Is Dat Real?

Samantha and I share the same personality type. Both introverted, intuitive feelers - we're equally at home in Narnia or Middle Earth as in the here and now, perhaps more so. The mystical, magical world of imagination fits firmly into our worldview. "Is that story true or allegorical?"

"Yes."

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.
--Hamlet by William Shakespeare.

(The fact that neither of us can find our shoes is irrelevant to this post.)

Trent and Paul may not share DNA, but they are cut from the same cloth personality-wise - both sensing thinkers. Logical, practical, action oriented. Athletic, optimistic and good in a crisis, but not so patient with the world of fairy and fantasy. Whenever it was Trent's turn for storytime with Sam he'd get a paragraph in then exclaim in irritation, "What is this? Are these characters animals? Why are they talking?"

So while I love Santa Claus and revel in the Truth of goodness, magic and love inherent in Santa legends around the world (I believe), we decided not to empathize the jolly elf with Paul. We had enough of a learning curve with other aspects of Christmas - Jesus, family, generosity, gratitude, love. Plus, the idea of a strange man creeping through the chimney and eating cookies kinda freaks out some kids from hard places.

We did attempt the Advent Angel - (like the elf on the shelf in that it requires a bulk of work from Mom); Gabby the Angel travels from person to person doing good (sometimes mischevious) deeds and generally helping the family get ready for Christmas. The first day of Avent Gabby appeared with a plate of banana muffins (Paul's favorite) and a note. As an added touch, one muffin was half-eaten with a few crumbs left on Gabby's mouth. Adorable.

Paul got MAD. "Dat thing not real! Mum made the muffins! I see dem pans!" Then he threw sweet Gabby across the kitchen.

Alrighty then.

We attempted Gabby a few more times - reading a new storybook with favorite stuffed animals, watching a video with the dogs - but Paul was always insistent that it wasn't real and determined to discover the REAL perpetrator of good deeds. I didn't argue - we talked about how we were helping angels by using Gabby to act like angels. He even got in on the action once by helping clean Daddy's room, but I could tell he just wasn't that into it.

And the Elf on the Shelf that was all over facebook? He took a look at a couple of pictures posted by friends. "Dat thing is weird," declared my little pragmatic.

Santa got the same treatment. I'm sure friends at school talked about Santa and well-meaning adults asked him what Santa was going to bring him. He questioned the "realness" of Santa several times, specifically wanting to know if the Santa in the movie Elf was the real Santa "or not?" We read the story of St. Nicholas and how St. Nicholas showed love by giving gifts and how people today "play Santa" whenever they share gifts and love.

He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist... The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see...
--"Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus", New York Sun.

"But de presents in de sock? You give me those? Or Santa? You de real Santa?"

Sometimes adoptive parents get the "what is real" questions, too. "What happened to his real parents?" "Does he have any real brothers or sisters?" "Do you have any real children?" What they mean, of course, is biological. Because adoptive parents and adopted children are very much real - practically real, metaphorically real, real in every sense of the word. One doesn't have to share DNA to be real. One only has to share love.

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt."
--The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

We Can Be the Helpers

Paul: "Why is some people's clothes dirty?"

Me: I knew what he was thinking with this. On Saturday, we went to a party at a church that ministers to refugees from Central Africa. We had the opportunity to sing with, eat with, befriend, and share gifts with a refugee family of three who arrived from the Democratic Republic of Congo seven months ago - exactly the time frame that Paul arrived home. Paul had been exceedingly prepped for this adventure, so while he didn't leave our laps, he was calm and observant and willing to interact. He knew they would speak a language that wasn't English and wasn't Sesotho, and he didn't panic when they began speaking Swahili. By "chance" we sat by "our family's" nine year old boy at the beginning of the party, before we knew he was the boy for whom we'd brought books and legos and clothes. We talked and laughed and he showed off his Spiderman toy.  His pants were much too short and torn, and his coat was dirty. Paul noticed. "Sometimes people don't have enough money for new clothes or they don't have money to wash their clothes very often."

Paul: Clearly considering this. "What they gonna do?"

Me: Still reeling from the tragedy of injustice, pain, poverty. Still wondering myself what they're going to do, what we're going to do. "I don't know, buddy. Maybe people will show them Jesus' love by helping them."

Paul: "Maybe I could give them my dollar. That might help maybe. Or not?"

Me: For the past two months he's been carefully saving his dollars - painstakingly earned by using kind words, obeying, helping -  because he has yet to realize that there will be presents for him this Christmas. Tears. "Yeah, buddy. That would help. You are a great helper."

As I returned to school today, as I sent emails and discussed safety protocol and counseled students and walked the hallways; peering in on classrooms of six year olds, seven year olds, who are blissfully unaware of the threat of evil in the world; and their teachers who sacrificially shield them from such danger, I thought of Mr. Roger's words to look for the helpers.

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of disaster, I remember my mother's words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers, so many caring people in this world." --Mr. Rogers

Mister Rogers - photo by Jim Judkis

As expressed by Diane Quigley on facebook, "WE can be the helpers...by creating a fabric of love, generosity, understanding and compassion. Smile and help someone today."

We can be the helpers. The first responders rushing into a building. The teachers standing in the gap for their students. The pastors and counselors and neighbors and volunteers offering prayer and a hug and a listening ear when there are no words. The family sacrificing to sponsor a child they may never meet halfway around the world. The car washes and bake sales and bracelet-making parties to furnish a school, find a cure, fight human trafficking. The stranger offering a smile, offering friendship. The teenager reaching out to the lonely, awkward, misunderstood classmate. The little boy giving up his dollar.

We can be the helpers.

Parenting Revamped

Things I never thought I'd say, and now say all the time:

On Sleeping:
"Go back to sleep until your alarm goes off! It's not time for school yet."

"You may get out of bed when the clock says 6:00.  No, 5:06 is not the same. The 6 has to be the first number."

"It's 6:30 and Paul's still sleeping. Do you think he's sick?"

On Eating:
"You've had enough fruit. You may not have any more fruit until after dinner."

"You ate all those carrots?"

"Just try one bite. It's a brownie. Just try it."

On Helping:
"Wow, that's a lot of dog poop. Yes, I'll tell Sam it's your job now. She'll be sad, I'm sure, but you're clearly better at it."

"We don't have time to clean your room right now. Besides, it's clean. Yes, we can clean it later."

"Here, use this knife to cut the pumpkin. It's sharper."

On Christmas:
"It's OK, don't worry. Santa won't come into our house. I know what your friends said, but I promise he's just pretend."

"But only the big kids know he's pretend, OK? It's kind of a surprise. Let's don't tell anybody."

"Well, Jesus isn't actually coming to His birthday party. He's watching from heaven. Yes, it's OK,  yes, you are going to your birthday party."

"Sunday. We light the candles on Sunday. I know it's hard to wait. Today is Tuesday. Five more sleeps. Then Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday."

"The shepherds and the wisemen didn't fight. No, the shepherds aren't ninjas."

"Joseph isn't a ninja, either. He's Jesus's second daddy. Well, yes, I guess that is kind of like a ninja."

On Playing:
"It's not a gun. It's a dove...piece of toast...banana..."

"Sit down and just watch TV for ten minutes. Please."

At home: "Inside voice, inside voice, inside voice." Anywhere else: "Use your words."

"Let's go downstairs and punch something."

"Sure, you can play with the duct tape."

Advent: Coming

Advent: 1) The arrival of a notable person, thing, or event. 2) Coming.

A time of preparation. Of waiting. Of anticipation.

For unto you a child is born. Unto you a son is given.

