Measuring. Or, how to make yourself crazy in older child adoption...

Measuring.
We do it all the time.
I could go on a tear about how we as Americans do it, with everything, but that might be a whole 'nother post....and the point is that we do it consciously or unconsciously...ALL THE TIME.

But let's stay focused: as parents we measure...what? Everything, right? Right!
And no matter  how you became a parent, you still measure everything..right?
Hmmm.  Think maybe not? Well, consider:

My Chris, this pic makes me laugh...goofy baby pics, gotta love em.

If you are having a baby, by which I mean, you are pregnant and are gonna literally give birth to a child...from the very moment you find out you are pregnant, there you are: measuring.
You measure how many weeks along you are, you count the days since your last period, you count how many months ahead til your due date.  Then you go to the doctor and they too immediately start measuring: they measure your belly for the first time (and they will keep that up until it just alarms you) they measure your weight (again, this continues to a shocking gain - unless you tell them to 'quit that' as I did when I just couldn't take the numbers on that scale anymore).  They measure and they measure.  Thus, it's no surprise that you are unwittingly indoctrinated into this habit of measuring and by the time that baby pops out - or, if you're measuring, is pushed out after 21 hours of labor that felt like 45, taking what must be 3 years off  your life with the effort - you are measuring without even realizing you're doing it.  And of course, they whisk the baby away and do all sort of measuring with fancy names like APGAR and fill in fancy charts and graphs with the incessant measuring.

It doesn't end there, once you are home you measure the amount the baby sleeps or doesn't, how much they eat or don't, or if you're nursing, how often and how long, you measure their hair with your fingertips and count their toes again and again just to be sure they are all there and as cute as you remembered 5 minutes ago.  Then you start the next phase of measuring which is only slightly less number based: the developmental milestones.  As you can see, it just goes on and on and on, in one form or another...the rest of their measured little lives!

Now it's easy to think, "Aha, but I'm adopting, that doesn't even apply to me." 
Well, hang on Roy Rogers...sure it does.
Because if you're adopting an infant, well you get ALL the infant measuring from the moment of birth onward and then some.  Yeah, you're gonna get those APGARS and count those toes, don't think you'll skip that part.

Sweet Sarah

But you get the added perk, to make up for the personal belly measuring, of measuring Your. Entire. Life. in order to see if it measures up to the standards of your social worker, the agency, the judges, the police FBI feds government, even if it measures up to Homeland Security if you're adopting internationally.  Nope, you don't get a "pass" on measuring in the adoption lanes.
So yeah, you'll be measuring your weight after all, and your spouse's, your other kids, even your dog's weight (Think I'm kidding about the dog? Check out our dossier, I kid you not).  You'll measure your finances and traffic fines, your health and your fitness to parent, and on and on. Let's not even get started on measuring and counting the wait!
Finally, when that happy day comes and  you are holding that little one in your arms, well, you will sob with amazement and then you'll go right back to the measuring game like the rest of the parents.

But this post isn't about that, not really.....
This post is about the measuring done in a whole 'nother zone: the zone of Older Child Adoption.
In that world, that lane of family building, the measuring takes on all new meaning and form.

And, it's not good.

The measuring that is done in Older Child Adoption is not nearly so factual or innocuous.
This measuring is more insidious and unconscious and, frankly, is a big huge bear trap.

Because what they don't tell you in the adoption books is that we moms, we measure us. 
We measure ourselves against the first mom, against our ideas of what a perfect mom is supposed to be do or how they should appear (...again, like in the fashion ads, it's always the Benetton mom..but I don't have a stylist following me around every day..I know you thought I did, lots of folks make that mistake...but I don't). 
But even all that, that's not the worst of it.
The measuring that is killing us, we moms who have adopted older children, and/or children from the hard places, is the measuring of our feelings.
Our FEEEEEELINGS.
Hear that screeching just saying it? Yeah, my voice goes up an octave or two, on the hard days, when I even say that word out loud.
But taking our emotional temperature, checking in with our feelings (love, like, affection, annoyance, disdain, dislike) most of the time, is a trap.
I'm not saying never do it.
But I'm saying  you need to do it far, far, far less often that you think.

In fact, I would like to point out that I believe we moms, in this circumstance of Older Child Adoption, tend to take our emotional temperature...constantly.  I think we, without even realizing it, are always having it on our radar scroll, just like our own personal emotional CNN.  It's our ENN (Emotional News Network).

But this is one of the huge differences in older versus younger or infant adoption.
These feelings take longer, there is more to build to learn to absorb to work through...for all parties.
In older child adoption the primal human process of bonding is skewed and twisted all around.  The trauma that is inherent in older child adoption (and it is, always, to varying degrees) and/or the prior family experience all influence the new bonding, and it's efforts; what it looks like, how it plays, how it stalls, what form it eventually takes.
For all involved, all of it, every bit of it, takes time.  Unknowable, unmapped time.
These older children come to us as whole persons; with personalities and traits and hearts already formed and molded to a very very large degree. 
And so, if any or all of you are taking that emotional temperature, if you're measuring constantly or even daily (much less hourly or minutely)...you will lose your mind.   You're setting the stage for crazy.

So stop it.
Yup. Stop it.
Stop the measuring!
I might tattoo that, too, on my forehead so I can look at it every time I brush my teeth.
Stop the measuring!
Measuring implies a mark that must be reached.
There is no mark.
A dear friend told me, at the very start of this last adoption, "Don't take your emotional temperature every day.  Just don't."
She's right.
Another dear friend told me recently, "Stop being so hard on yourself and measuring to what you think it's supposed to be.  What if this, right now, is ALL it's supposed to be? This.  This IS good enough."

