgot to mention a small, but important detail. The last sentence of the first paragraph or maybe the first sentence of the second paragraph should have read, I take a deep breath and remember where I am and what that means. I am home. You see, what I'm coming to learn about we are not ok and we are ok is that one of most defining factors is often me. My perspective, my approach, my ability to stay regulated and nurturing, my commitment to embodying the calm and balanced energy I want my kids to operate within.

Prior to bringing Elsa and Ashagre home, I had a vision in my head of the mother I would be. I would always do my best not to lose sight of where they had come from, I would always delight in their presence, I would not take their expressions of hurt or anger or fear personally, always seeing them for what they were, I would always remember that I am the adult and that they are just six and seven, I would ooze patience, understanding, and acceptance.

I thought I knew how hard it would be. I also thought I could handle it. I had NO idea how hard it could be, how personal it can sometimes feel, how good they can be at triggering my own shit. I had no idea I would find myself resorting to maladaptive coping mechanisms - threats (not empty ones, but the repetitive kind that build on each other necessitating more and bigger threats as your kids get more dysregulated and out of control), emotional distancing (a huge dysregulator for attachment challenged kiddos), the inability to admit its not about "winning" or "reinforcing ridiculous behavior" and instead backing down from a chosen, heavy-handed approach and giving in to what they really need - a calm, understanding and loving chance to try again with nothing hanging over their heads.

It seems I have this stubborn streak in my parenting style. Once I get headed down the path of needing to control I can't back down even when I can clearly articulate that it is exactly what the kids need. Even when I know it could make everything better almost instantaneously. We are not ok when we are trapped in this cycle. This pattern of parents trying to control out of control kids through traditional parenting approaches of threats and loss of consequences, even when one said kid, the most easily out of control one, clearly has not developed cause and effect thinking. We are not ok when I perpetuate it. We are not ok when I feel guilty for perpetuating it (because I know I am doing it) and choose to define myself as a shitty mom.

Seriously. Sometimes I think it really is that simple. The moment I can calm down, change my perspective, find my own balance, speak in a soft and loving voice, and let them know its ok to go on, to move beyond the last infraction and try again, everything is usually ok. A hug goes a long way. Admitting you were wrong in your approach and doing some repair work can set you straight for days. Sure, one kiddo might need fairly constant reminders to calm down, but that same kid is very able to calm themselves down by taking breaths with just a simple reminder to do it. Sometimes they even recognize it before we say something and initiate their own breath taking these days.

All of the suggestions in the attachment books work too. Loving and warm facial expressions. Gentle touch. Co-sleeping. Plenty of warning about what's coming next. Predictable routines and consistent boundaries. Naming feelings. Giving your kids a voice to name and explore their own feelings. Validating where they're coming from (even when it seems ridiculous). Playfulness and silliness. Games and activities generally reserved for younger kids. It all works; we've tried and regularly do almost all of it. But, at least in our house right now, the major difference between we are ok and we are not ok is my ability to control my own emotions and keep things calm and loving. Why, when it is that simple, is it so damn hard?


You did it. You made it through this entire rambling post! Here are some gratuitous cute photos as a reward.

Teetering On The Edge Of Something Big

It may be premature to write this, but its been banging around in my head for a few days and I feel like I need to give it a shot. If you're reading this, that means I was able to get somewhere within the web of thoughts occupying much of my spare time these days (Who am I kidding? What spare time? These thoughts must just be distracting me from whatever else is going on).

Before Brent and I ever committed to international adoption I started reading adoption blogs. Time and time again I ran across the same theme. Parents of kids with all sorts of stories came to the same conclusion, "I needed this kid more than they needed me." Before becoming Ashagre and Elsa's momma this thought wasn't much more than an enduring sound byte to me. It seemed like the right thing to say, if you will, in a world of, "those kids are so lucky to have been adopted." At best, I heard this statement as an honest attempt to sum up the complexities of a parent's motivations to adopt.

However, about two months ago that phrase took on a whole new deeper meaning to me. The vast majority of our family has been working pretty intensely with our attachment therapist for nearly two months now. It turns out that when I posited in this post How do you blog about the fact that your attachment-challenged kiddo also seems to have an attachment-challenged momma? I wasn't far off from reality at all.

