Happy Sad. Mark the good.

I've had a few posts on "marking the good."
This is another.
I think it's important, for me personally, but also in general to mark the good.
When you're talking about older child adoption and/or working with kids from hard places or with hard needs, I think it's absolutely critical to mark the good.
Because if you don't you might just drown.
Marking the good is a lifeline.
It is a critical point of reference that must be indelibly inked in your consciousness, lest it flees from the mire.

That said, I want to mark the good.
This is one of those small but huge ones.  Most of these are really.  Because with these kids  you don't usually have the brass band events of good to let you know, "hey, this is a good one, this is progress, file it away."  You get these tiny fleeting moments that might even pass you by in the actual moment…until you think back on it and get that 'aha!"
I love an "aha!"

Anyhow, this is all to preface another tiny but huge good we've come to here in the coffeehouse, and with our Miss Marti.
We've just passed through the minefield commonly referred to as "The Christmas Holidays."
We managed to tiptoe through it fairly well, with only a few tripped landmines and a minor loss of limbs and scorching.  Overall, really, it was much more successful than we anticipated or hoped for.  (I still feel the need to kind of whisper that, just in case somehow it jinxes it.  I know, I'm Catholic, not supposed to fall for that kind of superstition…I told you this was tricky stuff…)  

But then, along came Christmas night:
We had done the vigil Mass. We had done the giddy hysteria of opening presents.

We had done the excess of birthday on top of the excess of Christmas.

 Finally, we were at that ebbing tide of the day: evening.  Everyone was tired, but a happy, sated tired.  The kids were roaming quietly, fooling with new toys or gadgets.  New pj's had been donned, dishes done.  My eldest, Chris did what he usually does and  made for the piano.  Tom joined him to sit and listen.  Marta quickly found her way to snuggle up next to dad.  I donned my goofy christmas pj's, in solidarity with the girls (and to show them that there is a certain wonderfulness in super soft flannel warm pj's despite the old fashioned print…. if not because of it).  I had tucked the small boys in, at last.  So I too, was beckoned down to listen to my son play and sing.  By this time, he had gone through his own choices of warm ups and tunes and he had begun taking requests.

Now, let me be clear..this is always a dicey time for me.  I love listening to my son play and sing more than I can say.  Truly. At this point however, it is a tough thing for me to do, as it  makes me cry…it pulls those tears from the depths of my inner heart.  They are so sweet, and bittersweet and just a salty mess.
I am careful, very careful, about my tears…if at all possible.
Because Marta has radar, or sonar, or whatever you'd like to call it.  But if she sees me crying she cries.
Every. Time.
And so, to even step into that room and sit, knowing that I couldn't stem the tears well..was an act of …I don't know. I'd like to say faith…but maybe it was sheer stupidity, or tired or resignation.  I don't remember.
But I did. I gave her a big smile when I came in.  She gave me one back and hugged her dad.
Dad made a few requests…..I could feel the tears pricking but busied myself looking at book spines.  Blinking hard and fast, head turned.  Marta was intent, watching Chris.  All good.
Then, she called out, "Chris.  Marta song, pleeeasseeeee!?"
Chris looked at me, looked at her, looked at dad.
He chuckled. Dad chuckled. I held my breath.
It had been a long day.
Tom nodded at me. It will be ok.  I gave him, "the look." You know that look, the one that says, "do you know what you're doing? It's been a long day and I went to sleep at four and woke at six and I don't know if I have the reserve to deal with any meltdown, really…?"
He nodded again.
So Chris played it.  It's this song:

That is Chris playing "All will be well," By Gabe Dixon.
It's the song we  used for our "passing court" video on blog. Marta considers it her song, she is QUITE proprietary about it.
And so he played it.  He gets better and better all the time.
I held my breath and closed my eyes.  Then I opened them and glanced her way.
Sure enough, she was crying.
She was rubbing her eyes and nose, mouth kind of grimaced.
I felt the tension immediately, in my gut, my neck.
She came over to  me, and climbed on my lap, spilling over it.
I hugged her and said, "You ok? It's ok."
And she said……wait for it…….."Ok mom. Happy Sad."
And she hugged me.