And I guess that's what I am still chewing on, hence this looong rambly post.
But I think we mom's, me, need permission to accept that we don't have to measure every moment, every day, every thing.  We can stop the ENN scroll bar.  We don't have to even know our emotional temperature.  We don't have to feel our emotional temperature.  Once more: Love is not about the feelings.
So, let's stop scanning our feeeeelinnngs.
And let's kick that bit of crazy right out of our days.
With older child adoption, we are here. We are in place.  We are doing it, all of it.

And that's good enough.
By any measure.

Grief Box

 So, yesterday was another day of undefinable mood for our Marti.
And yes, many days with any teen girl are days of undefinable moody mood....but this one had a different tone.  Some of the clues, right away, that we were gonna have "one of those days" were that she got dressed in a gray sweater dress, despite temps starting in the 70's and said to rise into high 80's.  I told her that it was warm and gonna be hot, but there was no changing.  So, sweater dress it was.  Saturday also was a foreshadowing of the day; with double naps.  Naps are one of the ways that she copes and pulls in when she is blue (Not a terrible coping mechanism; quiet but oddly disconcerting).  Another, now classic, sign was that her hair was slicked back tight against her head; a sure sign of some dis-regulation and blue or black mood descending or already in. 

Seeing these signs, right at the start of the day were clues.  Tom and I went kind of automatically into mood-day mode and knew to let much slide, not make too many demands, make sure food was set out and available as soon as we got home from Mass and tried to keep to as standard a Sunday routine as possible.  Now, the day could'a gone way way south, and might have in months past.  This one was just very very quiet; with an obviously blue Marta.   She was aloof and yet shadowing us around too; which is this whole contradictory head-spinning quiet hard behavior; so I figured it was better to address it all head on instead of pretending that it was just a regular Sunday.

One of the tools that a dear friend has suggested to me is a "Grief Box." She came across this in one of her Hague training videos and mentioned it to me, weeks ago.  I finally went and watched the whole grief training video last week.  It is a good video, worth watching, especially if you are new to the older child adoption world or the world of grief in our children.    So, seeing as it was a Sunday afternoon, with time a plenty, I thought of the grief box.   

Now, I know, a lot of these sort of suggestions need to be done with a proper licensed therapist.  Well, we don't have one for Marta at this point; it's complicated tremendously by her lack of language and cognition.  So, with that, it was just us and we were winging it as usual (hopefully not to anyone's detriment - but really ya never really know in all this, flying blind and all). 

Anyhow, I sat and talked with Marta about her feeling sad.  I asked her if many days she feels sad and she agreed.  I asked her if she was "afraid she would forget the sad things?"  She agreed again.   I talked with her that sometimes when we have many things that are sad and hard it can feel like we have to hold on tight to them all, every day.  I acted it out, she nodded.  I said, "Would you like to make a box, a safe box to keep, that we could write down all the sad/hard things and put them in your box?  So you can keep them safe; not forget.  And if you wake up feeling sad, you can open the box and think about them, or show me? "  She said yes.

So we picked out a shoe box.  I pulled out a small pile of construction paper and helped her cover the box in the colors she picked out.  She wrote "Marta's Sad Box" on the top.  Then we sat and  made a list of the sad things she  holds onto, her losses (the one's she willing to try with this).  We talked about each one of them.  She talked, I listened.  Her list was what you'd expect from a child who lost her culture and family: parents, home, country.  One of her items surprised and yet, didn't at all: English.  Yes, english is one of her "sad's." Because it's hard.  And she can't speak it yet, not really.  And it's very hard to learn under the best of circumstances.  And she has that deck stacked against her.  But if it's a grief thing, it can go in the box.  It's her box, her pick.  I wrote each thing simply on a slip of paper, and she drew a picture of it on the back of the slip.  Then she put it in the box.  Then we closed the box up, lid on.  Then I told  her she can keep it in her room and we can talk about it or about anything at all, ever.  Hard, sad, angry, bad things, good things, old, new. 

She went to her room for a short bit, again.  I went in, after a little bit, and told her again, that she can talk to us, me, dad, about anything, any time.  That I was different than her first mom.  But that I loved her and have big ears to hear and will be here.  She hugged tight and smiled.  And last night, well, it was still a smiley good day sticker, not a "hard day" claimed.  Though I pointed out to her that in truth it was hard, and that was ok.  She shook her head and hugged us tight.

So, I'm wondering, have any of you, with kids from hard places or hard starts, have you used a "Grief Box" and has it helped you? If so, please leave a comment, tell me how it worked for you.  If not, have you used something else? Some of these "hards" are so very hard.  Especially without the language to process it all, how to you help your child to acknowledge it, process it, and move beyond it into a healthier place? I'd love to hear your ideas.

When rain is just wet

This travel blog photo's source is TravelPod page: Gob smacked in Lalibella

 I have written before about "marking the good," especially when you are parenting a kid from hard places and with attachment issues; heck anytime, really.  If you are parenting teens or tweens or many or special ones, ya better try to remember to mark the good.