Today was one of those days in therapy where everything that's been thrown out there to swirl around in the room in a disorienting mess coalesces. Seemingly disparate issues all of a sudden have meaning when linked together. And the unifying theme, is ME - me and my shit.

Issues, thoughts, and schemas I've been carrying around with me for as long as I can remember - and successfully burying when things are going well - are all of a sudden no longer ignorable. This thing, this piece of me, has always been there. I've know of its negative effects on my being for quite some time. But now, if I want to help my kid heal and reach their fullest potential I have to stop and heal myself. I have to stare down a part of myself that has been holding me back on so many levels for longer than I can remember, own it, and ask it to move on.

It's a pretty scary place to be. I definitely feel very precarious, like I'm teetering on the edge of something so much bigger than I've ever experienced before. I feel more vulnerable - the kind of vulnerability that strikes with precision at your core - than I've felt in a very long time. Just writing this post makes my chest tighten and my breathing become laborious. But its also an exciting and hopeful place to be. It feels like if I can take this thing on and work through it I'll reach an entire new level of being. A place of more contentedness, more compassion, and a greater ability to live in the present. A place where I can more deeply experience the love, the passion, and the pain that life has to give us. A place I've been yearning to be for a long time.

I have a feeling I've been searching for this opportunity for much of my adult life and probably even longer. Who would have thought I'd have to travel half way across the globe to Ethiopia in what I thought was a journey to become a parent in order to find it? So yeah, it turns out I might have needed my kids just as much, or more, than they needed me.

Multi-Colored Flatulence

So a candid and honest conversation among some members of our family confirmed what my gut has been telling me about this blog for quite some time, "From reading your blog it seems like it all rainbow farts and sunshine over there..."

Um, nope. Time for a reality check. This blog has come to a crossroad. Its time to either be real or shut the thing down. I'm choosing to be real. You might not like what you read.

How do you...

...blog about the fact that the honeymoon period ended several months ago and that things are far from pretty? How do you blog about the fact that one of your children is falling apart right in front of your eyes and your intuition tells you that you are doing nothing to help them, that, instead, you think you might be making it worse? How do blog about the fact that said child starts nearly every day and kicks off many bed times in a screaming fit? No - a screaming fit doesn't do it justice. How do you blog about the fact that said child becomes so angry that they become wild animal-like, their eyes fixed and blazing, their mouth foaming with screams so violent that their voice is hoarse two days later? How do you blog about the fact that, as this kid's mom, you know that the intense and high energy but usually charming sunshiny public self this child is so good at putting out into the world is really often a protection mechanism and a loud, anxiety-driven demand for help to feel more safe? How do you blog about the fact that the public has no idea what is really going on and is completely charmed by their desperate behavior, often making things worse? How do you blog about the fact that this same child has shared the wonderful and grounded being they are at their core with you, but that you can't help them feel safe enough to reveal that self very often? How do you blog about the fact that these things break your heart repeatedly every day? How do you blog about the fact that the therapist says it will get worse before it gets better?

How do you blog about the fact that you find yourself having a harder and harder time finding compassion for said child despite the fact that you know with 100% certainty that it is not their fault and that they are suffering more than you are? How do you blog about the fact that compassion, understanding, and unburdened love are what your child seems to need, but that it is uncomfortable and unnatural for you to provide these things for them? How do you blog about the fact that your attachment-challenged kiddo also seems to have an attachment-challenged momma? How do you explain this without sounding like you don't love your child because you do? How do you blog about how horrid this makes you feel? How do you blog about the fact that tightly wound stress and deep seated worry are your two constant companions? How do you blog about the fact that you are growing increasingly disappointed in the parent you seem to be?

How do you blog about the fact that your other child reminds you constantly that you do have the natural ability to mother, love, nurture, snuggle and play? How do celebrate this other child's miraculously smooth and open transition into your family while their sibling is struggling right there next to them? How do you blog about this other child shutting down in a trance of tears at gymnastics because they are so afraid that they might not master a new skill on the first try? How do you blog about the fact that at least with this child, you can scoop them up and comfort them and help them feel safe enough again to rejoin the group and end the day in success? How do you blog about the fact that you suspect this deeply held fear of failure is rooted in a fear that if they're not good enough at something, anything, they'll be sent away once again? 