It is a precarious thing, this waiting. Two Christmases ago we waited. Waited on a Word from God that said yes, go, I am calling you to this, your family to this - home study, paperwork, adoption agency, financial leap, personal leap, Africa, a son. A time of preparation. We didn't know who or when or how. Only the promise - For you have done marvelous things, things planned long ago (Isaiah 25:1).

Last Christmas we waited. Waited in the agony of labor and anticipation of coming. We knew his name. Bits of his story. Bits of his struggle. When would we go? When would he come? No news. Worrisome news. Hope and then disappointment. Not us. Not yet. Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful (Hebrews 10:23).

 This Christmas we see the promise realized. A son is given. A family shifted and reknit. New colors, strands, personalities into a tapestry of hope and a future. Into forever. Joys and trials and blessings and struggles and perseverance and love. We see his face, hold his hands, delight in his smile. That which was promised. Not one word has failed of all the good things that the Lord your God has promised concerning you. All have come to pass for you; not one of them has failed (Joshua 23:14b).

And we light our candle and prepare for the Child and retell the stories of promises kept and hope renewed and futures reclaimed and families reknit. And we wait.

Forever

Me: "Cover your mouth when you sneeze."

Paul: "Why?"

Me: "So you don't spray germs on people."

Paul: "Like dis?" Pretend sneezes into hand. "Like dis?" Pretend sneezes into elbow. "Like dis?" Pretend sneezes into tissue.

Me: "Yes, like that. Thank you. That's good manners. Friends like good manners."

Paul: "Like dis?" Sneezes full on into my face.

Me: Wiping face. "Ewww. No. Yuck."

Paul: "Friends no liken dat? Won't be my friend? You no liken dat? Won't be my mommy?"

Me: Stop mid-wipe. Get down eye-to-eye with Paul, hands on shoulders. "I will always be your mommy. No matter what. Always and forever."

Paul: "Whaddis forever?"

What is forever? How to explain forever to a child who has only known abandonment and disruption and temporary caregivers?

Forever is every day, every moment. It is every 5:30 am shout of realization that "I'm alone!" and crawling out of a warm bed, up the stairs, into a hug that says no you're not, you're not alone, I'm here. It is stories and songs and back rubs every night, even when you're missing Survivor, until he falls asleep in a cocoon of blankets and love. It is standing guard by the bathroom door to keep away monsters and mean dogs, even when you know all monsters and mean dogs were vanquished from the house years ago when Sam was small. It is wiping off sneezes and cleaning up messes and cutting up apples and peeling orange after orange after orange. It is gentle yet strong in the face of hurts, anger, defiance - teaching and reteaching that this is what love is, this is what family is. It is tickling sometimes and thinking chair sometimes and chores sometimes and sometimes not knowing what to do. It is falling down every night and praying, "God, I screwed that up. Help me show him Your forever love," and waking up every morning, "God, I need Your strength and patience today. Mine is all gone." and allowing God to pour His love in so I can pour it out again. It is "Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age" Matthew 28:20.

I cannot promise I will be with him forever. We don't know what tomorrow will bring. But I can be with him right now, show him love right now, and promise that THAT love, that tangible, everyday love, will stay with him always.

If ever there is a tomorrow when we're not together ... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even we aren't together, I will always be with you. 
- A.A. Milne, author of Winnie-the-Pooh

It is patience for family pictures when he wants to play and act squirrelly, then realizing that squirrelly makes a really great picture!

Forever is letting him remember his first family and honoring his first family, the mommy and daddy who gave him life. It is sharing stories and pictures about the orphanage, letting him miss his friends and caregivers, letting him grieve all he had to give up to come home, even when that grieving is hurtful, painful, raw. It is praying for those friends he left behind to find their forever love in hugs and kisses and families of their own.

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you."
A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

BREAKING NEWS: Prayer warriors: please pray today and this week for Retselise, Paul's friend from MIS. Nancy, a missionary in Lesotho, visited last night, taking food from your generous donations of "lunch money" and found him very ill. Please pray for his health and please pray that Social Welfare will place him in the care of Ministry of Hope by this weekend. Retselise needs to know forever love. And how does a child learn forever love? From having someone they can be sure of.

Reselise with Nancy reading a letter from Paul.

Thanksgiving

We survived managed our first Thanksgiving week as a family of four. I won't lie - it got a little crazy  - but we have much for which to be thankful. I got a bit behind on my "Days of Thanksgiving" facebook postings (you'll see why), so here's a bit of a recap.

Monday: Paul's first Thanksgiving program for family. After a difficult bedtime working through pre-event anxieties, he woke early (no kidding) and then questioned relentlessly was I SURE he was supposed to wear a costume (Indian) to school and did Mrs. Wagner say and when did she say and when did she send the email and could he see the email? I showed him the email. He can't read, yet he seemed reassured. So he put on the costume. (Adorable.) This morning was a bit of an oddity because the kinders weren't supposed to get to school until 8:45 for the 9:00 program. I took Sam to school at 7:45 while Trent followed later with Paul. I love it when Trent drives to school because then he empathizes with the ceaseless questions and direction-giving.

Trent dropped off Paul a bit early (thanks, Mrs. Wagner!), then he, Sam (skipping class) and I snagged seats in the rapidly filling auditorium. This is where I started to cry - watching the room fill with moms, dads, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Based on the crowd, I'm guessing each kinder had 3.5 people to watch, photograph, support and clap for them. Which made me remember again all those children who, like Paul last Thanksgiving, had no one for whom they felt special. We sat next to a mom whose son from Haiti has been home one year - she understood.

Paul marched on stage with the other adorables. (He stood next to a little boy adopted from South Korea and a little girl adopted from Guatemala. A Thanksgiving melting pot.) Then he proceeded to glower at the audience through the entire program. While the other Indians and Pilgrims smiled and clapped and sang, he was clearly the one tasked with ensuring that no one in the audience made a false move toward the stage. Today I'm thankful no one made a false move toward the stage.

He's very clearly thrilled at the post-performance meet-and-greet

Tuesday: Today the Kinders were to perform the Thanksgiving program at chapel, for the other elementary students. Something flipped a switch in Paul. He was Mr. Personality on stage - singing, dancing, tying the fringe on his costume together so he couldn't pull apart his arms, raising his arms to show everyone that he was handcuffed. He just needed a dress rehearsal. And shorter fringe. Today I'm thankful for a teacher who can laugh when her student ties his arms together.

Wednesday: "Mum! No school today? Whatcha gonna do? Grandma's house? School tomorrow? When school? How many days? Show me five. When next day school can I buy lunch? Whatcha gonna eat?" Etcetera. Packing for a trip can get a little bit ... crazy ... when Paul's around. That need for control when feeling out of control goes into overdrive. And my patience isn't at its highest level in such moments. Which makes everything worse. However, he's a GREAT helper, so I made an extensive chore list for everyone. Paul even made his sister's bed, happily and creatively. (Granted, he owed her a chore for whacking her the day before, but nevertheless.)

Grandma's house was "So far. Why so far 'way?" but we passed the time by spotting boats and barns and cows and large painted chickens. Seventeen large painted chickens. We arrived and settled in and then Trent had a special treat for Paul - a trip to the attic to unearth Trent's old toys that Grandma saved for the last thirty years! Included in the loot: a football helmet and pads, Star Wars figures, matchbox cars and Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em robots! Today I'm thankful for large painted chickens and saved-for-thirty-years football pads.

Thursday: So, I was a little bit worried about trying to enforce manners with Paul in an unfamiliar house with lots of people he didn't know very well during a large meal with actual, breakable dishware. Turns out I didn't have to worry. I missed the meal entirely. I spent the day in bed or in the bathroom with a nasty stomach bug. So Paul's manners didn't bother me one bit. (But I'm told they were fine and he had fun talking smack with Uncle Deron.) Today I'm thankful for Carroll Thompson's graciousness  as she prepared and served the entire meal herself while I groaned upstairs. And also for indoor plumbing.