Happy sad.
These two emotions haven't been able to be pieced together by this young girl, since she came home.  There was no such thing as happy tears.  Tears  have only been sad. Ever. Even when I've tried to tell her and show her and she's seen me cry them at, oh, every birthday and holiday.  And tears and/or sad always have led to deep running grief.
But this Christmas, we got a gift.
And I'm marking it down.
Happy Sad.
She was crying, but happy. She knows what that song  means and she can feel that pang of deep happy that makes you cry.
She LOVES to have Chris sing and play that song.
She makes me turn it up if we hear it on the radio.
And this Christmas, in the quieting of the evening….she hit another marker.
Tears, happy tears.
"Happy Sad."
Healing goodness. Happy Sad.

Mark the good, belated redux

I've written before about "marking the good."
I think it's an important thing to do, and it's one I too often fail to do, either here in this forum or, truly, in my own chatter and mind.
It's oh so much too easy to only see or remember the bad, the hard, the challenge.
And, it's probably my inborn gripey moody nature to do so.

But I think it's worth trying to step over and beyond our complacent habits of being and doing...especially when it comes to being able to see the good that surrounds us.
Because, really, if we blink we might miss it.
Especially when you are talking about the good in older child adoption adjustment and/or kids with difficult needs or special needs and/or attachment and/or grief/trauma issues.
Just in that sentence alone, as you can see, the bad can easily sink the good.

So, I want to go on the record that over this last weekend of Thanksgiving holiday, we had some good. Some good to mark.
Some good to give hope - certainly to me, but also, maybe, to any other mom who is doing the day in day out work of adjusting and theraputic parenting and such.  This mom encourages me all the time in her blog, go see, she is of the same mind this week: mark the good, note the progress. I wish I lived closer to her and could hang out over coffee and shortbread cookies....

Anyhow, back to the good, noticing and marking...
These things weren't glaring or obvious trumpeted things.
As usual, they were subtle moments, or, more even, they were an absence of tough and a presence of um, kinda normal.
 Read that again, there was more time without drama.
There was a sort of calm coping. Or "undrama," if  you will.
Yes, I just made that word up, because somehow, it relates to the trauma drama that can be a pervasive silent ghostly but tangible enough cloudiness in a  house.  "Undrama" is the hoped for flip or even a passing by on a tricky weekend.

Anyhow, as I was saying, or want to say....this past weekend had much craziness built in to the festivities: guests, extra guests, boys home from college, no school, big cooking and house prep, schedules whacked out.

 (homey buffet, but it was the requested fav's of the college boys, so we ran with it...

because being HOME was the point of the weekend in many ways)

 I wrote about it here, and hoped that it some advance prep would help.
Well, it did!!
Not to say that everything was perfect or that this was the only reason, but overall, we had an ok, kinda normal level of behavior weekend.  Which, considering the potential, is amazing.
Amazing.
Now, we also worked hard on keeping coping methods in the forefront and this one child in particular on radar (though not solo on that radar, if you get my drift, there is managing multiple kids out the wazoo during weekends like this).

But here is what worked:
- staying tuned in to the 'weather' of mood and coping,
- redirecting her to a special given task of help if there was drifting into the dark mood,
- going for a walk - just her and dad and puppy to get some breathing time again (one of the trump cards that is usually a win and can almost always rescue a mood swing),
- checking in with a whisper and a hug and a "good job" with a wink,
- discussing in advance the nervous making parts,
- and allowing flight to a calmer safer quiet place (bedroom) if she was feeling overwhelmed.
Now, we don't use those words (flight, overwhelmed, etc) as we discuss and prep in advance, but we try to convey the feelings and actions to help in words she can understand.