How do you answer the constant barrage by well-meaning acquaintances inquiring about how the kids' transition is going when all they want to hear is, "Great! They've learned English, are doing great in school, play on a soccer team, and are generally two happy kids!" (not a lie, but only the surface view of how things are going too). How do you blog about the reality of adopting older children that have experienced more heartbreak in their 6 and 7 years on this earth than many of us will in our lifetimes? How do you explain the entirety of your reality in two quick sentences? How do you do it without sounding like you regret your decision, which you definitely don't? How do you blog about these things without sounding hopeless, which you definitely aren't? How do you maintain your child's privacy while letting those you love and those that love you and your kids and those that might be exploring international adoption for the first time peer through the rainbow from time to time and see the ominous and dark thunderclouds in the background for what they are? How do you let these people really see how hard you're struggling in this place of rainbows, sunshine, and thunderstorms? 

I don't know. And so, I continue writing this blog because it gives me a place to memorialize the rainbow farts and sunshine - they're real too - to focus on and savor the things that are going well. To bask in the radiant smiles of my amazing kids. To connect with others that are traveling similar paths.

I guess there's always two sides to a story. We'll have to see where this one goes from here.

I scoured our home and this is the closest thing I could find to rainbow
farts - our dirty dishes. A rainbow of colors since we've gotten so short on
clean dishes we've moved to the camping gear. There is a slight odor...

Before you go calling Public Health - I washed them all tonight. We're
hanging in there...

Permanence

Two kids, very close in age, from the same country, adopted and brought to live in America at the same time as part of the same family, but with two very different stories/histories, two very different personalities, and two very different takes on their current lives in America.

Our kids have been doing a lot of processing lately – big realizations about what this all means – why we’ve all been working so hard to make this family thing work.  

Permanence.  They’ve been internalizing it, trying it on for size, seeing how they look and feel when they carry it around with them.  One kid craves it.  He needs to be told daily that his new life is permanent that he won’t be going back to Ethiopia, to the guesthouse (his word for the orphanage) or to a family life that started out stable and loving but tragically fell apart around him.  

One kid fears it.  Her eyes grow even larger when she hears yet again that she is here to stay.  She gets quieter, withdraws from the group, sometimes works to push the strengthening family unit away, and sometimes clings desperately trying to get more of it.  


Last weekend I was lying in bed listening to the kids playing quietly (yes, quietly – we’ve finally found a very workable groove on the weekends before 8 am) in the room next door.  They were flipping through their photo albums of friends and special caretakers at their respective orphanages when Ashagre announced that he never had to go back to Ethiopia.  Mommy told him.  He didn’t have to go back even when he was big like Daddy, even if he got in lots and lots of trouble.  Elsa didn’t believe him.  She was going back.  Back to Lockitch, to Fasika, to Bantchu Marie, to Ayob, to Melkem, to Bantu, to Askalu…back to all her friends and loving caretakers, back to life as she knew it until we showed up on the scene.  As always, Ashagre was quick to negate her, “Noooooo, No! Mommy told me.  No Ethiopia.  Stay here, no go back.”

Unlike most of their conversations in which Ashagre decides to tell Elsa she has no idea what she’s talking about (even though she’s often right), he didn’t push it.  They agreed to let it go.  He was staying and she was going back – so be it.

As hard as it is not to take it personally, I too choose not to push it.  Processing is just that.  Trying on different scenarios, feelings, ideas.  Mulling them around a bit.  Redefining yourself and the world around you.  It’s not easy.  Sometimes it hurts.  The most important thing I can do is create a safe and supportive place for that processing to occur – to give Ashagre the reassurance he needs that the tumultuous past three years of his life are over and that he is safe to relax and enjoy a new stable normal, and to give Elsa the love, support and understanding she needs to grieve her huge losses, accept our family’s love, and learn to feel comfortable and safe in her new life.

