The Social Worker Comes Tonight

Tonight is our last post-placement visit with our adoption social worker. When we adopted, Lesotho required a social worker visit and report at three months, six months and one year. (I think this has changed a bit now that they are under Hague.) So, now that Paul has been home for one year (!) tonight is our final visit.

I honestly don't remember much about our three-month visit. I was in a bit of a haze. I'm sure I was nervous - this was a brand-new-to-us agency, so we didn't know the social worker yet. After "the summer of constant togetherness" we had all gone back to school so between my two jobs I was working what felt like all the time plus dealing with Paul's anxieties plus overanalyzing our family attachment plus hoping Sam was holding it all together because I hadn't really paid much attention to her for the last three months (and would the social worker ask how Sam was doing and how would it look if I said, "Sam? My daughter, you mean? That Sam?") plus waking up at 5:30 EVERY SINGLE MORNING. I know I was nervous because it was the middle of the week and I CLEANED THE HOUSE. So that was weird.

But it felt like a relief to sit down and talk about what we were learning about Paul and what we were learning about ourselves and how much fun this was and how scary and hard this was and maybe we were going a little crazy? "No, not crazy. Family. You're going a little family." And it was like a deep breath. And at six months again we got to share what we thought was going well and what was NOT going well and was it trauma stress or just regular kid stuff and she said, "Yes, both together probably" and we agreed at how impossibly hard it was to replicate Dr. Purvis's calm, soothing voice when your child is TRIGGERING YOUR OWN STRESS and we practiced, "Whoa, buddy, try it again with respect" and we laughed because we did NOT sound like Dr. Purvis AT ALL but that was okay because we were working this thing as best we could.

So because I tend to overanalyze I've been wondering how I'll answer the social worker when she asks, "How are you?" The tendency, of course, is to say, "I'm fine, and you?" because that's how we operate in a civilized society when no one really wants to get too messy under the surface. But one thing I love about our social worker visit and our adoption support groups and our dear friends - it's an opportunity to get messy under the surface. So how will I answer?