 {As you can see, the presence of my Chris, her adored big bro, didn't hurt either.  Huge help.}

I put all these up there not to say, "Oh wow, we did great" but rather to say, "O wow, SHE did great!" These things made a difference.
The seventeen months' she's been home and safe have made a difference.
The seventeen months of working on these things have made a difference.
But these things, this weekend, they also made a difference.  It wasn't a heavenly light show with a choir kind of difference, but it was a weekend without a major screeching halt to deal with a trigger reaction.
And that, right there, is a bit of a a heavenly choir in my mind. 

So I want to mark the good. We had a good, great, exhausting, kinda normal Thanksgiving weekend.  And that is a world of good different from last year and it gives me hope for maybe, maybe, a better Christmas this year too.  It's progress.  I'll take it. 

{Two of M's other favorite people: dear sweet Leslie and her other adored big bro!}

I saw the good; I'm marking it.

"Can I go with you?"

 

Lately, Gabriel has developed a new intensity.  Some of that is just standard issue three year old boundary testing.   However, it occurred to me, today (because I am a slow study) that part of this intensity is actually different from my other kids when they were three.  There is an undercurrent of intensity to his relentless pursuit to "go."  He wants to go.  Everywhere. Nothing makes him happier or can get a grin and a jig out of him faster than being told, "You bet, let's go."

We've all been thinking that it is just "going" for the minor adventures that are "going" places in our busy days.  But, as I drove today to Sarah's school for a class project (Living museum, very cute), I was stewing about Gabey and his kind of desperate begging to "Go with you."  Especially when it comes to myself and his dad, Gabey is desperate to go.  With us.  Anywhere.  Everywhere. 

Today it finally dawned on me, and you could argue that I'm overstating it, but my gut thinks otherwise.  Knows better.  Gabey IS desperate to "Go." He has a much more intense need to go with us, beyond your standard three year old desire to go and be with their parents.  His is different.  His is, after all, an adoption remnant.  It's very easy to think that he's been  home two years now, and thus he is over all his adjustment.  I know better.  But even so, daily life sweeps a lot of latent stuff off the radar.  That's just how it plays...until it smacks you upside the head or you run into a wall.  {Well, in  my house, that's how it plays...we're a fast moving place.}  

This need has a root. 

Gabriel was left.  

He was left at eleven months. 

It wasn't just being left on the side of the road.  

But he was taken to an orphanage, in a planned relinquishment by his great uncle.  

Goodbyes were said.  

And he was left.  

And he was old enough to not understand. 

Not even a little. 
But old enough to be confused and scared and missing his family.

And I can see in his pictures from that time how closed his face was. 

The immediate shock of that event is submerged by those pics, maybe, but it still shows.  

 

It's so easy to forget that he experienced that. And it imprinted.  And it's deep and it's primal.  A primal scar.  And sometimes, I see a glimpse of it, when he cries out in his sleep, "Don't leave me!" Or, when, now, every day, he clings and grasps and holds on and says, "Can I go with you?"  He will say it twenty times in a row, he does not want to take no for an answer.  Sometimes we have to say no. 

But now, as I realize what is under that relentless questioning desire and need, I am saying more often, "Yes. You betcha."  

And then I get this, the sweetest smile on the sweetest face.  

And my heart swells right up to my own grin.   

 "Yes, my Gabey, you can go with me.  Forever."

Turn-keys: Transitions

 Photo by Danielle, from Domodossola, Italia, from Wikimedia Commons

Ok, so I've written about a couple of turn-keys in adoption adjustment, here, and here, and here. 
There is another key in the process of adjusting in an adoption.  {Now, if you haven't adopted older kids, a lot of this might just be gabble to you...I know.  And I will put up this disclaimer...this will be disjointed due to my hard to pin down thoughts but also due to the assault on my mind from allergies, and my muzzy head which swings back around to my meandering thoughts. Fair warning.  But if you have adopted older child, I think you will probably understand what I'm talking about.}
It's a player in all adoptions but I'd say, in my experience, it is a very BIG player in older child adoption.   And really, you could quite fairly say it's more of a pass key than a turn-key.  But it is a turn-key in that I don't think you get in, make progress, continue to connect, without this:
Transitions.

