When you live with a kid who is significantly speech delayed you really have no clue what she is thinking about. Really, you have no idea IF she even thinks about things at all. I know "A" is a tremendous observer. She notices EVERYTHING and I believe she is pretty smart judging by how quickly she catches on to the things she observes. But now that she is 4 years 4 months, and a year away from transitioning to Kindergarten, I have been wondering about how well she is picking up on things when it comes to verbal learning. She seems to be doing as well as her peers in most areas, so I don't really worry all that much, but when you get so little expressed verbally, it isn't always clear where she at and what she really understands.
"A" is a joyful and fairly well adjusted kid. She is head strong and stubborn, but most of the time recovers quickly when she gets angry or can't get her way. While I know she is a pleaser and knows how to make people happy, I do trust that she is a happy kid, overall. Trusting what I observe is important for me to remember in the absence of speech, which is ironic since my professional life as a therapist relys so much on listening to what is said. When we are with "A's" peers, I am always shocked to hear how much they talk and the kinds of things they think about and express. It always makes me a little sad to know so much more about the thought process of her buddies, than those of my own daughter. Thankfully, our ST has given me great suggestions about ways to help move things along.
The past two - three months things have changed significantly. "A" has gone from mostly 2 word statements, to full phrases and even the beginning of conversations. Each time we have a back and forth exchange about something a little more complex than discussing our schedule or the contents of dinner, I am still a little stunned. Yesterday, she asked me if I had a nice day at my office and then followed it up with asking about what I did and why. It's not just the talking that surprises me, but it's the window into what is happening in her head outside of the typical pleasure seeking focus of the average 4 year old.
Over Labor Day we went to visit my family in MI. "A" was very close to Molly, my parents dog, who recently passed away. I agonized about what to say to her, as I am not even totally clear about my own beliefs about what happens when we die. A week before we went to MI I explained that we would not be seeing Molly at her Grandparents house. I explained that Molly was very old and because of this her body stopped working and she died. "A" acknowledged what I said and didn't ask any questions. I had no clue if she understood anything I said, but thought it was interesting that she stopped asking my dad to talk to Molly each time we called, as she has regularly done for a year. When we got to MI she didn't look for Molly and didn't say a thing (usually her favorite part of the visits). Two days into the stay, we see the doggy door and "A" asked what it was. I said "you know what that is, honey, what is it?" She said "Molly's door, where's Molly?" I asked her if she remembered that Molly had died and again explained it in the exact way I had before. She looked me right in the eye and said, "Oh, Molly popped?" I was totally perplexed, until I realized just a half an hour before a balloon she received had popped. I thought it was such a strange question, but then decided that maybe it was actually a very profound statement. Don't want to give her too much credit, but if you think about it, she might not be all that off. Whether or not she really pictured the dogs body going away and her soul going out into the universe, she seemed to understand the finality of death in some way. She hasn't brought Molly up again after that.
We drove on that trip to MI. About 2 hours into the 5 hour drive, "A" looks up from her Mickey Mouse Video and says "mom, when I was a baby I was in your tummy, right?" WTF, where did this come from? We went from Me: "A, what did you eat for lunch today?" and "A" responding: "Milk and water" every single day, to this! Hasn't the girl heard of gray? Once I got over the shock of knowing she even thinks about this stuff, I felt such relief. Relief to be able to begin these conversations. I certainly fumbled all over the place with that one, but am thrilled to be really beginning taking our communications to a new place and level.
This morning when I asked "A" if she knew where she lives (she does). She said "China". I said "You lived in China when you were a baby, honey, but remember mommy came and got you and took to our home. Do you remember where that is?" She answered correctly, and then added "when I a baby in China I had an owie on my lip" and showed me her cleft scar. She then proceeded to tell me how it used to hurt and that she got a band aid and now it is better. Again, I find myself speechless and so very grateful to have an opportunity to get a glimpse into her inner world.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The rest of the story...
So the meltdown I wrote about in my last post was about being sick of the heat, right? Well, that wasn't really the whole story, but was certainly a good portion of it. The rest has to do with this particular time of the year, as it is a time of a few annual medical appointments for "A", which I totally dread.