1. How am I? "Well, I'm reaching out." I know I need more opportunities to share my messy under the surface and to walk with friends through their messy under the surface. I'm an introvert, and I work with people all day, so once home I tend to want to put the kids to bed and turn off my phone/email and curl up with a book. I'm not good at calling people or making plans or reaching out. I'm also not always good at listening once I'm home because I've been listening all day and once home I just want to FIX THIS LITTLE PROBLEM AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY. And it's hard to just listen. But when I do, when I make time to share life with someone who wants to share life with me, and when we can listen to and be honest with each other, I'm better for it. A better parent and a better person. So that's one thing I need to work on.
2. How am I? "Well, I'm learning." One thing I both love and fear about this journey is that I'm learning to accept my children right where they are, to LOVE them unconditionally, and also to ACCEPT their thoughts, feelings, perceptions, values even if those are different from what I think they should be. This is so hard. I'm well-schooled in cognitive-behavioral therapy and behavior management with consequences and rewards. And so when my son gets mad because his favorite shorts are dirty and I won't wash them right this second and says, "I hate you! I want a different family!" my heart clutches and I immediately start to overanalyze (Does he hate me, really? Do we have some ambivalent attachment issues going on? Or is he just being mean and trying to get his own way. And seriously, how spoiled is THAT to demand I wash his shorts on command. Laundry isn't even MY job in this house. That's it! I am DONE with this backtalk! There will be CONSEQUENCES!) But I'm learning, with Paul, that the consequences or the lectures or the cognitive-behavioral stuff don't work until I've accepted where he is at that moment. So when I wailed about what to do with this because he can't walk around saying he hates me every time his shorts are dirty my counselor friend encouraged me to go all empathy on him and put those active listening skills to use IN MY OWN FAMILY. "Wow, it sounds like you are really upset about those shorts. It seems like you are mad at me because I am not going to wash your shorts?" And when I can do it - which isn't every time or even often - it helps. It takes time, but we sometimes get to the point where we can get to the real hurt, the real issue, and then he choses a different pair of shorts and gives me a hug and tells me he loves me and then we can talk about the consequences of hurtful words. All without my doing a single load of laundry.
3. How am I? "Well, I'm stressed sometimes." What's hardest about this journey for me is balancing the need for limits and discipline and quiet with the above need for acceptance and empathy and play at a particular moment for a particular situation for each particular child. Gah! And I'm working on trying to accept myself when I screw up that balance. Like on Saturday night when he got all grumpy and dysregulated and annoying and hate this, hate that after what was a fun but overstimulating day and I was all, "I AM NOT EVEN GOING TO DEAL WITH YOU RIGHT NOW SO JUST HUSH!" Because I was tired and whatever with this. WHATEVER. And he shut down and got all sullen, which elicits quiet but not the kind of quiet that heals or helps, and I knew this with a cold knot of guilt deep down but I was still all whatever, I don't care, it's quiet. And later, much later, I read, "Parenting a child with developmental trauma leaves a parent at risk of excessive stress and secondary trauma," and I'm all, "Really? You think, Dr. Know-it-All?" because I tend to use sarcasm as a coping skill. And then I read, "It's important to be kind to yourself. Support is a lifeline, essential to your own well-being. Seek support. Make time to relax. Forgive yourself."  And I'm all, "Okay."
4. How am I? "I'm grateful." I am grateful to be married to one of the calmest, most easy-going, yet playful men in the world. He just gets it, intuitively, this parenting-of-Paul thing that we're doing. So while I'm getting all overanalytical and empathetic and trying to channel the Dr. Purvis voice, Trent calmy hauls Paul to the couch and begins scratching his stubble beard all over Paul's stomach and Paul laughs hysterically completely out of his bad mood. He knows when to listen, when to ignore, when to correct and when to tickle. He's the child whisperer. And he's also really good looking, too.
5. How am I? "I'm amazed." For the last year I've had the priviledge of getting to know an incredible, smart, hilarious, annoying, exasperating, strong-willed, sensitive, curious, adventurous, brave little boy. This little boy whose world has been shattered and pieced back together is willing to risk heartbreak every time calls me mom, tells me he loves me, wraps me in a hug. Learning to love him the way he needs to be loved and seeing his willingness to love in return has taught me so much about myself. This has reached deep inside of me and shown me my hurts, my insecurites, my stressors, my inadequacies. Which isn't all that fun, but which allows God to heal and support and encourage. The redemption journey of parenting amazes me every day.

So, I'm fine. And you?

Awards Ceremony

It's time for the annual awards ceremony at our school, and at many schools all across the country. Awards ceremony time always leaves me feeling a bit sick to my stomach, a bit conflicted. I remember my first awards ceremony. I was in kindergarten, and I got perfect attendance. I didn't know there was such a thing and I didn't know what it meant. All I knew was that I got an award, which was exhilirating, and that my friend (whose name I don't remember but I do remember that she had gigantic dimples that I envied) did not, which was terrifying. I remember she cried. I wanted to give her my award and at the same time gloat that I got an award while she didn't. I knew this award somehow made me feel both very special and also very mean.

In third grade I won "Best Student". As this was a new school, I hadn't known such an award existed. And considering I went to a very small school with only about eight of us in the third grade class, in retrospect this wasn't such a big deal. But to me, at nine years old, this award proved that I had value. I was special. Top of the class. The best.

But also in danger of toppling far and fast. My primary goal in fourth grade became to remain "Best Student". I somehow needed to be better than my classmates to prove my worth. If I wasn't "Best Student", then in my mind I was nothing. I don't have evidence to prove it, but I suspect this was a factor in the months-long, hospitalization-required gastrointestinal illness that consumed much of the spring semester of my fourth grade year. I was having trouble proving that I was better than. And my body knew it.