Another simple term.
Transition.
To go from one state to another, one place to another, a change on some level.
Transitions are hard.
Heck, transitions mean change and change can be hard on all levels, for any or all of us.
Lots of kids have problems with change, transitions, big or small.
How often have you had to give the "five minute warning" that it's gonna be time to go?
Like, every day, right?
Right then, you see what I mean. 

In adoption adjustment, that term comes in all shapes and sizes and forms.
Because adoption is pretty much NOTHING BUT transition.  
It's all transition, all the time.
Whew, no wonder it's hard!
No wonder we are all so tired!

Of course there are all the obvious, literal transitions:
from the past to the future,
from then to now,
from first family to second,
to new ways,
new families,
new language possibly,
new culture,
new city and country,
new place, new people.
With no time out to breath the familiar.

But the transitions that are the turn keys, the ones that open the doors or close them shut, are usually the emotional transitions.  Yeah, swinging emotions and moods. And those, well, those are complicated.

The parent trying to help a newly or recently adopted child, especially an older child, adjust faces a steep and swift learning curve for navigating these emotional transitions.  And there are NO books or articles or experts who can guide  you precisely through them.

But those emotional transitions, the swings, pack a wallop.
And I guess the reason I want to post on it is that it's just SO easy to get blindsided by them.
By which I mean, and this is one of those keys:  Transition comes at a cost.

I think that it is best to know that MOST of the time, it seems, one step forward, or two, or more, will almost always be followed with the two step cha cha back.
Sometimes giant steps backwards, sometimes, if you're lucky, only small ones.
But those steps aren't only simple regressions, they can be emotional spirals of grief or anger or dark deep untouchable mood or acting out.
Because that's how it plays, it seems.

Maybe those steps forward, are just kind of so scary, way deep down where it can't be touched or explained completely, that the only thing that makes sense somehow is to follow the trigger, ride the swing down.
It's primal reaction in a way.
It can't be just halted.
If it could, oh I think, I know,  all of us would.
Halt it.
But it can't.
It seems that it has to be moved through.

And it's in the moving through it, the swinging through it, that the healing comes. 
Hard to remember...but it is.
That's why it's a key.
A passkey AND a turn-key.
Emotional transition.
Without that emotional, moving, transitioning, through it, they can't get beyond it.
It will snag you, them.
It has to be passed through and over and beyond.
But sometimes it has to be done again and again.
Yes, swung through again and again.
Yes, it's exhausting.
For the them, for you, for everyone.

Luckily, a key is made of strong stuff.
And it works to turn those locks, to tumble them...as many times as necessary.

Then, at some point, different for each emotional scar or hard place, for each child, that key finally turns, tumbles open that lock for good.
The swinging can stop.

We aren't there yet on most of these transitions.
We are still swinging.
But I trust, and pray, that sooner or later (hopefully sooner), that key will turn that lock for good.
And my child from hard places can leap out of that swing, flying free from the spiraling hard emotions.

I'll be waiting to catch her and laugh with her at the giddy free air of it.

Until then, I hang on tight to the key, holding her, holding on to the swing.
Waiting for that leap.

Bloggy Road Trip

I am doing a guest post today!  Who'da thunk it!?
No kidding.   Yup, surprised me too..but I'm  honored (and shocked and surprised...another mini "Sally Field" moment).
Lisa at "A Bushel and a Peck" asked me to babysit a post day on her blog while she's out of town.
So, I'm no fool, I said "You betcha!"

Now if you all haven't checked out her blog, you should go, right now.  (No, not only to read my post...) You should bookmark it and check it daily, or at least really really often.  She is one of  my daily hits and mom heroes.  She has eleven beautiful kids and is a talented, amazing mom.  She is an inspiration to me; and a great resource both for regular old family stuff, larger family ideas, and also the full spectrum of adoption topics. 

My post today, on her blog, is another about older child adoption and adjustment.  About the dance of older child adjustment.  I've written about the dance of waiting, here.   But now that dance has changed.  It's a very different sort of dance indeed.  Go, read, let me know what you think.  Say hello to Lisa for me and update your blog list if she's not on it.  You'll be glad you did.