Friday: Ahhh...better. I could contemplate the idea of a saltine cracker and some Sprite. We traveled home and by evening I felt good enough to dress up and go to World Vision The Story Tour for a soaring, inspiring, soul-filling concert. Tell me your story, Show me your wounds, And I'll show you what love sees, When love looks at you. My heart filled at the hope that many of the waiting children would find sponsors who would pray for them, help meet their needs and let them know they're special. After meeting two children we sponsor through World Vision in May, I can personally speak to the amazing work of World Vision not only in individual lives, but in entire communities. We searched pictures for Lesotho kids - perchance there was someone we knew! Paul was clearly touched, too. Midway through the program he leaned over and asked, "Mum! Next school day, I go staff care or carpool?" But the next day he was still processing it because he said, "Mum, yous and daddy makes sure me and Sam got em food and you's take care of us. Some kids need 'em someone give 'em food, too?" Today I am thankful for people who care enough to care.

Saturday: We packed up again and headed to Nana and Papa's for lunch with my side of the family. Paul enjoyed playing legos and riding bikes with his boy cousins while Sam helped the little girls with their dress up dolls. My brother and sister-in-law brought home their girls (now 4 1/2 and 3) from Russia last year, so they understand the "complexity and delicacy" of weaving children from hard places into a family. Today I am grateful for our family and for their amazing support on this parenting journey.

Sunday: The goal today - unpack, do laundry, pay bills, decorate. Screech...rewind. Sam started feeling bad Saturday evening and, sure enough, spent most of the night in the bathroom. And so I spent most of the night in there with her. Because that's what mothers do, apparently. She finally started sleeping around 4 am, so I thought I'd catch a bit of a break, but then Trent came down with it, too. Paul, blessedly, did not. So I was left to contemplate which is the worser of parenting options: a sick kid or a healthy, energetic and super-clingy-after-such-a-crazy-week kid with sick and tired parents. After 24 hours of Paul being the only healthy and well-rested member of the family, I'm thinking the latter. But fortunately a friend's mom arranged a playdate, so he had a fun couple of hours playing and I had a chance to go to the store for more apple juice, Sprite and crackers. Today I am thankful for friends who have opened their hearts and their homes to our sweet boy.

Update on Operation Christmas Child Shoeboxes

Check out where OCC shoeboxes from Kentucky are heading. Yep, Lesotho's on the list. How cool would that be, if one of our boxes ended up in the hands of one of Paul's friends or of one of our sponsored kids? (FYI - Candy is hidden in gloves.) Yep, God knows how to work glimpses of Him into our every day.

And, aren't you impressed with this photo, which involved a screenshot of an email meshed with this coworker's picture of Paul into a Pages document and saved as a PDF file into iPhoto. Whew! Needless to say, I didn't get QUITE as much editing work done this Friday morning as I'd hoped. Go figure.

LET THE FESTIVITIES...stay very low key

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...everywhere we go...

I have a coworker who already has Christmas trees bought, in her house and decorated. (You know who you are.) She is now planning to decorate her office (which, incidentally, is directly below my office), so that all who drive by will see the lights shining so brightly in her window and will wonder why the window of the scrooge upstairs is so dark and spiritless. Bah humbug.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm about decorating, I'm excited about the holidays this year, I really am. Especially when I remember my holiday mood last year. By last Thanksgiving 2011 we had been matched with our Pacman for six months. We knew that he was struggling in the orphanage and we knew that there was absolutely nothing we could do about it. Others, who had been matched December 2010, were FINALLY getting their approval papers, but on our end all was silent. Fears that our paperwork had been lost, that the country might shut down adoptions, that Pacman needed help were very real and oh, so painful. (Waiting parents, I KNOW the angst you're feeling; that desire to trust in God's timing, in the country's process, in your agency conflicting with the parents' heart that needs to love, protect, cherish your child. I know. You are in my prayers.)

This Christmas he's with us! And I want to shout and sing and dance and bake cookies and buy gazoodles of presents and have parties and shower him with all the Collier-Thompson Christmas merriment that he's missed in his six years.

But I want to do so oh, so quietly and calmly because anticipation and anxiety about anything that deviates from our regularly scheduled programming puts all his systems on red alert. (And, oddly enough, I'm not at my best parenting potential when little man is bouncing off the walls at 4:45 a.m. because SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT TODAY wahoo.)

It has already started, this processing of holiday emotions, with Operation Christmas Child. In April, for Easter, while still at the orphanage, Paul received a Christmas Shoebox from Team Hope. (I know, Christmas for Easter, sometimes these things take time.)

With the build up to Operation Christmas Child at his school, and the showing of pictures and videos of kids with his similar history receiving shoeboxes, he had a lot of mixed emotions to work through. He remembers his shoebox of gifts very well, and the excitement that surrounded it. But he also remembers that the big boys took the little kids' candy. So when we packed his shoebox he insisted on hiding the candy in the gloves. And he remembers that he and his friends got toys, but then those toys went missing, too. So while we packed a shoebox for another boy somewhere around the world, he worried how the boy would keep the toys safe. And so we prayed for the safety of the boy and the safety of the toys. And "Why crying, Mommy? Why sad?" Sad tears for the ones still waiting; grateful tears for the one now home, now safe.

The giving of the shoeboxes in the CAL chapel parade was filled with excitement on his part and a fair amount of emotional detachment on my part (to keep from completely breaking down. Yes, dear, the guidance counselor is crying. Again.)

Not coincidentally, I think, the evening after OCC chapel and all the next morning, Mr. Control Freak reared his bossy little head. It's a coping mechanism, I get it, the anxiety and trauma that makes a six year old believe that he will truly die if he's not the boss of his world, but disciplining through it can suck the holiday joy right out of a person. I become robot-parent. Do not engage the crazy. Do not engage the crazy. All systems stuck on neutral. Unphased by drama. I am robot-parent. "No hurts." Repeat, "No hurts. It's OK to be mad, it's not OK to hurt." Do not engage the crazy. Eventually calm returned, the litter box got cleaned (another blog post, our is-this-healing-is-this-helping-Mama-needs-some-peace-RIGHT-NOW attachment discipline strategy) and family fun returned.

Next up, Thanksgiving school program complete with Indian costume and field trip to sing at nursing home. (Just hit me that I forgot to request a personal day the day of field trip and am not available to chaperone. Um, good luck with that.) We've been counting the sleeps and I may or may not have been fudging a little. "Still a lot of sleeps away. A lot. No worries. Everything is JUST THE SAME for a lot a lot of sleeps."

Then a trip to Grandma's for Thanksgiving. Which requires packing. He's usually great once we arrive at a place, family intact, but just kill me now with the packing. Trust takes time. Healing takes time. Packing=drama.

Then Christmas with all its hoopla and build up and anticipation. Dear friends, please just humor my indulgent fantasy about centering this entire month on the fact that it's Jesus's birthday and therefore we're very calmly and peacefully and THERE IS NOTHING DIFFERENT focusing on Him; about waking up late (say, 6:30 am) on Christmas morning wandering downstairs, and noticing, very low key, that, well lookit, there's a couple of presents left about for Jesus's birthday. Whaddya know and who woulda thunk it? Keep calm and carry on. 'Cuz this Christmas, we're family.

Christmas 2011, when I so desperately wanted him home.



