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.