Little Miss A has a lot of different things going on for her medically, some normal and expected (preventative health and CL/CP related) and others, not so much. As I mentioned in an earlier post, "A" has the potential for a serious disease. It was a total surprise to me, and something (the observable symptoms) that was missing from her referral paperwork. Of course I am glad it was missing, as she currently does not have the disease and may never develop it, AND I fear I would have assumed the worst if I knew before sending my Letter of Intent to adopt her. This is something that could develop anytime until puberty. Each year that it doesn't show up decreases the likelihood of it being severe, if a diagnosis ends up being made. We see 2 different specialists each year for monitoring. And, as you can guess by the lead in, "A's annual appointments take place in August.
Today was the second of the appointments, and the one that is the most scary for me. The first one examines / looks for symptoms that I would be able to see with my own eyes, where today's needs special equipment to see. Today is the appointment that I worry I will be blindsided by, therefore causing a lot of anxiety in the days leading up to it. The very good news is that all is well for another year. While the worry always gnaws at me a bit, I have learned to live pretty well with it in the background.... until August strikes.
One of the things that hits me as I watch my little angel sit patiently and politely as she is poked and prodded, and put in situations that make most adults uncomfortable, is that she is "too good". She has seen more doctors and specialists, and has had more medical testing and surgery in her short life than I have in 42 years. I hear constantly how impressed the professionals are with how well she behaves and lets them do what needs to be done. I initially felt proud of her, but now as I see the trend and see how "not normal" this is, my heart hurts a little for her. Of course I am thrilled to not have to hold down a screaming child, but sometimes wish she would fight a little. I wonder where her fear is and how she manages it. She is not a fearless kid, by nature. In fact she is a very cautious, slow to warm up kid who typically needs a lot of comforting in the beginning. Why is she not the same when facing things far scarier than a loud garbage truck, or neighbors poodle? I fear it is a learned helplessness of sorts. I am saddened that this is so normal for her. I try not to think about the surgeries she had in China with no parent there to care for her and comfort her fears and pain. That is just too hard to think about. Instead I look at my little girl sitting so still as she has uncomfortable dilating drops put in her eyes, and feel the conflicting feelings of pride and sadness as I hold her hand and let her know she is not alone.
I am going to try and remember this feeling tomorrow morning when we have our daily standoff about brushing her teeth, and be grateful for all the ways she DOES take control of her body.
Little Miss A has a lot of different things going on for her medically, some normal and expected (preventative health and CL/CP related) and others, not so much. As I mentioned in an earlier post, "A" has the potential for a serious disease. It was a total surprise to me, and something (the observable symptoms) that was missing from her referral paperwork. Of course I am glad it was missing, as she currently does not have the disease and may never develop it, AND I fear I would have assumed the worst if I knew before sending my Letter of Intent to adopt her. This is something that could develop anytime until puberty. Each year that it doesn't show up decreases the likelihood of it being severe, if a diagnosis ends up being made. We see 2 different specialists each year for monitoring. And, as you can guess by the lead in, "A's annual appointments take place in August.
Today was the second of the appointments, and the one that is the most scary for me. The first one examines / looks for symptoms that I would be able to see with my own eyes, where today's needs special equipment to see. Today is the appointment that I worry I will be blindsided by, therefore causing a lot of anxiety in the days leading up to it. The very good news is that all is well for another year. While the worry always gnaws at me a bit, I have learned to live pretty well with it in the background.... until August strikes.
One of the things that hits me as I watch my little angel sit patiently and politely as she is poked and prodded, and put in situations that make most adults uncomfortable, is that she is "too good". She has seen more doctors and specialists, and has had more medical testing and surgery in her short life than I have in 42 years. I hear constantly how impressed the professionals are with how well she behaves and lets them do what needs to be done. I initially felt proud of her, but now as I see the trend and see how "not normal" this is, my heart hurts a little for her. Of course I am thrilled to not have to hold down a screaming child, but sometimes wish she would fight a little. I wonder where her fear is and how she manages it. She is not a fearless kid, by nature. In fact she is a very cautious, slow to warm up kid who typically needs a lot of comforting in the beginning. Why is she not the same when facing things far scarier than a loud garbage truck, or neighbors poodle? I fear it is a learned helplessness of sorts. I am saddened that this is so normal for her. I try not to think about the surgeries she had in China with no parent there to care for her and comfort her fears and pain. That is just too hard to think about. Instead I look at my little girl sitting so still as she has uncomfortable dilating drops put in her eyes, and feel the conflicting feelings of pride and sadness as I hold her hand and let her know she is not alone.