When Sam was in elementary school awards ceremonies were handled a bit differently. Awards were passed out in individual classrooms. The standard honor roll and perfect attendance awards, yes, but also character awards. Everyone got a character award. Sam's was usually something to do with "Enthusiasm" or "Cheerfulness" or "Most Hugs", which was affirming and also quite true.

Then middle school hit and once again the school wide awards assembly. I went as the dutiful parent, smiling because I'm "on staff" and supposed to affirm this sort of stuff, but my insides were churning. What if she didn't get an award? Would she think that meant she wasn't smart? That she wasn't worthy? What if she did get an award? Would she think that made her better than? Would she begin to base her value on the achievement? Oh, God, please let her get an award. And also not get one. Thankyouandamen.

As awards were announced, I applauded the recipients for their diligence and hard work. It takes effort to earn all A's and to show up to school every day and to achieve the highest percentage in a particular class. I'm so proud of that effort, thrilled for that giftedness.

But I also found myself thinking of those students who didn't earn an award. What about her? I wondered. Do they know how polite she is? She ALWAYS says please and excuse me and she ALWAYS writes thank you notes. For everything. And that is NOT easy in middle school. Why isn't there a So Polite award? And him. Do they know how friendly he is? Anytime a kid is feeling down and needs a pick-me-up, I know he'll give him a smile. Why isn't there a So Friendly award? And her. She is so brave. She's scared of public speaking but she stood in front of her peers last month and told her story to the entire class. Why isn't there a So Brave award? And him. He doesn't abide bullying in any form. Anyone acts mean to anyone in his presence better stand down. Why isn't there a So Compassionate award? 

I'm pleased and proud when Sam earns A's and when she receives awards. She works really hard, and it's wonderful when that hard work is recognized and affirmed. I'm excited for her. But. But.

But it's a tricky balance. The best and brightest versus everyone wins. There's the argument that when everyone gets a trophy, when everyone gets an A we set kids up for mediocrity. We don't help them learn how to handle life's curves. When Sam's softball team won a long, brutal tournament, they expected and deserved their trophy. They earned it. It would've been insulting to their effort had everyone gotten a trophy. When they lost several subsequent tournaments (it's been that kind of season), they walked away empty handed. They knew they didn't play as well as the other teams. Sam knew she needed to work harder. And that's okay, too.

Life is competitive and life is filled with disappointment and life requires hard work and effort. Somehow we need to encourage kids to do their best all the time, whatever their best is, and also help them realize that even when their best is not THE best that they are still valuable. They are still loved. They are still amazing. And they can try again. Or try something else. And give that their best. Even if they don't win.

But I wonder if the traits we admire, the skills we award, are just part of what's most important. The fastest earns medals and makes varsity, rightly so, but the uncoordinated kid who guts it out giving everything he has to finish also deserves a well-done. The smartest earns scholarships and honor rolls, rightly so, but the child with learning differences who studies late into the night to eek out a C also deserves a well-done. The prettiest and most outgoing wins pageants, rightly so, but the shy introvert who overcomes insecurities to smile at someone new also deserves a well-done. Bravery. Kindness. Patience. Compassion. Generosity. Mercy. Perseverance. Determination. Enthusiasm. Curiosity. Creativity. Cheerfulness. Giving lots of hugs. Those are also traits worth awarding.

I want my kids to know that they are loved, regardless of any awards they might win or don't win. I want them to try and fail and try again, to give their best effort, award or no award. They don't have to be the smartest or the fastest or the prettiest or the best at anything at all to have value, to be worthy, to be special. They are valuable and worthy and special already, just by being who they are, by being who God made them to be. I love them and I'm proud of them. No strings or awards or trophies attached.

* As part of this blog I also feel it important to announce that Paul is on target to earn a Perfect Attendance award. For having an unusually strong immune system. And also because this Mama needs him to go to school. Everyday. So. Congratulations to Paul! And also to me!