One of my heroes and blog friend Lisa has recently had a few posts about what has worked and the positive changes.  Go there and be encouraged!  It got me thinking, and reminded me to look again (Yes, we moms have to remind ourselves to do that some days.  Ok, me.) for those positive changes instead of merely looking at the crowded to-do list.   Therefore, as spring is upon us (hooray!), I want to mark a good that is ever so timely:

Rain.

Yup, it's raining again.  Not snow, anymore, thank goodness.  Spring is upon us. Which means we have entered the rainy season; which in my neck of the woods means downpours and crashing storms, tornadoes, hail, straight line winds, and just a whole lotta water.
It's been awhile since we've had a bunch of rain, and I kinda....forgot.
I forgot about how Marta reacts to rain.
I think I mighta just boxed the whole thing up and set it away in denial.
Because for this particular girl, rain is a big trigger.
It is a trigger to a whole trauma cascade reaction.

Rain in Addis. Rachel Landman, Under African Skies blog

Last rainy season, Marti had only been home a little over six months, ok, eight to be precise (yes, I was counting....).  We had experienced a few rainstorms the first few months she was home, and they always put her into a sad mood and she became very out of sorts and anxious, often angry.
But last spring, as we entered the rainy season, we hit a whole new level.  Marta has loss from cars in the rain, her father.  This is a loss, huge of course, that perhaps wasn't fully grieved, I don't know.  But the onset of rain here made it all come gushing forth in it's own short-looped torrent.
Every time it rained last spring, without fail, it also rained a talking loop that continued for the duration of the storm.  This was a very hard downward spiral for her, and all we/I could do was listen.  Again. And again.  And say small comforting words or sounds, be there, and listen some more.  The need seems to be to say it, out loud, to be heard. I don't know how many times, or how many times were or are needed.  But, the need was relentless and unleashed with the rain. Much the same way as the rain fell, so did this torrent of words and sad. 
We had rainstorms and sad storms.

And now it is raining again.
But, and this is huge: it seems her clouds are clearing.
She has spoken of "Ethiopia, rain, very bad, hard, car die."
But, she also has spoken, more, of "Rain nice. No snow. Flowers good. School ok."

It seems her sad storms are healing a bit.
Because, so far, this spring, rain is just wet.
Rain is not a trigger to spiral cascade of unbearable grief.
The memories surely arise, how can they not?
But I rejoice to see this and pause to give her a big grin and hug.
Because this year, now, she can laugh that her puppy HATES to go out in the rain and shivers and shakes and balks.  She scolds her pup and rubs her off with a towel, laughing.
We can talk about hair and rain and oh my goodness crazy mess.
She mentioned cars and the rain, once so far.  But then moved on after a hug.
Because now, maybe my girl can see too, progress.
Rain doesn't have to be scary or freezing sadness. 
Maybe it is now ok for her to feel it: rain is just wet.

So I'm finding the galoshes, and marking the good.

Annnnd, Action!

Sounds like I've moved back to LA and am joining the throngs of movie director wannabe's, right?
Not so much. 

 {I fear if I did it would end up like a bizarro Luis Bunuel movie....}

This is a short bit on learning and living with kids; those from hard places and working on learning to live comfortably with new families in new places, but even those kids who are just in the normal hard places of teenager-hood or middle school... heck, really this works for any kid.

But this post isn't really about the kids at all.
It's about the mom, the me.
It's a long steep learning curve and a slippery one at that, for me.  I've been doing this parenting thing for over twenty-one years now...you might well presume I've got it down, pat.
Not so much.

Because I have some very bad habits and personality quirks, the kind that keep knocking  me back when I'm trying my darnedest to move forward.
This is one of the biggies.
I am a "reactor."
I am what we call around here a "high responder."
Yuh.  Me.
I bet you're surprised.
Ok, not so much, I know. 

This tendency of mine can be a very good thing when it's all about the high high's, the high fives, and the parties and the cheering successes.  It can be a very good thing when it's passion and caring and persevering with intensity, like when you are going to bat for your kid.
But it's not so good when you are responding, or reacting, to the other high responders in the house.
Because that is when you need to play against type, and you need to pull back and chill down, slow down.  And then, in that pause that you've just given yourself before you react without thinking, in response to whatever blowing....you get, you need, to act.

Action.
Deliberate, intentional action, is a much better choice, always, than reaction when you are talking about kids who have high responder natures, or buttons.
To act, instead of react, is key.
And if you're like me, you might, just maybe, tend to react in anticipation of the event.
Which of course makes it all doubly difficult.

I am trying, mindfully, {no, really honey, I am} to try to not anticipate, to only act after the fact, and then only to what is actually happening (rather than react to my expansive imagination on the multitude of possibles). 
Sounds really good, doesn't it?
Not so easy though, all this deliberateness.
It's the anticipation of the blow and the immediate visceral reaction that is the hardest to stem, actually.  When I know something is gonna trigger a blowout or a domino reaction snit and attitude, my stomach immediately knots up and my breathing changes.  It's my own trigger.  But I am working on slowing, stopping, and setting the anticipation aside.  Because it's unfair, it's a disservice to whichever child is in mind.  And I am forcing myself to wait, trying trying.  (Another weak skill.) To just wait to see if the anticipated fallout um, falls out...and only then, ONLY then, start dealing with it.  And then, deal with it in an intentional way, not an expanded way, but an intentional action of empathy and logical consequences.