Fright Night

OK, I'm just going to come out and admit it. I am a Halloween party pooper. I wasn't very good at it with my oldest (special thanks to our church at the time for hosting a costume party alternative), and now that I get a second chance I find that I'm still not good at it. I have tried to jump in on the fun, I really have. I like costumes and costume parties and playing dress up - this summer Paul and I played Captain America and Super Mom (my own made up superhero) regularly, and in seventh grade Sam won the Disney day spirit week award for her rendition of the Mad Hatter. I like candy, if not for my kids then for me. I like my neighbors. There are so many things to like about this "holiday".

But I just cannot. I CANNOT.

I tried. I really did. We took Paul trick-or-treating through the zoo, with its fun characters, animals (although most were inside for the evening), candy and cutely costumed kids. He walked the entire time (hoorah, anxiety free!) and enjoyed getting candy, but overall seemed to think the entire thing was rather bizarre. We also skipped Saturday soccer for the neighborhood costume parade. Ditto above on the walking, candy and bizzareness.

Our Transformer - more than meets the eye!

According to the Chicago Tribune, those who opt out of the harmless fun of this day are lame, lame, lame. Whatever. Let me tell you what I hate about the harmless fun of this day:

• Becoming the candy police. When people give my kids candy, they have the mistaken belief that it is THEIR candy to eat whenever and wherever they want. "Gimme my candy!" We're working on a few things over here that have to do with who's the boss, showing respect and self-control, and I don't appreciate a 40 pound bag of candy attempting to usurp my authority.
• The craziness of candy. Candy contains food dye, sugar, its evil twin high fructose corn syrup and preservatives. Research shows no conclusive evidence that these substances CAUSE spazz-outedness. HOWEVER, several studies (as well as our own personal experience) indicate a close and personal relationship between candy and craziness. Paul tolerates sugar and processed foods much less effectively than his has-obviously-built-up-a-tolerance older sister. Do we need any more crazy in our house? No, no we do not.
• The ethical dilemma of chocolate. I cannot even tell you how much angst Hershey kisses cause me. Because I love Hershey kisses. And yet there is a significant amount of research that indicates that children are working in forced labor conditions on the cocoa farms that supply most American chocolate manufacturers. Somewhere in the Ivory Coast a destitute family sold their child to a cocoa farm trafficker where that child will work fourteen hours a day in return for a cup of rice just so I can enjoy a candy bar. I CANNOT EVEN BEAR IT! So we buy chocolate believed to be slavery free. But what about the Nestle crunch that ends up in the trick-or-treat bag? Can I eat it and NOT be haunted by the images of pain on a little brown face?
• Sensory overload. Trick-or-treat at the zoo and the neighborhood parade offered about as much sensory input as Paul (and I) can handle. Kids from hard places struggle with sensory overload, and the sights, smells, sounds, scariness and general mayhem of Halloween put their systems on full alert. In order to heal, to attach, to grow, my guy needs simplicity and familiarity, Dr. Karen Purvis says so. How can I listen to her gentle, soothing, authoritative voice without wanting to give everything that I am and everything that I have to nurturing my child's need for simplicity, safety, nurture?
• The very real trauma of death. Several weeks ago my daughter's leopard gecko died tragically and unexpectedly. We buried sweet baby Norbert. Subsequent bedtime conversations with my son processed Norbert's death, his burial, what would happen to Norbert's body, and what would happen to Norbert's soul. (Theology 101 - lizards who love Jesus go to Heaven. The end.) But not only did we process Norbert's death. Because my son spent formative years in a place where death is a frequent visitor, we also processed the deaths of a couple of his agemates. What happened to their bodies? What happened to their souls? Did they go up (heaven) or down (hell)? It was actually very therapeutic. Until our NEIGHBOR put SKELETONS in her YARD! And also a Devil. And also the specter of Death. Suddenly nighttime conversations returned to the lizard - would his bones pop up in the yard?; and his friends - would their bones pop out of the ground? Why didn't they stay in heaven? Was the devil gonna get 'em and take 'em down? Harmless fun? Not so much.

So, lame or not, we're opting out. We're skipping trick-or-treat. Instead we told Paul that our Halloween tradition is to eat dinner in the basement, complete with fair trade chocolate and organic suckers (deliciously sweet but preservative and dye free), then we're going to play games and watch a movie. He seemed skeptical as this didn't sound exactly like his friends' rendition of the holiday, but at the same time thinks that sounds pretty fun. A movie on a school night? Wahoo!

Some day maybe we'll start a new tradition and serve others on Halloween night. But this year we're aiming for family simplicity, nurture and fun.

So Many Mommies

Translator's note: The Sesotho word for Mom is M'e (pronounced may).

It started with Trent on the phone as Paul was getting ready for bed. "Who dat?" Paul asked.

"It's Grandma," I replied.

"Who Grandma?"

(Now, there is something you must know about Paul, and perhaps about other English language learners and/or cross-cultural kids and/or boys. Some things he has to witness only once to master. (Buying a hot dog at a concession stand, for instance. It took only one experience for him learn to pull two "paper monies" from his chore bank, march confidently to the complete stranger at the concession stand, and request in perfectly clear English, "Hot dog an' bun an' ketchup, please.") Other things we have worked on every day for five solid months, yet they remain a puzzle. (Such as the letter U. Just this morning he showed me the paper filled with letter U's that he had worked on yesterday. "What letter is that?" I asked. He stared at it doubtfully. "It's in your name," I supplied helpfully. "A!" he declared confidently. "Um, no." "P-A-U-L," he whispered, reviewing the letters in his name. "P?" "No, it's not a P!" "U?" "Yes! U!") So, does he know who Grandma is? YES, he knows who Grandma is!)

"Grandma is Daddy's mommy,"I said.

"Daddy has a M'e?!?" he asked incredulously. Pause, then, "You's have a M'e?"

"Yes, Nana is my M'e."

"Nana is you's M'e?!? You's have a M'e?!?"

"Yes, I have a M'e. Nana is my M'e." (I cannot even tell you how many times I repeat myself. I am a broken record player, saying the same things over and over and over again.)

Now, being as this was bedtime, and theoretically time for sleep, Paul felt the need to discuss this revelation more in depth. He proceeded to list EVERY SINGLE friend he had in America and ask if they all had a mommy. Then he wanted to know if their mommy had a mommy. Yes, they all had mommies and, so far as I knew, their mommies all still had mommies.

"Why dey so many mommies in America?"

Why, indeed. That one caught me a little off-guard. Was he ready for the discussion of the unparalleled blessings of our middle class American existence - clean water, adequate and nutritious food, jobs, public education, social service programs for those in need, relative freedom from violence and war, health care?

But then he launched into a list of those children he remembered from MIS who got 'em new mommies and daddies. "...den Palamang get 'em new mommy and daddy when you meet me MIS," he finished, snuggling into me. "Who get 'em next new mommy and daddy?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know..." I supplied lamely, thinking of all those precious little brown faces coupled with illness and poverty coupled with changes in the Lesotho adoption process coupled with serious debate about African intercountry adoption in general.

But he continued, "Big boys and big girls, too? Dey get 'em new mommies, too?"

"Oh, well..." I knew the grim futures faced by those who age out. I'd seen them on the streets, threadworn and hungry, scrounging for a few loti in exchange for guarding the cars in the church parking lot. I also knew whom he was thinking. At MIS the big boys and girls often care for the littles, and Paul had pointed out in pictures one particular big boy who was his abuti, his brother figure. "We can pray that God will find them ALL new mommies and daddies."

"And Retselise and his ausi, too?" he asked, twirling my hair.

"Yes," I choked. Oh, God, this is so hard. "Them, too."