The turn-keys: Tears

So, here we are again.  Turn-keys.  Those things that I'm finding to be critical, yeah - Key - to our adjustment with this older child adoption. I've written about a couple already, here, and here.  And now, I want to write about another: Tears.

What? Tears?
How can those be so important?
Well, they are.
Yeah, it surprises me too.

I am learning that those tears are very important, critical, on different levels and in different ways.  Those tears are part of the adjusting, and I am not sure you can really adjust to all the new of an adoption without them.  And those tears are for everyone, of course.  Because each person in the family needs them....to process the intensity of the changes and the building of new relationships. Now I'll spare  you the blathering about the tears of the rest of us: the jealous tears, the overwhelmed, the frazzled, the blue ones (yeah, it's tough on moms too).  Those are fodder for a different post.

With a younger child, toddler or infant adoption, there are also many tears.  They are also critical to the adjustment process.  But they are easier to parse out, to understand.  They are typically more, not completely, but a bit more developmentally tracked and explained.  They are simpler because the child is still slightly simpler.  No less heartbreaking, but easier to console and repair.   The tears of the turn-key I'm talking about here are the tears of the older adopted child.  In this case, our daughter.

It's hard to sort through all this coherently.  But I'll give it a go.
It seems like it wouldn't be complex, I mean, it's crying, right?
Crying is a no brainer.
Kids cry all the time.
They cry, you console.
Done.
Except, not.

When an adjusting older child cries, honestly, at first you kind of brace yourself in dread.  You wonder, and fear a little bit, is this going to slip into something bad?  Is it going to blow in like a hurricane - tank the day? Because you don't know this child so intimately yet. You haven't always seen this before.  And you know the potential.  So, you brace for it.....whatever IT is.  And sometimes, it IS something very hard: rage, deep scarred grief, irrational fear.  Sometimes, it's just overwhelmed or misconception or misunderstanding.  Sometimes, it's just mundane, but ever so powerful, hormones.  Or lack of sleep.  Or an incoming virus.  It's all over the map, crying.  Tears. 

Even so.  It's all good.  Seems counter intuitive.  Our (ok, my) first reaction might, or is, naturally to wish it away, to sigh, to find the fastest way around it all.  But, that's not necessarily the answer either.  Those tears are important.  If this child is grieving the life they left behind, no matter if that seems unlikely as that life might have been very very harsh, then that grieving must be done.  It's valid; that life was what they knew, loved (some parts) and grew to themselves in. 

It's all too easy to think of grief as a 'hanging on' to something.  It is and it isn't.  When done right, it's a 'hanging on' to the good, and letting go of the bad.  It's ok to miss the ones or the place  you loved.  And that can totally jive with learning to love new ones or new places.  But, I don't think it can be done without the tears of it.

Then there are the tears of rage and grief of the hurt - for both old and new hard things.  Those are kind of scary - for everyone.  And it's so hard to know how to help.  And I"m not sure there is any way to really truly help - at least in the overt sense.  You can't fix it.  I can't fix it, or what has happened.  But you/I can BE there.  Just be there.  Hold on to them, sit next to them, let yourself get their tears dripped onto you.

That, that mess, is a fix.  It's the only and best one.  Because you are there, they are not alone, and you're not gonna run away from it.  And so, it gets less scary, for both of you.  But, oh, those tears...they hurt.  Both of you. 

Then there are the new tears.  These are the tears that can be both wonderful and frustrating.  The frustrating ones are the ones that you, and maybe she, doesn't understand.  They just kind of spring up....from a misunderstanding, frazzled nerves, hormones.  From being a teen girl.  From sensory overload in a new country.   From language gap, culture gap....all sorts of gaps. Those too, mostly just need a little time, maybe a little space, maybe a time to hold or sit nearby.  They need to wash away....the weary effort, the bruised feelings.  And they do.  