I am going to try and remember this feeling tomorrow morning when we have our daily standoff about brushing her teeth, and be grateful for all the ways she DOES take control of her body.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Hitting the wall
I will be kicking myself for saying this when the gray days of winter hit, but I am so ready for this summer to end. We have had such a wonderful summer in so many ways, but this heat and humidity have been killing me. Summers have always been full of fun festivals, art fairs, outdoor concerts and BBQs. Since becoming a mom, though, they have been so much more. This summer has been about learning to swim and ride a bike, frequent visits to the park and beach, BBQs with friends, sidewalk chalk, kicking around a ball, the zoo, loads of ice cream and so much more. I feel like we have lived it fully. But all this fun has been accompanied with a sense of dread, as it has required me to be outside.
Winters are long here, and we certainly don't spend as much time in the fresh air as I would like. So when it is "nice" out, I feel compelled to spend time outside. Plus, summer is a time of so many free fun activities that the thrifty part of me hates to miss out. I don't think I am lazy by nature, but when it is hot and humid out I just want to sit on my couch and stare at the walls. I don't have central air, only window ACs which haven't fully done the trick this summer. So even sitting doing nothing, isn't really pleasant. Even with the AC on I find myself still sweating after my shower while I try to put my make up on, and the chocolate chips in my pantry seem to soften and form into a blob during the days I am out of the house with the AC off. The humidity never seems to leave, which is probably the problem. The heat just zaps my energy. Having a four year old, though, doesn't really afford me the opportunity to just sit around or escape to the movies.
Last night I totally hit my wall. We were out "playing" miniature gold with friends. "A" was red-faced and soaked with sweat, (my girl is a MAJOR sweater, by the way) and I had much more than a glow about me, too. I knew we were getting home past normal bedtime and the idea of yet one more bath for this kid made me start to feel pissy. We went to dinner at a place that ended up being crowded, stuffy and running crazy slow with serving. I started to feel claustrophobic and overstimulated. "A" was in velcro mode and I just wanted to jump out of my skin. I felt like I had to work very hard to be nice and carry on a conversation, all while wanting to jump up and start screaming and throwing things. I felt terrible that I was probably a bit bitchy, but I think my months of being adaptable and active came to an end. I got home and put the girl to bed rather than a bath. At that moment it was easier to consider changing her sheets than spending one more minute taking care of someone. I just sat on the couch and cried.
A good night sleep did me well and I decided that other than running a few errands we would stay in for the day. I let "A" watch a ton of videos, which is a rarity here, while I read the paper, cooked and putzed around on the Internet. It was a nice day and I feel no guilt.
Winters are long here, and we certainly don't spend as much time in the fresh air as I would like. So when it is "nice" out, I feel compelled to spend time outside. Plus, summer is a time of so many free fun activities that the thrifty part of me hates to miss out. I don't think I am lazy by nature, but when it is hot and humid out I just want to sit on my couch and stare at the walls. I don't have central air, only window ACs which haven't fully done the trick this summer. So even sitting doing nothing, isn't really pleasant. Even with the AC on I find myself still sweating after my shower while I try to put my make up on, and the chocolate chips in my pantry seem to soften and form into a blob during the days I am out of the house with the AC off. The humidity never seems to leave, which is probably the problem. The heat just zaps my energy. Having a four year old, though, doesn't really afford me the opportunity to just sit around or escape to the movies.