From the School Counselor

Dear Mom,

I see you, tired and embarrassed and trying not to meet my eye as you scuttle in to pick up your sweet cherub who has been sent to the office again for whatever-it-was-this-time. We're fine, he's fine, I'm fine, I'll deal with this, you want to say to me except you don't really want to talk to me.

I hear your worry and defensiveness on the other end of the phone when I call and introduce myself as the school counselor. You listen and you are polite as I explain my call, the behaviors we're seeing, the concerns we have, but it's hard to go there, isn't it?

You know, when I call, that I've seen your little cherub, too, don't you? That I've seen the one with the turbo brain who is driving everyone crazy because he can't stop talking, moving? I want you to know that I love him. I'd like to help him rein it in a bit so his teacher doesn't lose her mind, but I never want him to lose his zip. He may be the next Robin Williams. And the one digging in her heels and sticking out her tongue and refusing to participate? I want you to know that I love her. I'd like to help her feel safe and respected so she can respond in turn, but I never want her to lose her spirit. She'll stand strong against injustice one day. And the quirky one, the one who doesn't quite fit in, who says and does things that the other kids think are odd? I want you to know that I love him. I'd like to help him connect and find his friendship niche, but I never want him to lose his uniqueness. He may be the next Picasso, the next Bill Gates. And the quiet one in the nurse's office, who never gives anybody any trouble except for the amount of time she spends out of class with a stomach ache? I want you to know that I love her. I'd like to help her feel secure and brave enough to stand against her worries, but I never want her to lose her sensitivity. She'll extend a hand of mercy one day, of peace.

I see you and I hear you, mom. I want to tell you I'm sorry when I jump too quickly into the problems, the concerns. Because first I want to tell you that I'm proud of you. You are a good mom. A good mom. You are doing a good job. And your kid is a good kid. A good kid. Sometimes life gets rough and those little cherubs act like heathens and you don't know why or what to do. I get that.

You may think I have it all together because...well...I'm not really sure why. Maybe because I'm the one on the other end of the phone call and because I have some initials after my name and because I nod a lot and say things like, "So, how does that make you feel?" But here's a secret. I have cherubs who act like heathens, too, and I don't always know why or what to do, either.

And sometimes I go to a training or a conference or read a book and I learn something so exciting, so relevant that I'm like "Shazaam!" and I call you and tell you, "Your little cherub who is acting like a heathen? I have it figured out! Stop doing X right now and start doing Y!" And you feel gobsmacked and hear, "You're doing everything wrong and screwing everything up."

And I'm sorry. Because first I want to tell you that I admire you. What you are you doing in parenting this child is holy work. It is holy work raising this complicated, sometimes difficult, demanding, very tiny person. And you love him with your whole life and you carry on your shoulders so many worries, hopes, dreams, fears. And then you send that tiny person - whose brain is still developing and won't be fully developed until age 25 (TWENTY-FIVE! They really are mentally challenged until well after graduation, aren't they?) - to school where suddenly he is expected to perform certain tasks in certain ways and is evaluated and compared to other little cherubs. And it's heckuva hard, isn't it?

I see you, Mom. And I hear you. When I call to review this year, to discuss summer, to plan for next year and we talk about social skills groups and anger management classes and psychoeducational evaluations and counseling I am also calling to say well done, soldier. You made it through another school year, and that ain't no joke. I am your biggest fan and cheerleader. Because your kid, that kid in the principal's office and the nurse's office and hiding under the table? He's incredible. He's so unique and wonderful and amazing. He's not a bad kid. He's not crazy. He's not even a heathen. He just needs a little extra support, a little extra help, a little extra grace. And you know what that means? It means God's got big plans.

Big plans!

So carry on, soldier. I see you. And I got your back.

Much love and many blessings,

The School Counselor.

Do It Yourself...or Not

So I'm a cheapskate frugal. I don't like to spend money (except on certain odd things. Like books. And local organic food. And Qdoba.) If I can figure out a way to make it myself or or fix it myself or get it at Goodwill I am all about it. I can't remember the last time I bought clothing for myself at an actual retail store. Much to my daughter's chagrine. But that's another blog post.