Way back, oh 85 years or so ago, I learned in science class that water is the universal solvent.  Well, I would say that the water shed in tears, when you are talking about an older child adoption and adjusting, is one of the universal glues.  Can be.  Maybe not always (I'm talking about us, here, always, ever...that's all I know), but oh so often they are.  These tears are bonding.  The happy over the top joyful tears...they are  just fun.  They pull you all in with a grin.  But the other kind....It's hard not to care about a child who is sobbing next to you (even when you wish it weren't so).  For the child to allow you to see them, hold them, at their most vulnerable....that is the beginning of trust.  For you to sit with them, hold them, get soaked by their tears...console them.  That is the beginning of family. 

A few days ago, a sibling moment occurred.  It was a pretty typical moment - if had happened between most of the kids.  However, it was the first between Marta and another.  And it was a a flash.  But, it cut to the quick for her.  It launched one of those tear spilling, walking away times.  It meant the evening would now be redirected.  And it was.  But, it was one of those turn-key times.  Because as I consoled Marta and talked to her about what happened, she slowly sat up in bed and hugged her pillow to her.  Then Bananas came in and flopped on her bed on the other side of the room they share.  And she saw Marta, still crying.  I said, "Has this happened to you?"  And Bananas laughed and said, "Oh yeah!  See, Marta, it's like this....." and she went on to act out the same interaction with the same sib.

And very soon, Marta was laughing with us as she snuffled up her tears, eyes red rimmed.  And I froze the moment in my mind.  These tears were healing.  These tears were bonding.  These tears were typical of any sibling scuffle.  And this image, two sisters laughing about a sib, both on their beds in pj's, while one allowed us to see her snuffling and gulping a bit as she came to calm, the other trying  hard to make her laugh and move on...that's a FAMILY.  That's what happens in families.  So, yeah, these tears: they helped turn a bit closer to family.  And I am grateful for even this tough turn-key.  Another one made of gold.

Turn-keys: touch

I've written a bit about what I have found, for us at least, to be "turn-keys" in the process of adoption and adjustment. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about another key (again, disclaimer: These are just my humble bossy opinions, not any expert or professional claim to knowledge). This key is one of the oldest and most important, for all parenting, but ever more so - if possible - for the process of adjustment in adoption. Yup, it's "touch."

I know, doh.
Touch.
A no-brainer, right?

Well, maybe not so much. Maybe it's a no brainer if you are a naturally 'touchy-feely' person (And really, I think most would say I am, but still...). Maybe its a no-brainer if you are talking about giving birth to a child, or even adopting a tiny infant. With babies, bio or otherwise, our species is biologically programmed to respond to the cries of an infant, to hold to soothe to touch it to comfort. It's a natural, right?

But with any child, and I mean ANY child, regardless of their mode of arrival into your family.....there are times when, you know, you just don't really feel like touching them so much.

Shocked, are you?
Have I revealed too much of my cold stony selfish heart?
Hmmm, c'mon, admit it, who hasn't been grossed out by the quantity and quality of projectile vomit that a smallish baby or child can, um, expel?
Who hasn't been gagging when their baby smears the contents of their diaper all around the crib? (Hey, 8 kids, yes, they've done that. Don't judge me.)
Call me crazy, but I'm not so into the cuddly canoodling at those times. I am more than happy for a little personal space....
And really, who hasn't thought "Fine then" when the attitude riven teen throws a snit and stomps out of the room? Who hasn't been grateful, even ONCE, to have them sleep in, just a little while for that peaceful solo quiet time in the morning?
Not you? Well, then, stop reading, this post is not for you.

But for the rest of us, for ME, this is a huge deal.
Touch.
For your standard issue kid, its a huge deal when they are tots and need all that imprinting bonding caring loving. It's at least as big or a bigger deal as they move through their stages of wild little kid, to the scary times as the world opens up to them in school and beyond, to the awkward times of preteen and the touchy times of full blown "I know everything" teenagerhood. This is when you have to remember: touch them.
Hug them, they need it so much.
They might only lean against you as a hug back. They might not even seem to register that pat on the arm, but it makes a difference. A huge huge difference. Prickly or not, possibly even more then, those little touches during a day can bridge a lot of troubled water.