Again, sounds really great, lofty even, huh?
Not so much.
It's a total work in progress.
But progess it is.
And progress I'm seeing, baby baby steps.
Because ya know what? Sometimes, my expectations are left wanting.  That fallout...it doesn't happen, or it is smaller than I imagined.  Not always, but maybe it's getting more of a chance to be so.  Because I'm not escalating it myself in advance.  Ouch. But, I'll take that hit, the ouch, mea culpa....if it means that we can have less drama overall.  Even mine, maybe.

Action.
Not reaction. Not anticipatory reaction.  Just action.  Deliberate.  On time.
What a concept. Awfully challenging.  But, what a concept.

Turn-key: Schedules (holiday edition)

I’ve written before a few times about the process of adjusting in adoption, especially with older child adoption.  I’ve talked about the idea of the turn key: one key that can turn the lock and you step right into a functioning enterprise (business, relationship, whatever).  As I stated before, adoption is NOTHING like that.  Ever. 

Yet, we, or I, fantasize about it all the time.

I wish I had a turn-key to adoption adjustment, really, really I do.

But I’m starting to get used to the idea that, I don’t, no one does.

As you embark on the process of an adoption, any adoption at all, those fantasies are rampant. 

Sure they get a little dull and bogged down by the cumbersome invasive excruciatingly slow process of adoption:  homestudies, background checks, financial and medical letters, references, duplicated certified stamped filed and stamped some more.

But even so, once you are through all that and you actually have the new family member, the child, home in the house…that’s when it all just gels, right? You’ve turned the key and stepped across the threshold to a brand new life!

Well, sort of anyhow.

This process of adjusting once you have a new child is what has me still and continually obsessing thoughtfully pondering about what makes it work and what doesn’t.

But this post, this series of posts, is about what has worked – for us.  I couldn’t begin to expand it further than our own wacky family; that would be wrong.  Because this is all only my own two pence.  But if I find something that consistently makes a difference, I want to throw it out there in case it might help smooth any path for anyone else.  Those stubbed toes on this sometimes-rocky path of adoption adjustment – they hurt!

So, with that long prelude, we come to this post. 

This post is about an important key to the adjustment in our house: schedules. 

Especially during the holiday season, schedules are critical.

They are a turn-key to unlocking a feeling of control and safety during a very uncertain time in a new family member’s life. 

They are, and I can’t say this quite strongly enough, a safety net. 

We have a big calendar on our fridge; one of the ones with large empty squares, plenty of room to write appointments, games, events.  Yes, it gets cluttered, especially as the month goes on.  Big family... Many in the house largely ignore it.  It is vital to me, to juggle everything.  The only person who looks at it as closely as me (actually, she examines it daily) is Marta.  It is a critical tool for her to keep her clued in to the daily routines.  Those predictable events are a safety net for her.  They provide a feeling of control and safety in a world that is not fully understood yet – not culturally, not with language, not with nuance or tradition.  

But this week, even that big monthly calendar isn’t cutting it.  This weekend was rocky; nervous anticipation of the holiday this week brought up bad behaviors and acting out.  Finally Sunday afternoon we were able to have a conversation about the nervousness of this week ahead: house-guests, shifting schedules, no school.  

 I decided to make Marta her own daily schedule, and asked her to help me.  We sat down with scratch paper (this doesn't have to be a fancy thing) and we blocked out each day, so she could see what would happen.  This helps her to anticipate the things that are the same, and to prepare for the shifts and things that are different.  It provides something for her to hold onto, again, it is a safety net.  

Imagine, if you will, how it might be if you didn't really know how things were going to work the next week, just that it would be quite different from the routine you've begun to know and understand....how would that make you feel? Now add on a lack of familiarity with the culture or the holiday traditions and the lack of language to learn it by talking about it.  Now add on a background of trauma and hurt,which brings up reactions that surprise everyone, even yourself,  and see if you don't get a bit stressed out.  I know I would.  I am stressed out a bit in anticipation of it and I am the Mom of the house!  

 So, we made the daily schedules.  One for each day this week.  We taped them up the the wall in the center hub of the house, the kitchen.  

She knows roughly (Not minute to minute, that would be TOO tight of a schedule and then  you would have fallout from that schedule not being met...this is a blocked out schedule) what is happening when this whole week.  She has already referred to it many times.

And I am hoping.
I am hoping this will help my daughter cope.

I am hoping this will help  my daughter move out of stress response into a softer place.

I am hoping this will help my daughter relax just enough to really be able to BE with the family and enjoy a bit more of this holiday.

I'm not expecting miracles.

But I'm hoping for another little babystep forward.

I'm hoping to turn the key and open the door to family and home, a new family and new home, just a little wider.  

So this is our turn-key of this week: schedules.  

Use this tool, this key, to help a hypervigilant child be able to see what is ahead and anticipate it.  Because that is empowering, that knowledge means safety.

And giving any child a sense of safety is one of the best keys in your pocket.  

Dancing with the Holidays: Attachment version

Matisse. I love his painting.

We are one week away from Thanksgiving, and the advent of um, Advent, and Christmas, and New Year’s; the whole Holiday Season.

We are looking down the barrel of fun of parties and guests and rich food and too much sugar and long talks and late nights and shiny presents and long Mass and extra cooking and cleaning and shopping and on and on.

That’s fun, right?

Well…yes, for the most part.

But even for many of us, it is so easy to get overwhelmed by it all.

How many calls, books, blogs, articles do we see read hear to SIMPLIFY the season?

I’m all for it, really I am.