I'd been wanting a weighted blanket for Paul. Weighted blankets have proven effective in calming anxiety and helping with self-regulation. So I started looking online to discover that weighted blankets are EXPENSIVE. Seriously, over $100 for two pieces of fabric with poly-bead filling that I could totally make myself. Ah...hah! How hard could it be, really? Order some weighted poly-beads, buy two 62" by 48" pieces of fabric (that I can totally customize to Paul's taste and to room coordination.) Do a little stitching, weighing and measuring to get the weight just right. Easy enough.

Here's where my methodology starts to break down. I'm a genius at the inspiration and planning stages of do it yourself. It's the actual do-it-yourself part that gives me trouble. Because, funny thing, weighted blankets are heavy. So holding one end of an almost seven pound blanket while stitching closed the other end without all the beads falling out is quite a feat. And then in the midst of the project I remembered that I don't really like to sew. I like the idea of sewing, but the actuality of stitching two pieces of fabric together while hunched for hours over a sewing maching that keeps jamming for no discernible reason and when it finally unjams for a stitch or two the needle breaks isn't as much fun.

And it wasn't even that much cheaper because Paul liked the $8.99 yard fabric much better than the $2.99 yard of fabric. Because of course he did. And also I decided to buy 25 pounds of weighted poly-pellets because it was a bit cheaper per pound in bulk and perhaps I'd like a blanket for myself some day. So now I have 18 pounds of weighted poly-pellets left over with absolutely no desire to sew ever again.

But Paul loves it. He calls it his "special blanket". I don't know that it helps him sleep better - it doesn't help him sleep any LATER - but he does love to cuddle in for storytime with the weighted blanket over him. So it seems soothing. And I left a couple of channels open so - theoretically - I can add more weight to the blanket as he grows.

Note the very cool race car fabric which was $6.00 yard more than the not-quite-as-cool nautical fabric.

Then there's the pond. Oh sweet therapy on the pond. For a couple of summers when Sam was in elementary her friend hung out with us during the day while her mom worked. So we had a little camp. And I thought it would be a great hands-on science experiment to install a pond in the backyard. Did you know the local pond place charges upwards of $2000 to install a pond? What is THAT about when I could totally do it myself for a tenth of that!

Turns out rocks are really, really heavy. And eleven year olds get bored after about two minutes of manual labor. And the science of pond size and pump rate and water flow and bio-mechanical filtration and oxygenation gets a bit complicated. But we did get three cute goldfish from the pet store named Bubbles, Peaches and Bait. And they lived! For awhile.

The first summer the DIY filter broke, which required a total pond revamp. The second summer the waterfall leaked. Ditto. The third summer a heron ate Bubbles, Peaches and Bait. And also the new fish friend, Captain Rainwater. And then I decided to revamp the waterfall. Again. Last summer the pump died. And Paul tried to catch and eat the new goldfish, Sushi .Then this winter Paul and friend tried to ice skate on the pond. And went wading. And broke the tubing.

The man hours I've spent on this pond far exceed the $2000 I would've been charged to have someone else do it right the first time. I've exercised more hauling rocks around this pond than I have at our fancy new YMCA. So this spring I sent Sushi to a pond in the country where he can swim free, filled in half of the existing pond and turned the rest into a bubbler. Which I love. This is my happy place. My very expensive, very heavy, very time consuming happy place.

I'll probably redo it again next summer, but right now I'm DONE!

Often I'm grumpy when I must call in reinforcements, but grateful after the fact. Case in point - leaky shower faucet. Certainly this is a task I can figure out on my own, right, and save that plumber's fee? Um...no. After the plumber spent the morning grunting and sweating and swearing at an ancient coupler nut, I was more than happy to write the check for a leak-free, high-pressure, hot water, working shower.