With that assurance Paul fell fast asleep, hand still clutched in my hair. And I was left to disentangle the blessings of so many mommies in America with the tragedy of too few mommies somewhere else.

To sponsor an unadoptable orphan, literally to become his or her family around the world, visit Make Way Partners in Sudan or Help One Now in Haiti.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

Paul had been home about six weeks when he tried his first Famous Amos chocolate chip cookie. It wasn't that we were deliberately keeping cookies from him (yes we were), it's just that he really seemed to prefer strawberries and oranges. (That's our story and we're sticking to it.) Anyway, he took a bite of the cookie, looked at me wonderingly, took another bite, then said, "Paul liken dis!"

Midway through the bag he suddenly pointed at a chocolate chip then at his skin. "Mum! Paul is dis." Then he pointed to the cookie part and my skin. "Mama is dis." He grinned. "Match. Cookie match."

I worried about Paul being the only (so far) black child in a white family. (He's still not sure what color to call us. Yellow? White? Pink? Cookie-color seems the most satisfactory to him thus far.) Would this make attachment more difficult, his realization that he didn't look like the rest of us tall, pale people? I read the books and the adult-adoptee blogs and talked to dozens of people, but each child and each family is unique - there's nothing quite like going through it to learn how it's gonna feel going through it.

Sam's the cookie baker at our house, but I remember that when making chocolate chip cookies, the chocolate chips must be folded carefully in to the batter. Adoption isn't a beat and bake process, there are a lot of days and months of slow, gentle folding. We have to adapt our lives, our schedules, in a patient rhythm to match the needs of the child, working him into the batter in a way that blends him into the family while retaining his own unique character.

Paul latched on to us shortly after meeting us, but it was an attachment born of desperation - that of someone clinging to the only available life raft in an unknown and unpredictable ocean. He was the chocolate chip perched unsteadily atop our family cookie. People often said, when seeing him wrapped barnacle-like around my neck, "Wow. He really attached quickly, didn't he?" But it wasn't attachment. It was anxiety. "We're working on it," I'd reply, cuddling - and trying not to buckle under - the 50 pound strain.

But yesterday I walked into the school cafeteria. "Paul! There's your mom!" several of the children yelled. (His Kindergarten classmates  readily accept that he's chocolate chip and I'm cookie; they know that families are made in many ways and colors.) Paul looked up. "Mum!" he exclaimed. He flashed his dazzling smile. He wrapped his red-splotched-chapel-shirted arms around my neck and gave me a big kiss, then he let go and returned to animated conversation with his friends. And I savored that ketchup-hinted taste of our chocolate chip cookie family.

So I didn't have a good chocolate chip cookie picture.
But this s'more picture is really cute and the analogy still applies.
And FYI - I prefer to be the golden graham cracker, not the freakishly white marshmallow. Thanks.

Sharing Lunch

The buying of school lunches is all computerized and digitized nowadays, but when I was a kid we had to 1) pack a lunch or 2) bring actual money to buy a lunch. (I also walked to school. In the snow. Uphill. No, really, I did.) I vividly remember a day in the sixth grade when I forgot my lunch - just left it on the counter as I rushed to school. Come lunchtime the realization sank in - I had no lunch; I had no money. I was going to starve.

But wait. I had a friend. The sweetest, kindest girl in the entire school (later to be voted high school Homecoming queen.) She realized my plight and offered to share HER lunch. Then the other girls in the class, following Missy's lead, offered to share THEIR lunches. (Sneakily though, so as not to incur the wrath of Miss Lunch Lady.) All my friends pitched in a little bit, a sandwich here, some chips there. Soon I had more than enough. Disaster averted.

Seventh grade us (bc I couldn't find sixth grade us.) Ahhh, middle school in the '80's.

Fortunately, my friend sat right next to me and was happy to share. But what if your hungry friend lives half-a-world away?

Yesterday we learned from our friends in Lesotho that MIS, the orphanage where Paul lived for several years, is in crisis, for a variety of complicated reasons. Their most pressing need: a stove and electricity to make it possible to get "the kids fed on a more regular basis." Not to get the kids fed three meals a day, but to get the kids fed on a MORE regular basis. Implying not that they forgot their lunch, but that lunch isn't really an option to begin with.(The staple food is pap - boiled corn meal that reminds me of thick, bland grits. Sticks to the ribs and serves a lot for very little, but does require boiling. Thus the need for a stove.) 

Paul talks about his friend Retsedise often. His friend is hungry.

The Dimmocks (missionaries to Lesotho - www.frankandnancydimmock.com) estimate that $1000 will meet the need ($100 for electrical wiring upgrades to the kitchen; $500 for new stove; $400 for several months of electricity). If everyone reading this (blogspot tells me there are about 75 of you - wow, more than just my mom, thank you!) pitches in a bit of your own lunch, Paul's friends at MIS will have enough. Disaster averted.

The Dimmock's mission, Ministry of Hope Lesotho, is a tax-deductible, 501c3 registered organization, and they can ensure the monies go where needed. Ministry of Hope Lesotho, PO Box 1462, Black Mountain, NC 28711. Write Lesotho stove or electricity on the memo line.

I'll share my lunch with my son's friend. Will you?


Paul and friends 2011. "Yum...bacon!"



Go Get'em Toys

We have purposely kept the purchasing of toys fairly low-key since we've been home from Africa. Life in America is overwhelming enough. (As are adoption expenses.) We naturally wanted to focus on relationships and on building our family through time spent together as opposed to time spend with an inanimate plastic object made in China. I admittedly have some first-world angst about buying plastic junk, but also, from my vantage point, we already have a LOT of toys - the basement is a sensory-rich environment with a mini-tramp, gymnastics mat, punching bag, ball net, chalkboard, paints, markers, half-a-gazillion stuffed animals, videos, puzzles and games, plus a bookcase filled with hot wheels, legos and musical instruments. And also, the iTouch and iPad that are technically mine and/or Sam's are used primarily by Paul. So he thinks they're his. (Even thought they are NOT.) For the first three months of life with us Paul was more than content with this arrangement. "Paul lot toys," he'd note after playing, sorting, sharing then putting them all away.

So imagine my surprise when, after playing happily in the basement for almost an hour, Paul's five-year-old-buddy-from-down-the-street tromps upstairs with a question. "Where's all Paul's toys?"

Me: "In the basement. On the bookshelves and in the closet." (Thinking - duh, kid, you were just playing with them.)

Buddy: "Why doesn't he have any toys in his room? Why doesn't he have any Power Ranger toys? Why doesn't he have any guns? Why doesn't he have a lot of toys? I have a lot of toys."

Me, gritting my teeth: "Why don't you two go outside and play?"

So they scooted outside to ride bikes (oh, yes, Paul also has a brand-new bike, a scooter, inline skates, jump ropes, sidewalk chalk and half-a-gazillion balls). But now at least once a day Paul questions why he doesn't have any Power Ranger toys. The child doesn't even KNOW from Power Rangers! Nevertheless he wants not one but TWO Power Ranger toys. (One for him and one for Buddy.) "Go get 'em toys, Mum. Go store get 'em toys."

On that note, Trent took Paul for his very first Happy Meal on Saturday after soccer. I had to leave soccer early for field hockey (how DO you parents of multiples do it? I'm filled with angst and guilt whenever I have to miss one child's event for another child's event. Aaagh!). I texted Trent: How's Paul?

Trent: Happy with a happy meal. No wonder kids are fat. This is easier than parenting.

Paul came home with a happy meal rocket launcher spinner toy that he enjoyed launching at the cat. Sorry, cat. Then he went to Buddy's to show him that he, too, now had an inanimate plastic object made in China. Hoorah.