Last night I totally hit my wall. We were out "playing" miniature gold with friends. "A" was red-faced and soaked with sweat, (my girl is a MAJOR sweater, by the way) and I had much more than a glow about me, too. I knew we were getting home past normal bedtime and the idea of yet one more bath for this kid made me start to feel pissy. We went to dinner at a place that ended up being crowded, stuffy and running crazy slow with serving. I started to feel claustrophobic and overstimulated. "A" was in velcro mode and I just wanted to jump out of my skin. I felt like I had to work very hard to be nice and carry on a conversation, all while wanting to jump up and start screaming and throwing things. I felt terrible that I was probably a bit bitchy, but I think my months of being adaptable and active came to an end. I got home and put the girl to bed rather than a bath. At that moment it was easier to consider changing her sheets than spending one more minute taking care of someone. I just sat on the couch and cried.
A good night sleep did me well and I decided that other than running a few errands we would stay in for the day. I let "A" watch a ton of videos, which is a rarity here, while I read the paper, cooked and putzed around on the Internet. It was a nice day and I feel no guilt.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
She's Blonde
In the past 2 weeks I have had five different people describe another female favorably by stating she is blonde somewhere in the description. "My cousin is beautiful, blonde hair and blue eyes." "She is so pretty with that blonde hair and all." "She has so much going for her..... she's blonde." You get the idea. While I know each of those comments was said innocently, I found myself wondering if any of those people had an awareness of the bias they were covertly showing. I wanted to say, so is it being blonde that makes her attractive, or is it the whole package? If she had brown hair, would she be described as equally attractive? It wasn't just that it was being used to describe what is attractive, but was clearly stated in a way that depicted value. As a dark curly haired "ethnic" looking Jew, I quickly go down the road of feeling different and a bit vulnerable. My immediate association when I hear those comments is that they are describing and valuing an Aryn look. A look that is so far away from how I look, and one that his such deep seated racial/antisemitic undercurrents for me. I know it is a little crazy that a handful of people using the word blond synonymously with attractive and valued, makes be think about Hitler, but I don't think I am totally off base. I do realize that there are also lots of degrading blonde jokes in constant circulation. But, most of the blondes depicted in these distasteful jokes are beautiful one's, whether it is shown in print, a character sketch, or the tellers own imagination. While they are being put down in the jokes, I still get the idea by many men that these women are still preferred. Maybe it's me?
So where am I going with this rant???? As I stated, I do not look like what our culture defines as beautiful. I do know that many people are attracted to dark hair and that there are lots of different factors that go into what we consider attractive. What I am talking about is the deeper unconscious beliefs we have about beauty and value. I know I spent a good portion of my life HATING my curly hair and feeling bad about my appearance. There are lots of factors that played into my insecurities about the way I looked, and it was certainly not limited to my hair. It's just that while I fit in on the surface, I often felt very different. I grew up getting constant questions about my ethnicity from strangers. In my more Jewish circles this was a non issue, but in the rest of my life I sometimes got singled out in ways that often didn't feel good. As a grown up, I have made peace with myself and my appearance. I value difference and define (external) beauty with a wide lens. Our culture plays a huge role in the identity development of young girls. Hair color plays only one small part in this. We have made progress in valuing internal qualities and intellect in women, not just appearance, but old beliefs die hard.
As a white Jewish single mother of a adopted Chinese daughter with a repaired cleft lip I am constantly thinking about these types of issues and comments, even the subtle "blonde" ones. It is too early to tell what things will stand out for my daughter and cause her to feel insecure or different. I have a long list of the possibilities, but certainly don't want to decide for her. I can only hope that the more I surround her with diversity(not just talking race), the more she will get the message that there is no "perfect" ideal look, situation, or family. But I am also committed to not being naive about the sneaky ways some of these messages can work their way into our psyches.
Ok, I'm finished.