Crazytown

Our Perfect Space has been a little less perfect and a little more crazy that I would have liked it to be these past few weeks.  From swim lessons to doctor's appointments to trips to the beach to play dates to BBQs to school field trips and beyond we've been going, going, going.  It's starting to take its toll on all of us.

Some things I am learning to let go of.  Like the fact that our house was, in no way, cleaned properly for our long awaited out of town guests last night (sorry Marty!).  It just wasn't going to happen and it didn't.  Like the fact that the time between the kids' baths has stretched a bit from the original every other day routine - they get cleaned off in a pool, right?

Some of the things we can't let slide so easily though.  Like the fact that one of our kiddos isn't holding up so well, is showing regressive behaviors that we hadn't seen in a while, is telling us in pretty much any way they can think of (besides a major, hours long meltdown - but I'm sure that's coming) that we need to slow down and work on the basics again.  Sometimes all the fun you can pack into a summer isn't all that fun for everyone after all, especially when they're still working on a huge transition and some pretty big thoughts and feelings about it all.

One more swim lesson tonight and a necessary meet 'n greet playdate with Ashagre's potential new babysitter tomorrow and that's it.  I'm officially not making any plans for a little while.  I'm going to intentionally focus on the little things - smiling often, warm eye contact, lots of hugs and snuggles, a soft and loving voice, praise and appreciation, and as much patience as I can muster.

Keeping a space Perfect isn't always easy.

Sleep

Snuggled in close to Mommy – as close as he can get.

Hot – a miniature furnace (maybe his metabolism is working overtime on the three bowls of lentils he ate for dinner?).

Last minute impressions about the day – Isaac (the new boy at school) finally earned his pencil for not talking during nap time.  He’s proud that he didn’t cry when he got his shots at the doctor (even though Mommy said it was ok if he did).  Mommy should start dinner early tomorrow so we have enough time to brush out his hair before bed.

Finally, a heavy sleeper breathing deeply and steadily as our house settles back into peace. (His sister’s cries in the room next door are quieting and becoming more rhythmic.  She’s close to sleep now too – thanks to Daddy).

Sweaty – did he wet the bed? No, he never wets the bed; its just sweat, lots of sweat.  Good thing summer really hasn’t come to coastal southern California yet.  The poor boy will melt away when the June gloom finally lifts.


Preferring a horizontal position pushing Mommy and Daddy to the fringes of their California King.  Maybe so he can feel both of us while he’s sleeping?  Always touching Mommy.  Later he’ll roll over closer to Daddy when Mommy rises in the dark to get ready for work.

Active dreaming.  

Sitting up in bed and suckling the air like babies do when they’re hungry.

Fighting the sheets that cover him as if they’re trying to grab him.  Later, frantically pulling at them to cover himself back up.

Moaning and whimpering, tossing and turning.  

What does my little boy dream about?  His first mom?  Scary things that happened before he came to live with us that he hasn’t shared yet?  The extremely scary toilet on the airplane from Ethiopia to America (shared just a day or two ago)?  The glowing red eyes under the house that turned out to be a pack of cuddly, playful kittens in the TV episode we let him watch before he went to bed?

It’s always there (especially in the middle of the night).  The question.  Is this adoption stuff or just normal 5 year old stuff?

The Graduate

On Friday Elsa graduated from kindergarten and I experienced my first, “Oh wow! That’s my little girl,” lump in my throat.  

When her teacher asked us if Elsa would be wearing a gown in the kindergarten graduation three weeks ago we really didn’t know how to answer.  At that point she had been in the kindergarten class for about a week.  She wasn’t participating in class or engaging with the other kids.  She seemed to like school, but was having a difficult time navigating the social environment.  When I would pick her up from school I would either find her in the bathroom (a place she visits often when she is uncomfortable) or playing in a corner somewhere by herself.  Brent and I said no.  We didn’t want her to participate in kindergarten graduation because we didn’t think she would understand it anyway – her school year in America had just begun – and, even if she did, we assumed it wouldn’t mean much to her.