Paul also went to his first American birthday party last week. We tried to prepare him in advance for how parties work here in America - playtime, craft, then cake! Then the birthday boy will open presents. He was excited about all of this until the realization finally sunk in - Wait a minute! The birthday boy keeps ALL the presents? "All, all, all? So many? Why no share?" He listed his friends who he knew were going to be at the party. "No share Buddy? No share Sissy? No share nothing? Keep all, all, all presents?" We almost didn't go to the party he was so upset about this, and as it was we were twenty minutes late. OBVIOUSLY, birthdays at MIS were structured very, very differently.

But we did finally make it to the party and he had great fun! He played in the bouncies and painted a guitar. He early on noticed the balloons tied to EACH AND EVERY chair. "Balloon for Buddy? Balloon for Sissy? Balloon for Paul?" he asked, very intently. "YES!" I assured him, hoping it was true. "Everyone gets a balloon." This was an awesome and amazing revelation for Paul, and he was beyond happy with the idea that everyone got a balloon. In fact, Paul got two! After the party, he bounced home with his two balloons, gave one to his neighborhood friend, after which they tied them to their bikes and rode like maniacs until they popped. A satisfying venture all around.

How do we keep his contentment with "balloons for everyone" and his desire to share presents with others in the face of neighborhood friend's gazillion toys and our own American excess?

"Just Come Over for Dinner"

Last week in school Paul was tested on his "kindergarten readiness" skills - knows name, knows address, etc. I am THRILLED to report that he now knows (and understands and accepts!) his full name. This is a big deal! It took a lot of bedtime discussions to work through the surname confusion, discussions that naturally opened up more questions about adoption and birth families and pregnancy and caregivers and friends still in the orphanage. (Is it just me, or do these existential questions arise only at bedtime, when everyone's tired except the child who's meant to be falling asleep?)

He also knows his lunch number, which is odd because he never buys lunch. I pack a lunch - chock full of fruit - every day. I don't even know if he knows that buying a lunch is an option. So I've never even mentioned that he has a lunch number. Yet he knows it. Hmmmm.

He does not know his address, at least for the teacher. (He does know his address when his dad is threatening to tickle him if he doesn't recite it. He'll blurt it out in squeals of anticipatory hysteria.) Instead of grades, perhaps the teacher needs to implement tickling as a consequence.

I was lamenting the learning of addresses and phone numbers to another teacher, a second grade teacher, when she disclosed that they work on this in second grade, too. Second grade! We have another chance at this key element of learning! A reprieve. She said some of her second graders still struggle with remembering their address. One little girl, frustrated with the line of questioning, said, "Mrs. Teacher, why don't you just come over for dinner? Then you'll know where I live!"

The teacher gave her an 18 out of 20. The little girl was problem solving, and isn't that what we need to teach all our kids?

Teachers are welcome to come over for dinner anytime!

Seed Planters

It's an unnerving experience to adopt a child at six years of age (or four or eight or...). Brain research and psychosocial studies indicate the vital importance of nurturing care during the first three years of a child's life in establishing that child's ability to trust, to self-regulate, to attach, to form healthy relationships. During the preschool years, children learn independence, social conscience and how to interact positively with community. That which is missed early on can be retaught, but, like learning a foreign language as an adult, it is a slow, laborious, confusing process.

Adopting an older child means not knowing much, if anything, about your child's early life; not knowing how his crucial early experiences interplayed with his - also unknown - genetic structure. There are scars, that much is evident, but what were the causes, just how deep the wounds, and how strong the personality's ability to heal?

As we move into the triage stage with Paul (see Jen Hatmaker's blog for uncanny insight into the stages of adoption (was she spying on us during our honeymoon and spaz-o-rama stage? #stalker)) we glimpse evidence of his early hurts, his losses and his fears. But we also glimpse evidence of the caregivers who came before us, bandaging and nurturing and comforting.

He was loved, that much is certain. We know very little about his first family, but we do know that they gave him life and strength, a warrior spirit tempered with playful humor. He eased so willingly into the role of cuddled, held, cherished son that I am certain that he was once upon a time a cuddled, held cherished son. I wish I could know his first mom and dad, could thank them for pouring what they had into him. His first family gave him the seed of life and surrounded this with fertile, abundant soil in which that seed could grow.

An orphanage can be a scary, lonely, hungry place for a preschool child. And Paul is starting to talk about some of those scary, lonely and hungry times. But he talks more often about happy, playful, abundant times. These caregivers that he misses and about whom he shares stories and for whom he prays - M'e Mavis, the orphanage director; M'e Nancy and Mamanyoma, who readied his paperwork so he could be eligible for adoption; Miss Sue who walked him to school; Shelley who bought toys and who shared playdoh and love and laughter; the missionaries who built playgrounds and forged friendships - they watered his seed and planted seeds of their own: seeds of fun, of belonging, of God's love, of sacrifice and patience.

Those seeds continue to grow and bloom in Paul's life; we are the fortunate ones who get to witness the fruits and the flowers of their work. Kea Leboha. Thank you.

Shelley 's heart touching and transforming the lives of little ones.
(Picture stolen from her FB page 😊)

Milestone Moments

I tend to get overly emotional about those "milestone moments" in life, you know - first steps, graduations, awards ceremonies. Oddly, though, the emotion often hits well before or well after the event rather than during the event itself. Trent, "Why are you crying?" Me: Sniff. "Junior ring ceremony." Sniff, sniff. Trent: "Sam's in eighth grade." Me: "I know. Can you believe it?"

The first day of school was like that. Kindergarten for Paul, high school for Sam. Big deal moment. Lots of moms were crying. No me. I got all my crying done on Monday. By Wednesday I had my war face on and my excited-yet-very-chill speech memorized. "Kindergarten is fun. High school is fun. Fun but in a relaxed, not at all overwhelming sort of way." Cheerleader-meets-surfer-dude. "Hip, hooray, man. Keepin it real, you know. Rah."

Sam desperately wanted a couple of adorable brother-sister first day of school pictures. Paul, who normally basks in the limelight, wanted nothing to do with pictures. I also wanted pictures of course, so I could look back on them next week and cry, but didn't want to make it into a big deal. So this is what we got:

We're all super excited about the first day of school, can't you tell?

Trent was in charge of taking Paul to school on Wednesday because Paul is much braver with him than with me. Trent walked him into class then Paul said, "Daddy, go. Paul listen teacher." I stayed out of sight at school all week, which wasn't easy because I work in the same wing of the building! I felt like I was on a kindergarten duck-and-cover mission. I had to reconnoiter the hallways before moving from point A to point B, hiding in stairwells if anyone resembling a kindergartner appeared.

But now I'm all emotional because Paul had a GREAT week! I got reports throughout the day from my undercover agents: "Paul was all smiles at lunch." "Paul watched the other kids then played with a friend on the monkey bars." "Paul showed his 'I Can' items to the class." And, get this, Paul got a 4 (out of 4) on his FIRST memory verse test! (And it was a true 4, not a teacher-giving-grace 4 - I asked! ('Cuz we knew that he knew his memory verse at home, but would he say it for the teacher? And/or would he change it to his made-up version he thought incredibly hilarious (had to do with tooting, don't ask.)))

Parents of adopted older children miss a lot of firsts. We didn't get to witness his first steps or hear his first words or exclaim over his first lost tooth (although we did get pictures! Thanks, SB!). We didn't even get to experience his true first day of school - he graduated preschool last December and started level 1 in January, months before we met him. But we get to rejoice in so, so many "second firsts", those first time milestone moments with us, his second family who will cherish these moments forever.

Sam got her adorable brother-sister first day of school picture, after all!