So where am I going with this rant???? As I stated, I do not look like what our culture defines as beautiful. I do know that many people are attracted to dark hair and that there are lots of different factors that go into what we consider attractive. What I am talking about is the deeper unconscious beliefs we have about beauty and value. I know I spent a good portion of my life HATING my curly hair and feeling bad about my appearance. There are lots of factors that played into my insecurities about the way I looked, and it was certainly not limited to my hair. It's just that while I fit in on the surface, I often felt very different. I grew up getting constant questions about my ethnicity from strangers. In my more Jewish circles this was a non issue, but in the rest of my life I sometimes got singled out in ways that often didn't feel good. As a grown up, I have made peace with myself and my appearance. I value difference and define (external) beauty with a wide lens. Our culture plays a huge role in the identity development of young girls. Hair color plays only one small part in this. We have made progress in valuing internal qualities and intellect in women, not just appearance, but old beliefs die hard.
As a white Jewish single mother of a adopted Chinese daughter with a repaired cleft lip I am constantly thinking about these types of issues and comments, even the subtle "blonde" ones. It is too early to tell what things will stand out for my daughter and cause her to feel insecure or different. I have a long list of the possibilities, but certainly don't want to decide for her. I can only hope that the more I surround her with diversity(not just talking race), the more she will get the message that there is no "perfect" ideal look, situation, or family. But I am also committed to not being naive about the sneaky ways some of these messages can work their way into our psyches.
Ok, I'm finished.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
In the Now
We just returned home from a mini vacation visiting a few friends from college and graduate school. It was a really nice time and the connecting with friends really fed my soul. Since becoming a mom, I have a lot less of this type of connecting time. I know it is a short phase of life, though, and I trust that my life will again be full of these types of interactions a bit more frequently. In the meantime, there are many things that come with being a mom that also feed my soul. Sometimes, though, I forget to pay attention to them.
On our trip we spent time in Cincinnati and in Bloomington, IN. We stayed in the homes of two different friends and one night at a hotel with another friend and her 4 year old daughter. I was not sure how A would adjust to all of this car travel, movement, new situations, people and pets. Her adaptivity totally amazed me. I cannot believe this is the same girl who did all she could to make her world very small, only taking in tiny pieces at a time during that first year home. She now embraces each new situation with such gusto, a huge smile, and never ending curiosity. I watched her observe others and learn from them. I saw her cuddle up with people other than me. I noticed how easily she found something to explore and amuse herself in every single situation we were in. She never complained (except when it was time to go home "no home, no home") even during the long car rides. When I first met her I was concerned that she never complained or asked for any need to be met, as a result of two years spent in an orphanage. This not complaining was different; This seemed truly about really just living in "The Now".
I find myself trying to hurry little Miss A along so much of the time, "Hurry up and brush your teeth" , "Must you stop and look around on every single step out the door?" ,"Please stop looking at the bugs and keep walking", "Are you finished with your dinner yet?", "Hurry and pick out your books, if you want to have time to read two". The list goes on and on. When I really stop and pay attention to what is happening, I realize that there is usually no real reason to have to rush so much. What I am learning from my daughter is the beauty of really taking it all in. It's something so many of us adults have forgotten how to do.
Being a mom is rough, as there is just so much to balance out. So many tasks to do and responsibilities to meet. Free time is limited and coveted, at least it is by me. Every night I spend time reading bedtime stories, rocking and talking with A about each of our "happy's" from the day. Many nights I find myself wrestling with this very issue of being in the now. I can get so focused on my "me" time after A is in bed that I try to send A subliminal messages hoping she will pick short/quick books for us to read, so I can get her to bed and move on. But then I remember the lesson my daughter has taught me about "The Now" and I put my desire to move onto my e-mail aside and absorb the special moments I am living right then. She will not always want to be held, snuggled, and nurtured in this way. She will soon be old enough to want to ban me from her room at all. Today, I remember the joy that comes with the now, and I feel total peace.
On our trip we spent time in Cincinnati and in Bloomington, IN. We stayed in the homes of two different friends and one night at a hotel with another friend and her 4 year old daughter. I was not sure how A would adjust to all of this car travel, movement, new situations, people and pets. Her adaptivity totally amazed me. I cannot believe this is the same girl who did all she could to make her world very small, only taking in tiny pieces at a time during that first year home. She now embraces each new situation with such gusto, a huge smile, and never ending curiosity. I watched her observe others and learn from them. I saw her cuddle up with people other than me. I noticed how easily she found something to explore and amuse herself in every single situation we were in. She never complained (except when it was time to go home "no home, no home") even during the long car rides. When I first met her I was concerned that she never complained or asked for any need to be met, as a result of two years spent in an orphanage. This not complaining was different; This seemed truly about really just living in "The Now".