A lot can change in three weeks.  After some prodding by us and her teacher, we got Elsa to take the first big leap and join her classmates on the carpet during story time.  Up until that point she had just wandered around the classroom all day as she pleased.  We kept things easy communication-wise and asked her to sit in the red section of the multi-colored carpet during story time.  She complied – so much so that she didn’t know what to do if all the red spots were taken.  A week or so later, her teacher encouraged her to join a group in class (groups travel around to different activities together and work together).  She chose the red group and learned how to at least stay in the same area of the classroom as her group.  She started doing school work – numbers and letters – and drawing pictures for mommy and daddy.  She learned the names of her groupmates and soon after that all of her classmates.  She started sharing snacks at lunch with some of them.  Pictures from friends at school started showing up in her cubby.  She did more and more school work and was excited to tell mommy and daddy about everything she was learning.  She learned all the songs her class was practicing for the graduation ceremony.  One day, her teacher noticed something wasn’t the same during story time.  She looked around for Elsa and found her in the purple section of the carpet.  When asked, Elsa told her teacher she wanted to sit by her friend, Tashi.  Every day last week when I went to pick Elsa up from school I had a hard time finding her because she blended in with the rest the red shirt and khaki pants uniformed kindergarteners playing in a pack on the school yard.

Looking sharp in her school uniform.

In case you couldn't tell by her beauty alone, we added
a headband and a pretty barrette to let the world know
she's all girl.

I called her kindergarten teacher on Tuesday and admitted we had made a terrible mistake and asked if there was any way we could still get Elsa a red cap and gown for the graduation ceremony.  She tried, but it was too late.  

So, we dressed her in one of her prettiest dresses and made a big deal about it to make her feel extra special.  When she showed up at school, she was a little disappointed to see that her classmates all had caps and gowns; however, her new friends all commented on her pretty dress and how they wished they could wear pretty dresses instead of gowns.

During the ceremony, she walked down the rows of her classmates’ on-looking family members hand-in-hand with one of her new friends.  She beamed with pride when her teacher handed her a special recognition certificate and a flower. She sang all of the graduation songs, a song from each of the world’s continents.  When she transitioned from the traditional African song to the American folk song along with her classmates I held back my tears and fought off my constricting throat.

It is so easy in the day to day to forget how much our kids have done in their short lives.  In general, I think that’s a good thing.  I don’t want their adoptions or their pasts to define them or define their lives moving forward, even though I know both will always be a part of who they are.  I do, however, hope they will have pride for all they have done and all they have overcome already at the ages of 5 and 6.  Sometimes the weight of it all hits me like a ton of bricks.  To remember Elsa’s personal story and think about how bleak her future had once looked* and to watch her walk down the isle at her kindergarten graduation was one of those times.

Elsa with her teacher, Ms. Stephanie

*Please don't interpret this statement to mean that I think Ethiopia has nothing to offer its children.  This is simply not true.  I make this statement with a very real understanding of Elsa's unique story.

Grief

During a work-related phone call taken in my office this morning it surfaced - that connection, the absolute understanding that only another adoptive parent can have.  The knowledge of what it feels like to parent kids that have gone through so much in their short lives, kids that grieve real losses, BIG losses, losses that no child should ever have to experience.  The caller asked how things were going.  She choked up (wasn't this phone call supposed to be about the latest water conservation certification program?); I did my best not to.  She knew.  She understood exactly what I was doing and feeling last night.

One of our kiddos seems to be moving into an new phase of their* transition into our family.  They are opening up.  They are allowing feelings to surface that they have been keeping buried for quite some time.  They are feeling sad.  They are needing reassurance.  They are trusting more and snuggling more and asking for more support.  It is scares them and it hurts.  They are re-testing boundaries.  Sometimes, like last night, it leads to really big feelings.  Feelings that don't easily go away - even with hours of cuddles and back rubs and hugs and kisses and soft words and accepting silence from mommy - until sleep finally overtakes them.  Fitful sleep.  Sleep that can only sustain itself in the safety and warmth of mommy and daddy's bed, where they can velcro their small body to either mommy or daddy's side all night long.

Last night was rough.  While its easy to hold and love and support my kids when they're hurting (its truly an honor to have the opportunity), it tears me up to witness such an optimistic, joyful, and brave child feel so big and hurt so much.  It's rough not being able to talk about it because we don't have enough shared language yet to talk about things like feelings that aren't concrete.  It heartbreaking to wake up the next morning and sneak quietly out the door without waking them up to see how they're doing in order to ensure they get as much sleep as they can before another day at school.