This brings me to the turn-key. If touch can make such a huge, ongoing, difference in the relationship and life of a child in your home from infancy, imagine the importance of touch with a child who is new to your home. And if you are talking about an older child (And, of course, I am now), and if that child is a hurt child (Which most older children who are adopted are, of course), and if that child doesn't have your language....well, this turn-key is made of gold.

So it seems, again, simple, a no brainer, right?
Touch the kid.
Let them touch you.
Hug them.
And yet, it's not nearly so simple after all. Because what you don't read so much in all those stacks of adoption books is that it can be hard, touch-wise, with an older child. Cuddling a baby or toddler is automatic, almost, we are primed and programmed and enchanted to do it. An older child is, forgive me as this is not so "politically correct," not necessarily always so enchanting and we are not primed and programmed to touch them. We are strangers. We have not crossed those boundaries yet. Formally, on paper, yes. But in actual practice, no.

The initial meet and hugs and kisses are kind of driven along by adrenaline on both sides. But then comes the moment when you all kind of look at each other and wonder. It's much like an arranged marriage, without the extended courtship and chaperones.

Many older adopted children are also simply starved for physical affection. Starved. Hungry. Hungry to touch and be touched. And so you do, they do, you must. They are starved for safe comforting embracing touch - touch that doesn't hurt in any way. So, we had, and so many have, an intense instant need on Marta's part for touch, kiss, hugs, holds, just skin on skin. And it's weird. In a way, it's strange to immediately jump boundaries that our modern American ways have fixed into place over decades.

But this is a key, one of THE keys. You touch.
You do it.
And its by the doing, the touching that you start to step over those walls, you stop being strangers, you start being family. The more I touch her, in the caring mode of mom, the closer I get - literally and figuratively. The more I sit nestled next to her, with her feet draped over my shins, the more time our skin is next to skin, the more we blend together.

It sounds so simple, but in practice, it can be an act of will. Wash her back, paint her nails, do her hair, put lotion on face, hold her when she's sobbing, hold her when she's sick.

And oddly enough this touching is a sort of claiming.
At first it's a formal dance of sorts, an acting out of the proper roles.
Eventually, it starts to become real. It's an intimacy of family. Only family brings the sick kid into mom and dad's bed, clammy, with her holding your hand to her sore throat, not letting go.
Babies claim you as they sleep snuggle and cling to you for their every need.
Toddlers and little kids claim you in passing fierce hugs and climbing on you when needy.
Older kids, they claim you by leaning on you, by sitting next to you or draped across you, asking you to do their hair, fix their clothes, feel their forehead.
I know, this is all obvious.
But the part of the key that is important, for me, is the part that "fits in my hand". See the keys up top? See the scrolled beautiful head of the key? This is the part I, or you, hold. And this is MY part. Because now I see that by touching this child, caring for her, letting her claim me by touch and touching her back as mine, giving her a sponge bath for a fever, checking her eyes for stray lashes, her braces for sprung wire...I claim her too. And I think, or am learning, that if I hold back from those touches, no matter how strange at first, then I lose.

It's the touch itself that seals the claim, builds it, and turns it into family.

Post Bday Post

Yeah, it's the post birthday picture report.
Because this birthday yesterday was kind of extra special...I'm can't help it. I gotta post some pics. You know I have to! If only for the far flung family types......

And I have to say that this day was kind of loaded, on different levels. We weren't sure if it was going to be a boffo day or a bust. And so we made sure to have it follow, as precisely as possible, the standard traditions of our family bdays. Marta has seen several now and so it was important to have it play out the same way, but with it being her turn. And so it did.

There was a lot of "Oh my goodness!" and many bounces up from the chair to hug and kiss, or a "come here" demand for a hug and kiss. Every single card and present got oohed and aahed over. Every card needed a kiss/hug. We had to say "Open it!" because Marta would just stare at the shiny wrapping with a grin...relishing even that. Every gift had a minimum of three springs out of her chair to hug/kiss.