Fortunately, parenting is not a do-it-yourself activity. I'm so thankful for the community that supports our endeavors in parenting Sam and especially those who support us in parenting Paul. Because it's a tricky thing, this parenting. We're entrusted with a lot when we take on the task of guiding another human being to responsible adulthood. The world will benefit from, or suffer under, the result of our efforts. And parenting a child with a difficult past adds another layer of complexity to the mix. Suddenly there are attachment breaks and unseen needs and a brain that triggers into freeze, fight, flight with the most innocuous of stressors.

I'm lucky to live in a city with a large population of adoptive families, with several support groups and counselors trained in understanding trauma and attachment and nurturing-structured parenting. I'm grateful I can call on them as reinforcements and don't mind spending money for their insight because it's oh, so worth it. I'm thankful for the doctors and brain researchers and healers and parents whose in-the-trenches groundbreaking work with hurting children in the '70's, '80's, '90's and '00's has born fruit so that today we can see through the lens of science and experience what works, what helps, what heals. I'm thankful to have a mom and a dad who drive three hours round trip every week to give me a break while loving on Paul, who are willing to read and research and dialogue and discuss best practices and what should I do and how can we support each other in pouring love into him. I'm thankful for his teacher who understands his triggers and who gives him clear structure with caring grace so he can calm and learn. I'm thankful to have several friends who are walking the journey with me, friends who provide a listening ear when I need to vent, who give advice and encouragement and prayer when I need help, and who even offer wise counsel and alternative suggestions when they lovingly surmise that another strategy may be more helpful.

Do this myself? No way.

Plans fail for lack of counsel, but with many advisors they succeed. Proverbs 15:22

The First Year of Forever

One year. We have known him for one year. How much we have all changed in one year.

We saw him, on our second trip to the orphanage (because no one remembered that this was his day and sent him to school), walk shyly around the corner. It was such a scary day. We were nervous, yes, but he was terrified. Everything he had known and loved for the last three years was being yanked away with the arrival of these three, tall white people. We knew that he would be loved and tickled, read to and wrestled with; that he would be fed abundant food and tucked cozy into bed each night. We knew he would learn and grow, would make new friends, would be surrounded by a close, caring community.

But he didn't know any of that. Oh, how brave he was.

Okay, everyone, this is your new family. So, um, smile!

He had such impeccable manners those first days. I won't lie and say I didn't enjoy it, but I worried for him. Six year old boys aren't meant to sit prim and proper, frozen by fear into acquiescence. We won't leave you if you spill your milk, I wanted to say. It's okay to ask for more, there's plenty. But we didn't have the words.

Of course, good table manners were quite helpful considering the teeny, tiny size of our little bistro table.

So much has happened in that one year. He has grown and changed so much I can hardly believe it looking back on our first days and weeks and months. Last May the size four pants we packed for Africa needed cuffed at the bottoms and cinched at the waist. Last week the size six uniform shorts I bought were too small. "I'm seven, Mum!" he reminded me. "I need seven clothes."

Double to the fence. I love to watch him run.

Last summer we struggled to learn shapes and colors and the alphabet. We visited school every week, trying to calm his panic at the sight of classrooms, kids. The closer August loomed, the more we dialogued and debated. He's not ready. Is he ready? What should we do? Should I quit my job and stay home with him? What's best for him? What's best for us? This week he bounced into his classroom, prince of the place. "Mrs. Wagganah, can I read to Mum?" He pulled out his brand new book and read the first two pages with nary a hesitation. 

When reading to Grandma becomes more important than eating lunch.

Nowadays his manners aren't quite as pristine. Sometimes he's sassy and disobedient. On purpose. Sometimes he gets on yellow light at school for talking too much. He doesn't sit huddled on my lap at softball games anymore but instead mooches rides on Coach Rice's tractor and climbs the fence for foul balls. He runs in and out of the house with a posse of little boys and they track in mud and eat all the popsicles and forget to close the door.

He's still so brave. And he's oh, so loved. The first year of forever.

This is your family. What an amazing smile!