Because if I can get overwhelmed, and I am a high energy multitasking mom who’s second nature is to live life on overdrive, keep it full to the brim, do something for pity’s sake….then how much easier is it for a kid? How easy is it for a kid from another world to get overwhelmed…especially if she or he is from some hard background or past events, and is still trying to assimilate into a large noisy culture, country, family?

Well, it’s not only easy; it’s part of what you, by which I mean, I, should be anticipating.

It’s practically part of the season; it’s the Holiday Dance.

Edvard Munch

And I don’t mean that in a snarky or mean way, I mean it in the “accept it because it’s gonna happen so prep for it and not let it trip you up" kind of way. Because I think if we, ok I, actually anticipate it, then I can approach those feelings in a much more productive, dare I say, “therapeutic” way?

I know from last year and from living with my newest daughter for sixteen months that any change in the daily routine, no matter how small, throws her. Those routines, no matter how mundane, are her safety net. Her developmental delays aggravate that fact; however they are not the sole source of her seasonal distress. It is the adjustment, the attachment, and the fact that all that takes a really long time. It takes years and years. We are really just baby steps into it all, just learning how to anticipate each other's steps and turns. Seems like we should be well fitted partners by now. But we are not. Even though it feels often like it should be all figured out and settled by now. But it’s not. It won’t be. It can’t be.

The holiday season takes the dance that we do - and are learning together - every day, and it spins it around in a disco ball kind of frenzy. It makes us all dizzy and while that can be fun and exciting for some of my kids and some days, mostly it makes my daughter either spin out of sorts or out of control or simply shut down from the too much of it all.

So our very careful crafting of the holiday season needs to figure out how to bring in those well loved traditions of the season and the faith and our family, to teach those steps to our new daughter, simply. Sometimes she just doesn’t wanna dance.
She doesn’t wanna see the new steps or shining lights.
She is still in process of grieving the old dances, or still too fearful to let go of her sense of self control and trust us enough to reach out and help us lead her into the new holiday dance and traditions and family ways.

So, I guess that’s where I want to start; with talking about standing on the edge of the dance floor, trying to coax my daughter (who doesn’t really like to dance, yet) out onto the floor. She can hold onto my hand, and her dad’s. We will try hard to anticipate the steps to this dance. We will simplify them.

Matisse, again. "The Dance." A favorite.

We will, I will, try to remember to brace and embrace her through the dance of this holiday season so that we can all come to enjoy the season and it’s richness in full. And maybe one of these years, when we are looking down the barrel of the holiday seasonal hoopla, we can all anticipate it with glee and deep smiles instead of fear and fretting.

Maybe I will be able to as well, if I can remember that I'm dancing not just with the holidays but with my daughter. And a one, and a two.....

My Precious

So, you might have been expecting a post about my truest 'mostest' precious: my kiddles.
Well, ya, should be maybe, but not today.
Because this post is about another underlying obsession, one that turns me into my own Gollum.
Yeah, that Tolkien, he knew what he was talking about...
See that picture up there? That's me, perhaps in a truer image, nice to meet you. 

Because "my precious" is my "Control."  Or, to be more accurate, my desire for control.  In fact my pursuit of my precious and my need to hang onto it makes me bug eyed and screeching all too often.  It makes me angry and resentful, often times of things that haven't even happened yet.  It makes me snarl in even mere anticipation of somebody or something snatching that control, my precious, away from me.

Even if that thief is a small kiddo with big brown eyes and sticky hands.
Even if that thief is a cute guy with a beard who is a good kisser.
Even if that thief is a hurt kid with a megawatt smile but from hard places.
Perhaps more so, then, because with that one, my precious was wrenched from me long ago....I just didn't really know or admit it yet.

Sigh.
Sometimes, I think it's true what Gollum said, "Once it takes hold of us, it never lets go."
And then I am left to weep and wonder how to proceed, to move on and I know that there is no other way than through that stomach hurting dark and the fear that comes with losing that precious, that control.
I have to let go.

But my Gollum just can't seem to.
And I snarl and I snap at anyone, sorry Tom, who suggests the same.
No, it's not pretty.

But the crazy thing is, as all you other moms know, especially those who are parenting hurt kids, you lost that "precious" when you first stepped out to try to parent.
Really.
I lost that tarnished ring so long ago I must be crafting my own lame paper mache ring of precious, every day.  So, why do I hold on?
Fear.
It always comes back to fear:
...fear of being taken places we don't want to go.
...tired fear of being taken places we don't want to go.

Therein lies the trap of course.
Because when we snarl and grasp and gasp so tightly, trying to hold onto our paper mache 'precious"... ok, when I gasp and grasp so tightly, trying to avoid being taken back or through another hard place....well, I'm already there.  Too late.

So, this one's for you honey....I'm gonna try and pitch my my paper mache dented soggy smudgy ripped useless "precious."
And let go.
Again.
But with hope for being able to keep my hands open so that instead of holding onto the poison ring, I can hold, instead, onto the small hand that slips quietly into mine.  

Sonar: Older Child Adoption Adjustment

I've been thinking a lot about Sonar.  Radar systems.  About technology that can scan the skies or the voids and have different weather patterns or objects be visible, from eddys in water flows to wind patterns....storm systems to cold fronts, big fish to submerged danger.

How do you make what can't be seen to the naked eye, be seen?

Well, that's where these systems come in, and really, they are cool.

I want one.  

But I want the interpersonal mood system format.