In retrospect (there's never enough time in the moment) it's almost just as painful to pick them up at school the next day and be greeted by a huge smile and excitement for the day's accomplishments.  When questioned, their teacher reported that they had a great day.  How can these kids experience and process so much and still wake up the next morning ready to take on the world by its horns?  I am continuously left in heart-wrenching awe.

Family.  It's starting to mean something.

 *Ambiguous pronouns used to protect the privacy of our kids.

Lovin' My Kiddos

On this Mother's Day weekend my heart is bursting with love for Elsa and Ashagre.  As our 3 month family anniversary sits on the horizon, I feel like we've started to really find our groove (I can't wait to see how things feel at 6 months or 1 year).  A & E continue to open up, grow, and share more of themselves with us and it feels SO good.

I am also learning that as an adoptive momma Mother's Day is overshadowed by a bittersweet sense of gratefulness for the kids' first moms.  This weekend I hold these two women close to my heart.  I truly wish that they were standing in my shoes basking in the radiance of two amazing smiles - even if it meant that I couldn't be.

My Heart Hurts

“Ashagre looks like he was born playing baseball.”

One of many comments received on my Facebook page in response to the pictures posted of Ashagre’s first baseball game. There is so much truth in this comment. Flipping through the pictures of Ashagre throwing the ball, batting, and running the bases, one that knows his story, even a piece of it, is blown away by how natural he looks in this truly American setting. There is no inkling of doubt that this little boy hasn’t grown up watching baseball on TV with his dad and throwing the ball around in the yard with the neighborhood kids. Who would guess that he has actually never seen a baseball game before and that he is using his eyes to study and learn the rules of the game as it’s is unfolding in front him because he doesn’t yet fully understand the language of his coach and teammates?

These pictures make my heart hurt when I look at them. It feels like it might burst from too much pride and joy and appreciation for the spirit of a truly brave little boy that got on a plane with two relative strangers that didn’t look like him or speak either one of his two languages only to get off 20+ hours later and, with both feet, jump into the crazy new world he had found himself in. My heart hurts with a ferocious love for a little boy with a nearly ever-present gappy grin that hugs his new mom and dad fiercely every morning when he wakes up and every night before he goes to bed. My heart hurts for a little boy that lost his birth family and his birth country and is losing his native language daily. My heart hurts for a country that lost such a loving and inspiring boy. My heart hurts for a world in which it is possible that I have the opportunity to raise and love Ashagre.

The same commenter posted this comment about pictures posted of his first baseball practice two days earlier, “What an upside down world we live in - it's amazing they can take it all in and smile.” Like the comment above, this couldn’t be closer to the truth (thank you Elizabeth).

Begin It Now

Another adoptive momma I had the pleasure of meeting over the phone today and will get to meet in person in Addis Ababa in about a week sent me the following quote today in response to my post about energy (Not Your Momma's Mini Van):

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans; that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now."   Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

We did it.  We took that first step and began this crazy adoption journey.  I am so excited to begin the next chapter of our family's story. 

Thanks Kim!

The What-Ifs

The past few days I haven't had much time to think about the adoption because things have been so busy at work.  It's probably a good thing because I am finding that the What-Ifs seem to feel like creeping in when I do have time to think about it.  This is one of the tougher things about adoption - the What-Ifs.  There are just SO MANY unknowns that it is way to easy to start playing the What-If game in your head.

In the beginning, many of my thoughts revolved around the adoption process itself:
-What if something changes drastically in the Ethiopian adoption process and we can't complete our adoption?
-What if we aren't able to save the money we plan on saving in time?
-What if I misread the instructions on (pick a form) and our (pick a piece of paperwork) is delayed for months?

Once we got our referral and a few small pieces of information on Elsa and Ashegre the What-Ifs have revolved around the kids.  First, mostly Elsa, in part, due to her life story and, in part, due to the fact that we have so little information on her.  To this day, we still only have 3 pictures of her.  In two of them, she is showing very little emotion so it seemed hard to infer what she might be like.  That huge space of the unknown is the perfect breeding ground for the What-Ifs.