There was much giggling, the usual small boy grabbing and tugging, the usual chaos and noise and mess. There was her favorite penne with a simple but super tomato/pancetta sauce, salad and strawberry pink ice cream cake, candles, singing and clapping.

A big, very good, momentarily overwhelming here and there, terrific sparkly day. And I'm just so glad.

Even the big kids were grinning real grins, it was just a happy thing to see.

And that makes me ridiculously happy, for her, for us, for the family.
A little tired maybe, but very happy.
And she is still floating and giggling.
And listening to Michael Jackson cd's.
A first and thirteenth birthday can be a very good thing indeed.

Adjustment: Marking the good. redux

I don't have a picture. Not the right picture anyhow. I have this picture, far below, which will have to suffice.

I had a "mark the good" moment today. And because I have written before about how I think its important to MARK the good when you recognize it, I want to write this down...for the record, and so it doesn't slip away from my foggy mind. In older child adoption, there is so much that is strange and awkward, especially at first. And only time can help ease into some things. One of those is worth a whole 'nother post (Fair warning...). But it is this very thing that had one of those moments today, the kind that stills and shimmers for a minute, you realize you kind of are holding your breath so you don't blink and lose it. Then you do blink because you have to, suddenly, there is a pending spill. And if you're lucky you recognize, that this is one to mark. A step forward. A settling in. A deeper twinge resonating.

Ack. Let me explain. Tomorrow is Marti's birthday. She is a bit giddy in anticipation. Just a little shivery giddy. But I didn't really see it until Mass.

Every day we go to Mass after we drop off the school kids (parochial school, one of the perks). Every day we sit in our pew, third from the back, left. Some mornings Coffeedoc gets to join us before clinic. Today was one of those.

Marta was in between us, she kept pulling Coffeedoc closer in, and squooshing closer to me. We were all mooshed up together in that pew, tho the pew was empty otherwise. If you didn't know it, it looked like it was below freezing and we were huddling for warmth. Then, in one of the quiet moments of the Mass, we sat again, taking our huddle. She grinned and she pulled him closer in, put his hand on her lap and grabbed mine, pulling it to his, placing our two old hands together. We smiled a small laugh at each other. Then she grinned wider.

She wrapped her little arms around our big ones on either side, grabbed hands in the middle and squeezed. "My dad. My mom," she whispered to us with a huge smile.

It was very much like a small small child, claiming again, for the hundredth time, their parents. But this was our teen. Not a toddler. But the declaration was the same. And we looked across her head and smiled that deep smile. And then, surprising myself...I blinked.

I don't have a picture to show you. I wish I did. But I have stored this one away safely anyhow, marking it for good.

The Deep

Sometimes you forget. Sometimes you forget the depth of what this is. This adoption stuff.

I guess you have to, because if you set it always in the forefront of your mind you will be frozen. It's so big. It's so much. Just what these kids have done, come from their first family to be woven into yours...it's so much. And so, when they have carved out that spot in your heart of hearts, that fierce love for them has gripped you...you forget. You forget sometimes, what they call that "primal wound." They might forget, for a while, too. Or not really realize or understand it if they are so young. Not yet. But its there.

The other night, Gabey had crawled into my bed. We all were sleeping but he started fussing in a dream. He whimpered. Turned over. Then, sleep-shouted clearly and loudly, "Don't leave me!"

Oh!
Instantly wide awake, my breath taken.

He has never, ever, said that. Not awake, not asleep. He does say "I want to go with you!" And with ferocious toddler power, "That's MY mommy!" But he has not said this. And he has not said this with that angry hurt sad deep cry.

And I wondered, was he just dreaming of the comings and goings in our busy house? I don't think so. This had a different quality. Not only because it was 2 a.m. But it was more.
I know it, I heard it, I felt it.
This was his hurt.
My boy's hurt.
His mom died. He was taken to the orphanage at eleven months. He was left.
It is primal.

And so I snuggled in close to him. I whispered, "I'm here." And then, "I'll never leave you." He relaxed back into sleep. And I lay awake, picking up the shattered bits of my heart.