Because with four, count em, four girls in the house, I need an ongoing alert system to the changing mood patterns and storm systems in our changeable girly mood house.  

But, hang on, actually, I have one. 

No, not mine...though I do have a pretty good radar system for all that.  And perhaps, as it's been pointed out to me (ahem) I lean on that too much, and overstep.  Sigh.

But what I have come to realize is that we have, in our newest daughter, a very finely tuned system of mood alert. 

I was thinking it's really a radar system, akin to mine.  

But it's not, it's different. 

In fact, I've decided it's a SONAR system.

It is not for the above the surface interactions or flaunted attitude or mood; not for the  nuances of interaction and reaction. That would be radar.  

Her scanning is remarkable for the subsurface sweeps of the moods that are, or are trying to be, submerged.  It's definitely a SONAR system.  

Yup, we have a high grade finely tuned, walking sonar in our house.  

It's called "Marta."

She has a constantly alert scanning sweeping sonar beam for any little shift or frisson of mood.  

It's remarkable.

And, often it's pain in the backside.  

Because it's sweeping scans are trained tightly on her new mom and dad, the other kids will get caught in the sweep sometimes, but really only on the periphery.  The tight lock-on...that's for mom and dad.  

So, if I am in a funk.......lock on.

A snit....lock on, beep beep beep!

Heaven forbid, her dad and I have had any disagreement, big or small.....clanging alarms go off for this girl and she breaks down. 

Because her sonar is equipped with the bells and alerts and reactive torpedos.

Unfortunately, it is not equipped with a sorting device to decide which of those mood alarms are "threats" and/or which are "friendlies."  

Meaning, if I am crying happy tears over a sweet song one of my big boys wrote and played for me, or if I am cranky from a sleepless night or actually stewing over an argument...there is no differentiating.  It sends her into a mirroring funk and/or tears; hers not so simple to stem.  

On the other hand, her sonar translates to the skill of empathy.  

This sonar, this remarkable pain in the neck silent constant sweep of alert, translates into both a protective mechanism/survival skill for her but also into an inate ability that surely can be trained into a skill to grow on.  To grow with and into.  

It is challenging to translate and explain it all to her, those nuances that are usually embedded in the moods she locks onto. 
Much of the time, it is impossible.  
Thus, it challenges us, her mom and dad.  
It challenges us to be stronger steadier; to not fall into the ease of a sucking gripping mood.  It challenges us, no, ME, to get a grip and detach from what's useless and focus on what's important.  Which usually means to let go of my own selfish hurts (which is why I'm still failing at this and being challenged by it) and to keep my eyes on the bigger picture....even as I have to look at the very small 4'11" picture of a real life girl just trying to surf those subsurface tides.  


Tom has a GPS/sonar on his boat.  It shows him all the submerged hazards and the deep channels and the shallow shoals.  
He uses it to safely navigate the waters of a murky lake.  
Our Marti, she has this same GPS sonar built into her small self.  It has surely helped her navigate the murky waters of this new family and new phase in her life.   The trick for us all is and will be to learn how to use this sonar together, to help each other understand the pings that alert each other to the shoals and shallows and deep waters.  


Ping!

Meeting: Adoption adjustment

There is a scene in a movie that I can't get out of my head.
The movie is "What dreams May Come."
Many absolutely despise this movie, and as a Catholic there is clearly questionable theology throughout....but even so, I liked the movie. It was a visual feast, from the oil paintings of the wife to the Bosch-like horrific visions of hell. But those things aren't what keeps sticking in my head lately.

It's the hell scene.
Now, disregard the dicey theology here. Go the essence of it: the meetup.

Robin Williams goes to hell to find his wife.
He GOES to hell and when she is incapable of seeing him, mired in her own pain and unable look up and out of herself (which IS hell)...then he sits there.
He sits with her.
He can't talk with her, really, she can't hear him.
He can't just bodily lift her up and move her out of this place.
He meets her where she is.
Read that again:
He meets her where she is.

And it's the meeting her where she is that gives her the rung to hold onto, him, and to look up, to blink to awareness of what's real, for just a moment.

Now, hang with me here.
(And again, I realize that many think this is the worst movie of all time. I get it, be that as it may, this scene has been rattling in my brain - thus blog post).
You moms and folks who are trying to live with a kid from hard places...
You moms and families who are working through an older child adoption, especially teenage...
You moms who have kids who have trauma backgrounds and/or various special needs....
Think about that.
Because we all know that "meeting up" is one of the only ways to help.
We have to meet them where they are...at that moment.
Often, more than often, it's a mini slice o' hell.

And we have to go there too.
Because they can't get out of there on their own.
Kids who have attachment issues, trauma triggers, who can't regulate their triggered emotions and reactions...they can't just get out of that personal hell.
We have to go to them.
Which means, we have to go to them, and often go through hell to do it, and yup, sit there a spell with them.
Because they are just kids, or teens even, but kids.