Now the What-Ifs almost completely revolve around Ashegre.  We have over 20 pictures of him, 3 videos, and bits and snipits of information from other adoptive parents that have met him.  In the majority of the pictures he looks quite serious, often worried, and sometimes downright unhappy (but always handsome).  We only have one or two pictures where he has a genuine smile on his face.  Naturally, I worry about him. 

All parents want their kids to be happy.  Brent and I have very realistic expectations that neither of our kids will be all smiles and giggles from day one or at any point in their lives, really.  No one should be expected to be happy all the time.  Furthermore, in their young lives they have experienced more loss than Brent and I ever have combined.  While I try to do it every single day, I cannot put myself in their completely in their shoes and truly understand what that must feel like. 

And so, the What-Ifs creep in.  What-If either of the kids is really unhappy here?  What-If they have attachment issues and a real hard time being part of a family?  What if we can't give them what they need to live out their childhoods in as carefree and happy a manner as possible?...

It's funny, as I type this post I am realizing how much I needed to type it.  The fact is, the What-Ifs are just that.  There's nothing to them, really.  It's worrying about things that might be problems (but might not be issues at all).  It's filling the unknown with worry.

As I type, little examples keep popping up in my head, proving to me that there is nothing substantial to worry about.  An adoptive parent just the other day told me, "my husband and I met Ashegre on our last trip - darling.  So happy and loving."  Another mom told me that he was pretty darn shy the first day they met him (you should see his stone face in the pictures and video from that day), but that he warmed up a lot as they got to know him and that he was such a sweet kid (and a cutie).  The pictures of him from the latter half of their trip are just gorgeous and even feature a couple of half-smiles.

Maybe the point of this post is there is no point.  No point to worrying about things that might not even be problems.  If I can learn this lesson as a result of this adoption I will have grown more than I could have ever imagined - maybe even before the kids come home.

6 days until we land in Ethiopia and start filling the unknown with the very beginnings of KNOWING.

Layers - Part I: Race

While waiting for any piece of information about our adoption whatsoever Brent and I have been doing a good deal of reading lately.  We have been reading some great, really informative stuff.  Books about adoption from the adopted child's perspective.  Practical guides about attachment and what adoptive parents can do to foster it even when their kids have been through serious trauma prior to coming home, and my favorite, adoption blogs.  Blogs written by other adoptive parents that are doing it - raising well adjusted, gorgeous, fun, and loving adopted children and those written by parents that are raising kids that aren't quite there yet (or not even close) but are committed to helping them get there nonetheless.  There is so much to be learned from people that are doing it everyday.

Anyway, all of this reading of various pieces of information has gotten me thinking a lot about all of the layers our adopted kids will be bringing with them as they enter our family.  There's the adoption layer.  No, kids that have been adopted are NOT like every other kid.  Their separation from their birthmom, even if it occurred immediately after birth, is an integral part - many would say challenging part - of who they are for the rest of their lives.  There's the attachment layer.  Most kids that are adopted have some degree of attachment challenges.  They generally don't ever totally go away, and instead ebb and flow with life's different events.  One of our kids will be bringing yet one more layer - one that we probably won't be discussing on this blog yet.  There's the normal kid layer.  You know, the normal trials and tribulations of childhood.  The need to fit in, to belong, to have friends, to meet expectations and figure out who you are.  There's the race layer.  We will be raising black kids in a predominantly White/Hispanic community from the perspective of adults that have experienced white privilege our entire lives.  How do we teach our kids the lessons they need to learn about navigating the inevitable racism they will face in their lives?

The race layer is one that I thought I would highlight tonight.  While reading a new blog that I just found (and absolutely love) of an adoptive family that currently includes twin brothers, age 6, from Haiti (check out the link for Never a Dull Moment on the sidebar of this blog if you want to peek into the life of this wonderful family), I came across this New York Times article copied in its entirety below:

THE NEW YORK TIMES

October 6, 2010

The Seat Not Taken

By JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN

At least twice a week I ride Amtrak’s high-speed Acela train from my home in New York City to my teaching job in Providence, R.I. The route passes through a region of the country populated by, statistics tell us, a significant segment of its most educated, affluent, sophisticated and enlightened citizens.