Transformations

Dear random stranger at the zoo:

Yes, I know he is looks too big to be carried. No, I do not want your inane parenting advice to: Just put him down and walk away. Since you seem to care more about hearing yourself speak than trying to understand why he might need a bit of reassurance from me (when it's fairly obvious we aren't a typical mother-son combo), then I won't dignify your statement with an explanation of why just putting him down and walking away could completely traumatize him! Because no, he may not follow me. And yes, I'd rather have all 50 pounds of him in my arms and loved than off by himself, alone and scared. As Paul would say, "Ser-usly!"

Mostly I didn't even care about random stranger at the zoo, so excited was I that my son, who went into catatonic-anxiety-shut-down mode the last time we visited the zoo, was in my arms and eager to feed the lorikeets. "Waddis nectar? Juice? Why? Paul drink 'em? Why no?"

Look, Mom! No hands! Riding a lion!

When Sam was in second grade, we inherited some tadpoles from the pond store. (Yes, I know I just completely changed the subject. But it relates. At least, I think it relates - I didn't get a lot of sleep last night.) She decided to chart their metamorphosis for her second-grade science fair project. She set up an aquarium complete with stepping stone rocks, researched what to feed them, took pictures of the process, documented when and how they changed, and made clay models of each step of the transformation. (She totally should have won, IMHO. Her project was CLEARLY the best.)

The tadpole-into-frog transformation is fun to watch. It's not like, say, a panda which starts as a very, very small panda then grows into a very, very big panda. Tadpoles start as fish-looking creatures and utterly transform into frog-looking creatures. First their gill structure begins to change; then they grow back legs; then sometime later they grow front legs; then their tail, well, I'm still not sure what happens to their tail exactly, disappears? shrinks?; then they hop onto dry land and start croaking at 3 a.m.

They have these hilarious moments of utter awkwardness, when they aren't really one thing or the other, with tiny back legs and a super long tail and a weird wobbly head. (A bit like middle school students.)

Sam chose a scripture verse for the project. (This was a science fair project for a Christian school. Which one would THINK would eliminate the Daddy-made-this-alternative-fuel-cell-in-his-university-laboratory-for-me-so-I-can-win science fair project. One would think.) Her scripture was 2 Corinthians 5:17 - Therefore if anyone is in Christ he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come. The judge stated  that this scripture didn't entirely fit the project. He argued (not that I was arguing back. Sheesh. It wasn't MY science fair project. It's just that he was clearly WRONG and needed enlightening) that when a person decides to follow Christ, he changes completely and immediately, while the tadpoles transformed into frogs over time.

Okay, ya'll, I've been a Christian counselor for a LONG time. And I've seen, up close and personal, that while turning one's life over to Christ immediately imparts the power of the Holy Spirit to effect change, the actual transformation into Christ-likeness can be long and awkward and cause one to feel like he has the wrong gill structure and too-tiny-legs and a too-long-tail. Transformation takes time.

I've thought about those tadpoles this summer with Paul. When we first met him he was so scared - he didn't know us, he didn't trust us, this new world in which he found himself was completely baffling and foreign. His first trip to the zoo we left after ten minutes because he was so overwhelmed. His first venture into a classroom of kids he literally climbed my head in terror to escape.

But it seems his gill structure is starting to change. He's starting to breath in those feelings of trust in our love and security that we'll be there for him. Last week he walked happily into YMCA daycamp every morning and stayed all day. Saturday he explored every inch of the zoo, sometimes in my arms, and sometimes skipping happily by my side.

And then came Monday. Back-to-school day did not go well, which was mostly totally my fault. Issues cropped up that I hadn't even considered. And for some reason the fact that I was mostly totally to blame for his meltdown made it all the more frustrating. It was hard to see all the other froglets sitting in their seats and coloring their pages and wondering why he's crying and clinging, still struggling with too-tiny-legs and a too-long-tail.

Because random stranger at the zoo and clearly wrong science fair judge and mommy who sometimes often struggles to understand his hurts - transformation takes time.

Channeling his inner tiger.

Their Turn

Paul has been home for a little over two months. Wow, how life has changed in such a short time span, both for him and for us. It was a super intensive, 24/7 parenting kind of summer; one that reminded me that super intensive, 24/7 parenting is hard, Hard, HARD, but that it is also well worth the effort. As the wise Jimmy Dugan (A League of Their Own) said, "It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great." (He also said, "There's no crying in baseball!" which seems equally relevant to my life.)

Our counseling intake went well last week - it was a good chance to review where we've been and where we are now. Many of the issues that we dealt with early on - sleep, epic tantrums, catatonic anxiety - have virtually disappeared. We struggled to remember the last time he raged. That's not to say we don't still have issues to work through - grief and trauma runs deep, and healing those scars takes a lot of love and a lot of support and a lot of God. But the boundary testing that we're working through now feels more six-year-old-super-energetic-boy parenting than it does post-traumatic-stress-and-trauma parenting.

A brief interaction today reminded me just how much English Paul has learned (!), but it reminded me even more just how special it is to know you are loved and that you belong to a family. Four children that we met at Ministry of Hope while in Lesotho are meeting their forever families tomorrow. Paul heard Sam and I talking about them. He said, "New m'e and ntate for Thabo and Sebata and Mpho? New mommy and daddy? Like Paul new mommy and daddy?" We said yes, they were getting a new mommy and daddy like Paul got a new mommy and daddy. His face lit up with that special Paul smile that changes his whole countenance. He said, "Their turn? Thabo and Sebata and Mpho turn?" We said yes, it was their turn for a family.

Paul was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "When Retsedise turn family?"

Sam and I didn't know how to answer. Retsedise is a beautiful little boy, one of Paul's age mates at MIS, with special medical needs. With the slow pace of Lesotho adoptions, and with Retsedise's needs, his "turn" may never come. So we didn't answer. Instead we prayed that God would care for Retsedise and his sister, and that God would provide just the right family for them at just the right time.

Please pray for the children who are still waiting their "turn" for a new mommy and daddy. Adoption is not the only answer for all the orphaned children in the world, but it is one answer, it is a beautiful answer, and God is the only one who can cut through all the bureaucratic mess to "place the lonely in families."

Paul (stripes) and his friend who is still waiting his turn.

Out of the Frying Pan

It's funny, sometimes, how one set of issues will resolve, only to leave another, trickier set of issues in its place. Not funny ha-ha; but funny on-my-knees-praying-at-4:30-in-the-morning.

Issue #1: Release death grip from my neck and go play like a little boy. CHECK! On Monday, a group of neighborhood boys were playing football in our yard. Paul was fascinated. First he watched, covertly, out the window. Then, he opened the door, ran outside, screamed "Good job, boys!" and ran back inside. The boys eventually became curious about this reverse-ding-dong-ditchem cheerleader they had and asked him if he wanted to play. He shook his head no the first couple of times, but when they finished the game and hopped on their bikes, he begged me to let him go for a spin with the boys. After one spin around the block, I scooted to watch from home while Paul happily rode in the midst of the pack. I was so excited to see him comfortable and playing and having fun with kids that I nearly broke down and cried.

NEW ISSUE: Now all Paul wants to do is "play big boys". Which wouldn't be a problem except the boys are all ten, eleven and twelve. They seem like great boys (most of them), and most of them have younger siblings (girls. Paul's not interested in playing dolls, more's the pity), but they are big boys with big boy interests and big boy conversations. We had noticed previously with his cousins and some friends that he seems more keyed in to older boys than to kids his own age. He's street smart and competitive, and there's something about the bigger boys that attracts him. But I'm hoping to dial that back a little bit, let him be a six year old who plays six year old games and has six year old conversations with six year old friends. So now the prayer is how to limit and supervise his play time with the big boys without impeding on his one social connection thus far.