And that can sound so very lofty.
We think, at the start, and say with a trill, "Yes, darling, I will go to hell and back for you!"
But, um, ya know...going to hell and back?
Well it is, um, HELL.
It's exhausting and makes you (ok, me) want to cry and say "Forget it, I'm done."
I have family and friends sometimes say "Can't you just tell 'em to toughen up? I mean, cmon!!"
Now as a mom of eight, my standard M.O. is not too much coddling-- if kids are crying and such and I know that bone is not poking through skin and a hospital rush isn't imminent, I say "You're fine, you'll be ok."
Thus, my other kids, pals, and family might well expect me to fall into that mode.
However, this is different, exhaustingly so.......I sigh and say, "Well, I wish I could. But nope. Can't."
Because even though sometimes I try to selfishly avoid and tiptoe around whatever acting out or somatic fallout or whatever is playing out.....if it's a trigger response (and not just moody teen)...then you can't ignore it, you can't go around it, or over it, (isn't there a kiddy song like that??) you have to go through it.
You have go to it, meet it, and go through it...with them.
Again, sounds all noble, right?
Um, not.
It's usually messy and causes fallout with the other kids and even between the parental unit types, even for yourself.
Because it's hell.
But unless you go sit there and BE with them, somehow, it's not gonna get better.
It might get worse.

So. Ya gotta go.
Meet them.
Wherever they are.

Maybe then, they will blink a bit and be able look up and to breathe a bit.
And then maybe you can both step out of hell, back into the "heaven in our hands"..... back into family.

Little Big Love...

It's the feast of the Little Flower: St. Therese of Liseaux!

Which means it's also my Marti's feast day: Marta Therese (get the connection?).

St Therese is one of the fav's at our house, you all know that.  I've written about her many times, and posted multiple novenas to her here on blog.  But whether you want to talk about her being a Doctor of the Church; known for her solid writing/teaching and doctrinal insight, or whether you want to talk about her humble "Little Way"......St Therese is about Love. 

And wadda ya know...so is our Faith. So is God.  So, should be, myself. 

And I kinda always thought we added "Therese" to our Marta's name because we prayed novena's to this saint on Marta's behalf.  We hit St. Therese up for many prayers to bring our girl home and get her healthy.  St. Therese had TB too.  St. Therese wasn't highly regarded among the other nuns in her convent.  She was thought to be slow or dim, she was often overlooked, she was young, she was small.  She was one of God's "little ones." 
And so is our Marta, to be sure...one of God's "little ones."
If I know anything, I know that.
 
But really....
I am learning, every single blooming day, that I think we were compelled to add "Therese" to Marta's name also because this saint teaches us how to love. 
In the little things. 
Which of course, means that they are the very biggest things. 
Because this saint struggled all her life to die to her self and her pride and her desires so she could love Jesus better. 

And she ultimately was given the grace of real understanding of the biggest simplest secret: that the Love was waiting for her.  She didn't have to scale great heights, or go on far missions, or accomplish amazing feats to prove her love.  All she had to do was lift up her arms(heart) and open herself to Love.  And, um, do it.  Love.  Love in the little things.  Every day.  The next thing, right in front of her.  Do the chore before her without complaint.  Smile at the irritating Sister and bite her tongue.  Not correct the error of someone being catty, but let it roll off her back. 
It wasn't easy for her, she didn't possess any "saintly" or superhuman patience:

"I understood how easy it is to become all wrapped up on self, forgetting entirely the sublime goal of one's calling."

Rather she figured out that:

"...perfection consists in doing God's will, in being what he wills us to be."

and

"We can do no good when we seek our self."

Or, in other terms, to be us, and to love. 
Period.

And yeah, it sounds so simple.  Like stupid simple, right? 
Well, yup, it does.  So why do I fail and kick and fuss and gripe against it every blooming day?
Because it's the hardest most profound thing we can do, any day, any moment. 
And yet, also the most sublime and simplest. 

To bring this ramble back around...and so it is with  my Marta Therese. 
She too, teaches me how to love. Really. 
Really love.
Because it can be so hard with her.  Because she is small and suffers the after-effects of the TB that ravaged her. Because it's still sometimes strange and it's still often hard and it's sometimes ridiculously complicated.  Because I am slow and am ridiculously complicated and strange. Because she has delays and it makes things very slow and often limited. 
But oh, I know, she is aptly named. 
She is one of the small ones. 
And she loves, to the best of her ability. 
And I am called to love her. 
And sometimes that is simply an act of will. 
And sometimes it is with a tired fuss.
And sometimes it is with a stabbing intake of breath, glimpsing her for a moment as God does. 
He sent me one of his special ones, to give me remedial lessons. 
Because I too am slow.
And need so  much to learn to truly really love. 
The little way.  
It's so big.  

So today we celebrate, I am thinking upon, St. Therese of Liseaux, and her intentions: 

 "I ask Jesus to draw me into the flames of his love, to unite me so closely to him that he live and act in me."

And I am asking her for her prayers, for our Marti Therese, my family,  and for me. 
So that I can lift up my arms and  heart, and love better, more truly, all those littles ones given to me.....eight of them. 

See, remedial lessons, lifelong....me. 
Doh. 
And so I can say, "Thank you, here I am Love, lift me up." 

Older Child Adoption Adjustment: Niches

You know, this world of older child adoption is weird.  Ok, I guess the world of adoption itself can be strange and ok, ok, the world of parenting in general has it's oddities.  Ok ok ok....maybe it's just my kids and our house.  Ok ok ok ok! It's me!  It's always me.  Geez!
 I'm weird, and a dorky goofball who has to overthink things and even so Still can't figure them out to my satisfaction.
Hence, I have to post and blather on so you all can take pity on me and throw me a bone and pitch in some ideas.
So, now that we know what we are dealing with today, are we ready to move forward with today's post?  Yes?  Ok, then....

