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!

Stuff I WANT to Like

Since I obviously have some first-world angst about owning too much stuff, I should at least like the stuff I do own. But some stuff is just hard to love. It's not you. It's me.

Fish hooks: Paul loves fishing. It's as if he's been fishing his entire life the way he grabbed hold of the fishing pole, stuck on the worm and proceeded to catch TWENTY-ONE fish in our little pond. And theoretically, fishing is a relaxing, calming endeavor where, again theoretically, Mama could sit on a towel with a book while Paul channels his inner Huckleberry Finn. Unfortunately, there's the little problem with those TWENTY-ONE fish and the fact that they are caught with hooks (as opposed to magnets, which is what they use in the preschool class and of which I heartily approve). Paul can't manage to disengage the fish from the hooks, yet, so Mama must "Help. Help, Mama. Fish stuck." I just hate the way those fish gape at me while I'm apologizing for the hole I'm making in their lips trying to extricate them from the hooks. I'm seriously thinking of replacing all the fish hooks with magnets. If I also glue magnets to the bluegill in the pond, it just might work.

The first of about a gazillion fish. He's the fish whisperer.

Hot Dots, Jr: Paul loves to tap things, and he's a very hands-on learner, so I thought this game would be a great way to encourage him to practice all those kindergarten readiness skills like colors, shapes, numbers and letters. There's a cute blue dog, shaped sort of like a pen, that gives feedback when you tap him on the black dots on the fun-looking educational worksheets. Unfortunately, Paul really doesn't care whether the dog says, "Oops, sorry!" or "Way to go!" he just thinks it's funny that the dog talks at all. So he ignores the fun-looking educational worksheets altogether and walks around the house tapping the dog on any and every surface. Which turned into its own science experiment, I suppose, because Paul discovered that the dog will say, "Way to go!" when tapped against anything with iron. So instead of learning his alphabet, Paul has learned where every screw in the house is located.

Kindergarten readiness questionnaires: You know the ones that tell you what your child needs to know before entering Kindergarten? These questionnaires used to seem straightforward, but it turns out some of the items are tricky, tricky, tricky. For example: Child knows full name. Well, hunh. Paul is quite clear about his nickname and he uses it ALL the time as he refers to himself entirely in the third person. "Mama, watch Paul!" "Dis is for Paul." "Paul can do it." However, he looks at me skeptically when I use his African name (which, yes, we're planning on keeping). He isn't quite sure about his new surname, either. "Whadisdis Thompson?" Another item: Child knows address. We're focusing on countries, at the moment, okay?  ("Paul 'Merica.") City and state is a bit trickier. Street address - seriously? He may not know the name of our street, but he can tell me if I go the wrong direction (which, sad to say, happens quite a bit.) "Mum, where going? No turn, Mum. Straight." Why can't the readiness questionnaire include useful items like: Child can carry groceries into the house on his head and Child can strip a chicken leg down to the bone in ten seconds or less. I've decided that I'm going to be one of those parents who expects the teacher to teach my child everything he needs to know. (Unless a teacher and/or principal is reading this, in which case we are diligently working on every single item on that readiness sheet. Ah-hem.)

You can take the child out of Africa,
but fortunately you can't take Africa out of the child.

My car when it must go anywhere Paul has not been at least a dozen times before and/or anywhere Paul hasn't decided is "Fun, no tsaba (scary)." This limits us to our house and the YMCA pool, which, surprising to us because it is crowded, crowded, crowded, Paul loves. If we go anywhere else, even somewhere he's been before and wants to go again, the minute we get in the car it's a constant, "Where going, Mum? No, no go. Ready home." We've learned that once we arrive wherever-it-is and he can hang out/observe with us for fifteen or twenty minutes, his anxiety level drops and he's usually eager to stay and explore. And will want to go back the minute it's time to leave. But getting there is not super fun in a car without a built-in DVD player and reclining seats and individualized air conditioning (thanks to my friend who has this for introducing my son to these wonders). Counselors recommend preparing your child in advance for trips, which we do and have done, but this just seems to expand his anxiety to the pre-travel stage, too. It seems to work best to just say, "We're going for a spin. Would you like some gum or a chewy in the car?"

Gum: Chewing gum is supposed to help reduce anxiety. Which it does seem to do, at least for Paul. (Doesn't work so well for me.) And gum is sugar free, so it's better than chewing a starburst or a mentos. And full disclosure, Paul is GREAT with chewing gum. We haven't had a single problem with gum in the hair or gum on the ground or swallowing gum or anything. So this fear I have of gum in the hair or gum on the ground or swallowing gum is all my own neurosis. It turns out adopting a child is a GREAT way to discover lots of one's own issues which one thought had been worked through years ago. Which is probably why the counselor in town who specializes in adoption issues is booked out several months. (We're scheduled for an intake July 24. I'm looking forward to it very much.)