Over the last four years, excluding summers, I have conducted a casual sociological experiment in which I am both participant and observer. It’s a survey I began not because I had some specific point to prove by gathering data to support it, but because I couldn’t avoid becoming aware of an obvious, disquieting truth.

Almost invariably, after I have hustled aboard early and occupied one half of a vacant double seat in the usually crowded quiet car, the empty place next to me will remain empty for the entire trip.

I’m a man of color, one of the few on the train and often the only one in the quiet car, and I’ve concluded that color explains a lot about my experience. Unless the car is nearly full, color will determine, even if it doesn’t exactly clarify, why 9 times out of 10 people will shun a free seat if it means sitting beside me.

Giving them and myself the benefit of the doubt, I can rule out excessive body odor or bad breath; a hateful, intimidating scowl; hip-hop clothing; or a hideous deformity as possible objections to my person. Considering also the cost of an Acela ticket, the fact that I display no visible indications of religious preference and, finally, the numerous external signs of middle-class membership I share with the majority of the passengers, color appears to be a sufficient reason for the behavior I have recorded.

Of course, I’m not registering a complaint about the privilege, conferred upon me by color, to enjoy the luxury of an extra seat to myself. I relish the opportunity to spread out, savor the privacy and quiet and work or gaze at the scenic New England woods and coast. It’s a particularly appealing perk if I compare the train to air travel or any other mode of transportation, besides walking or bicycling, for negotiating the mercilessly congested Northeast Corridor. Still, in the year 2010, with an African-descended, brown president in the White House and a nation confidently asserting its passage into a postracial era, it strikes me as odd to ride beside a vacant seat, just about every time I embark on a three-hour journey each way, from home to work and back.

I admit I look forward to the moment when other passengers, searching for a good seat, or any seat at all on the busiest days, stop anxiously prowling the quiet-car aisle, the moment when they have all settled elsewhere, including the ones who willfully blinded themselves to the open seat beside me or were unconvinced of its availability when they passed by. I savor that precise moment when the train sighs and begins to glide away from Penn or Providence Station, and I’m able to say to myself, with relative assurance, that the vacant place beside me is free, free at last, or at least free until the next station. I can relax, prop open my briefcase or rest papers, snacks or my arm in the unoccupied seat.

But the very pleasing moment of anticipation casts a shadow, because I can’t accept the bounty of an extra seat without remembering why it’s empty, without wondering if its emptiness isn’t something quite sad. And quite dangerous, also, if left unexamined. Posters in the train, the station, the subway warn: if you see something, say something.

John Edgar Wideman is a professor of Africana studies and literary arts at Brown and the author, most recently, of “Briefs.”

Brent and I often discuss how we'll deal with blatant racism directed toward our kids.  That is a tough enough thing to prepare for.  But what about this kind of racism?  The covert kind.  The kind its easy to ignore, especially when you have had the privilege to ignore it your whole life, until you realize how widespread it is.  The kind that subconsciously or not so subconsciously can shape someone's entire experience of this world - our world - our kids world.  How do we help them navigate that?

Adoption is Complicated

I have so many thoughts running around in my head after reading this post that I really can't even begin to write about it.  It is written by Melissa.  She was adopted from Korea as a baby and raised by a loving family.  As an adult she chose to search for her biological parents in Korea.  Not only did she find them, but she also learned that she really hadn't ever been abandoned - it was more complicated than that.  She is a great writer and a great thinker on all things adoption and I have already learned so much from reading her blog.  She offers a great, if not difficult to read sometimes as an adoptive parent, from the perspective of an adult adoptee.

The post I linked to above caused quite a discussion online (read the comments below the post) - so much so that she wrote another post to address some of the issues raised.  Check that post out too.

These are some of the things that keep me up at night, and will likely keep me up nights for many years to come.  Adoption is complicated, and its our job (Brent and me) to do the best we can to understand it from as many angles as possible so that we can help Elsa and Asegre be at peace with the fact that we live in a far from perfect world with far from perfect options for many of children and families.