I've been thinking about how to talk about this...not because it's all so profound or important, but as you might gather from my disclaimer in the paragraph above, it's all about me and I'm stewing about this but it's a delicate subject.  It's also the same subject that I have a chronic, just-below-the-surface rant simmering.  I'll spare you that, you can go here for my lead in on that one if you can't stand the curiosity.
But in the past few days or weeks, I've decided that it comes down to niches.

Yup, that's right: niches.

What I mean by that, is that I think we all want a niche.  We are surely all so doggone quick to slot everyone else into a niche, aren't we? Well, I sure am.....really I think we all do it all the time, I know I do consciously or not.  Sue me.  It's true.  It's kind of how we make sense in a shorthand way of our world...that's my theory anyhow, today at least, and I'm sticking to it.
Anyhow.....I think this slotting of things and folks into niches is not just the slick snobbery or critique that it seems on the surface.  I think it has a lot to do with the yearning to connect.  I think it is probably socially quite primal.  Us, them, other....and while my thoughts on "other" do factor in here, they are also sometimes a rant and also really too big for this post.  Another post, another day.  Lucky you.  But, today I want to talk about the inclusive side or concept of niches.
 
Meaning, today I want to talk about one particular niche: older child adoption.
And I'm telling ya: this niche...it's kinda lonely.
This niche has little sub-niches.  Honestly, being a very visual gal, I see it almost as sort of a cave/niche (yeah, blog) system.  There is this big sheltered cave: adoptive families, and then there are the big warm welcoming cozy caves connected to that: the domestic, the international, the babies, the toddlers caves, the various countries....heck  you've already got a nice little cozy cave city to check out and circulate through and set down and stay a spell (as they say here in the south).

But then back in the beyond of these nice cozy lit up niches and caves, carved and polished smooth and well fortified with gleaming information and supports, are some other niches that are smaller, not as many are back there hanging out, and if they are, it's so busy and so tough or so unique that there isnt' a whole lotta room, in fact, I'd say they don't even really see each other too much.
And one of those niches is a newly carved out niche, and it fits a family of ten it seems.....but it's far from being polished and it's got rough walls and a few nice smooth spots of support but really, it's feels kind of empty; kind of smallish.
That's our niche.
That's my niche.
It's the niche of "older international adoption of teen with developmental delays."

Zoom!
See how fast that niche cleared out? See how all of those who were kind of peeking in quickly withdrew and moved on? Not because they were mean or threatened or uncaring...but just because they instantly saw, um, no common ground there.  Hard to sit down and get comfy and compare notes or stories or tools because they don't have that toolkit.
When I add in, "and with a background from hard places"....well, that just scares most anyone else off too.  Not everyone....this gal is one of the bravest women I've seen in the blogosphere.  I love her.  Her niche is overlapping mine, close enough that I find comfort there too.  Go see.
As one of the gals from our agency put it, when I asked if they had any connections to folks in the same or similar boat..."um, noooo, that's a pretty singular niche."
Right.
So, that's why I'm thinking of niches.
Because I want to compare notes with brighter minds who've gone before me, who have tools and ideas for this niche and our particular snags that surely would be common if there were others in this niche too.

I want to connect with others who have adopted a teen (preferably internationally so we can talk about language acquisition) who has developmental delays.

Now I can also go off on one of my numbered rants about the loneliness of being in this niche, and not being able to say it out loud.  Having to whisper "developmental delays" out of some sort of weird political correctness just chafes me.  It is what it is.  It's not a judgement, it's not a slur.  It's objective and shouldn't be a stigma and if you saw her smile you would never think otherwise.  She's a teen, with all that entails.
She is a moody hormonal teenage girl who has a caring bossy sweet devout selfish intense stubborn sensitive nature.
Like, um, most teenage girls.
She is exhausting and good.
Like most teenage girls.
She is manipulative and wants to get her way and preferably go shopping as often as possible.
Like most teenage girls.
She has developmental delays and we didn't raise her from birth and thus learn all about this for the past 13+ years, only for the past year, so that is why my map is limited, and my toolbox is sparse.  It's why it can be lonely for us all, working with that.  It's frustrating and glorious both on any given day.  Maybe often even at the same time.

But this niche is lonely...I don't know anyone else in this niche.
I wish I did.
And yeah, before you get all lofty, we still venture out to all the other niches because our family walks through and fits many many different niches and labels and communities.  We live in them all. Messily.
I don't even want to leave this niche; I want company.   I want to make this niche beautiful with the companionship and shiny ideas and successes of others who've rested here too.
I'm not sure they are out there.
If you are, and you happen upon this blog, please drop me a line and say hello.
Our niche is actually a pretty friendly place.

Actually, I lied up there.  Misspoke, perhaps.  But I would love to leave this niche.  I would love to only have wide open streets with sunshine and walk away from every harder stony niche forever.
But that's not gonna happen in this life.  Because we create our own niches to define our comfort zones...it's when the niches are thrust upon us or we into them, alone, unwilling, that we find ourselves, ok, myself, out of sorts and feeling lonely.
So, I think the trick is to stop whispering.
To move that niche if it's darker or not comfy or lonely.
 Really, I suppose....If it's my/our niche then we define it and we open it up to company and ideas and other contributions of beauty and support and I learn to see and create the beauty within it.
So I will continue to wish for companions in this niche, but I'm trying to move it to the sun....and maybe, here in the blogosphere someone else will see  a sunny niche where real life is said out loud, not in a hushed whisper, and decide to stop by and stay and visit for a spell.