Issue #2: Overcoming fear of school. CHECK! This week Paul's been going to a kindergarten readiness class. (We've been trying to call it camp, to avoid confusion with the anticipation of school, WHICH STARTS IN LESS THAN THREE WEEKS!). Day one: clung to me all but the last twenty minutes, when he finally said, "Go, Mom. Go work. Paul stay." That afternoon/evening, processed "school" incessantly. (Broke my heart a little bit - "No, the teacher won't hit you with a stick." "Yes, I promise I will always come for you and take you home.") Day two: wanted to be carried to the door of the school, but then walked into his classroom. Days three and four: walked in like a big boy, happy and excited to be there. Whew! There's a lot of trauma in his history surrounding school, so this is HUGE!

Paul in his CAL T-shirt, ready to audition for the chapel band.

NEW ISSUE: Paul may be ready emotionally for school, but is school ready for him? He's enrolled in kindergarten at a wonderful K-12 Christian school, the school where I work and where his big sister will be a freshman. And I know he'll be loved on and prayed for. But it's also a rigorously academic school, and even the kindergartners jump in and take off reading and writing, adding and subtracting. Paul can match corporate logos on television to various items around our house, he can tell me how to get from our house to the sporting goods store, he can cook his own breakfast, and he knows how to jump-start my car (long story). But he's only been speaking English for two months. He doesn't know his letters. He gets easily frustrated and confused with numbers, which results in randomly shouting any number that comes to mind. And sitting still doesn't seem to come naturally. But we're going to try it. And we're going to pray, pray, pray it's not too frustrating or overwhelming, but that instead we can all work together to meet his needs right where they are.

Confessions

This post is for anyone who has, even briefly, contemplated sending your kid(s) to boarding school. For elementary school. Hey, maybe the Brits are on to something.

Not that I have. Contemplated this. Ever. Ahem.

For all intents and purposes, Paul is doing amazingly well. This morning, for the first time EVER, he got out of bed and walked downstairs to our bedroom! (It was six a.m., gah, but still!) I weaned myself from sleeping in his room a couple of weeks ago, and since then he has resorted to screaming, "Mum! MUM!" into the baby monitor in the wee hours of the morning. But he has gradually adjusted to the idea of sleeping alone in his own room and this morning he reminded me of any other six year old who'd bounced awake at six am.

THEN, after snuggling for a few minutes and Trent trying to persuade him to watch the British Open, he walked back upstairs and dressed himself. HUGE, people, HUGE. (Also the reason he is wearing a brown surf shirt and red athletic shorts today. NOT MY FAULT!)

Still, even though I realize I am so, so, blessed, and most days am privileged to laugh hilariously at his antics, and am the beloved recipient of full-on-tackle hugs and kisses, and even have a few minutes of solitude right now at 3:30 pm because HE AND SAM ARE PLAYING AND NOT FIGHTING!, there are still days when I send text messages like this:

Parenting is mentally and physically and emotionally exhausting. Parenting a special needs child ups the ante on that a gazillion times. And make no mistake, children who suffered abandonment or trauma or grief or institutionalized care or multiple placements have special needs. They may look healthy, and there may be moments when they act like every other firmly attached child on the planet, but their needs, their scars, their hurts are there, just under the surface, ready and waiting to suck the life out of their parents.

When we were still in limbo-mode with Paul's adoption, waiting and hoping and praying over his pictures, wondering if the paperwork would ever be signed to allow him to come home, Jen Hatmaker wrote this blog. I read it. And read it again. (And join her 100% in applauding the imminent start of school!) And thought, "Hmmm. Sounds like they're having a difficult adjustment." Then I thought, "Really, the adjustment period is difficult for everyone. I've read the research." Then I realized, "This is going to be hard. Not just for other people whom I've read about and counseled. For me."

But knowing in your heart that it's going to be difficult and walking through that difficulty are two totally different things. I have a confession to make. Part of me thought, "This adoption thing was God's idea. We've seen God's hand in this from the very beginning. And if God is for us, who can be against us. Right? How hard can it be with God on our side?"

Then I remembered Stephen (stoned), Daniel (lion's den), Peter (crucified upside down), Bible Paul (shipwrecked, flogged, etc. etc.), Jesus (flogged and crucified). And I took a deep, deep breath. "Alrighty, God. Here we go then, eh?"

I know there are parents out there who are facing even more difficult adjustments than ours. I know because I get your facebook posts, your whispered comments, "I sent your blog to a friend who adopted. They are really struggling," your emails. Please know that I am not complaining about Paul and even on the days that he "pinched and pulled and hurt my neck" with one of his full-on-tackle hugs, I love him and am committed to helping him heal. (YES, I did pick him up from the kids maze! Sheesh!) But please also know that if you have days when you don't immediately chase your child when he runs manically outside into the parking lot (it wasn't a busy parking lot!), but instead relish the few moments of peace and quiet, I UNDERSTAND. You are not alone.

It may not be easy, but God is a God who heals. Who comforts. Who does not judge those parents who don't immediately chase the manically-running-through-the-not-busy-parking-lot child, but who understands. Who offers blessed solitude.

We're going to counseling next week, people. I am ALL FOR seeking help and support from those who are knowledgeable and who can offer workable ideas and suggestions. (I'll let you know how it goes). And I'll work on adding a link to adoption and attachment professionals around the country, but can't just now because Paul and Sam are bored with squirting each other with water pistols and I'm afraid it might escalate if I don't intervene...

The YMCA

I have a long history with the YMCA. I worked at the Y in Bloomington all through college as a lifeguard/swim instructor/camp counselor, so the Y was directly responsible for financing my addiction to Pizza Express breadsticks. When we moved and I decided to be a stay-at-home mom to three-year-old Sam, I worked part-time at the YMCA in Louisville. (Yes, I realize this goes against the spirit of being a stay-at-home mom. And I'm OK with that. I'm a better stay-at-home mom when I'm working outside the home at least once in a while. Go figure.)

So, when we figured out that Paul LOVES the pool, the Y was my go-to choice for swim lessons.

Monday was Paul's first swim class.

I was a nervous wreck.

I suppose I put a bit too much emphasis on this swim class. This class was not about Paul learning to swim. (Heck, I can teach him how to swim.) Rather, this class became my benchmark to assess whether Paul could handle: 1) listening to a teacher; 2) following directions; and 3) engaging with other students. If he shut down and/or went into hyper-anxiety manic mode during swim class, I knew I'd have to seriously reassess our Kindergarten plan. And I didn't want to reassess our Kindergarten plan. Paul's educational future suddenly hinged on his success as a "guppy".

He did GREAT! Harvard, here we come! Or, at least, "flying fish". Whatever, it's all good.

The instructors called the kids to the edge of the pool, and with once brief glance back at me Paul joined the others, hanging onto the wall in water that was "Big, Mummie. Big water cover head." He watched the other kids for cues as to what he was supposed to do, then he dove right in (literally) and did it! I was impressed and amazed! For their last exercise, the kids were to throw a plastic ball into the pool and swim to it. Paul has a great arm, so he threw the ball nearly the length of the pool then jumped in after it. Fearless. I, on the other hand, had to brace myself not to jump in after him. I also tried to refrain myself from silently criticizing the way-too-young (was I ever that young?) instructor.

After swimming I took Paul to see the Kids' Adventure Center. Even though it was packed with kids, Paul played happily in the maze for forty minutes. In fact, I was starting to worry that the battle might occur when trying to get him to come HOME. I love the Y. I want to marry the Y and live there forever. 'Cuz - I can't resist - it's fun to play at the YMCA!