I find myself trying to hurry little Miss A along so much of the time, "Hurry up and brush your teeth" , "Must you stop and look around on every single step out the door?" ,"Please stop looking at the bugs and keep walking", "Are you finished with your dinner yet?", "Hurry and pick out your books, if you want to have time to read two". The list goes on and on. When I really stop and pay attention to what is happening, I realize that there is usually no real reason to have to rush so much. What I am learning from my daughter is the beauty of really taking it all in. It's something so many of us adults have forgotten how to do.
Being a mom is rough, as there is just so much to balance out. So many tasks to do and responsibilities to meet. Free time is limited and coveted, at least it is by me. Every night I spend time reading bedtime stories, rocking and talking with A about each of our "happy's" from the day. Many nights I find myself wrestling with this very issue of being in the now. I can get so focused on my "me" time after A is in bed that I try to send A subliminal messages hoping she will pick short/quick books for us to read, so I can get her to bed and move on. But then I remember the lesson my daughter has taught me about "The Now" and I put my desire to move onto my e-mail aside and absorb the special moments I am living right then. She will not always want to be held, snuggled, and nurtured in this way. She will soon be old enough to want to ban me from her room at all. Today, I remember the joy that comes with the now, and I feel total peace.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
A Strange Kind of Grieving
Four years, two months and 6 days ago my dossier was logged into the CCAA and I was filled with a giddy sense of hope, excitement, and joy that in 9-11 months I would see my daughter's face for the first time. I celebrated officially being "paper pregnant" and began to prepare for this greatly anticipated transition into motherhood. It wasn't long before that excitement turned to angst, and eventually depression, as the world of Chinese International Adoption changed in ways none of us waiting PAPs could have imagined, and that 9-11 month wait turned into a marathon with no clear finish line.
While I am a very independent person, having a sense of community is something that has always been very important to me. One of the things that thrilled me about the way the China program was structured, was that folks generally travelled in a group, and that each group's children generally came from the same SWI. For me, I knew the experience of traveling across the world as a single woman and coming home the mother to a little girl who lost everything familiar to her, would be something so powerful that it would be hard to put into words. Going through this transformation with others, both in the support and the bearing witness of it all, ranked way up there for me in the fantasy I created about how this would all play out. Also, the idea of our children all coming from the same SWI, which is typical for groups traveling from one agency, excited me, as I would have at least a crumb of something from my daughters past to give her through future contacts. I looked at these children as cousins of sorts. As my dossier left for China back in April of 2006, my agency sent a list of the names and e-mail addresses of the people in my travel group. There were 4 families in all.
In addition to my agency group, I got busy early on joining Yahoo groups for people waiting. Several of those groups were geared towards those waiting with the same expected timeline. Again, in the beginning there was a lot of excitement, gift swapping, and idea sharing. There was a giddiness that was just so much fun. I made some good friends and we talked a lot about the hope of meeting up in China and introducing each other to our children. So much shared fantasy during those first months of waiting.
Well, we all know that things changed dramatically and the fantasy changed into cold hard reality. Many of us eventually changed course and moved to the Special Needs program, other countries, or became parents by other means. Some people dropped out as they needed to take themselves out of limbo. Many peoples life situations changed, some no longer qualified to adopt, and some put wonderful opportunities on hold in order to stay in line. Many of those who decided to wait it out eventually needed to put distance between all things adoption in order to mentally survive the unknown. Relationships formed, but many grew distant, awkward, or to had falling outs. For all in this process there has been pain. Some more than others, but all of us have had to do some amount of soul searching. Most of us thought deciding to adopt was the end of the journey of having to dig deep, not the beginning.
I am grateful every day that I was able to change to the Special Needs program and found my amazing daughter. Being her mother is an incredible honor and I would not change a thing knowing how this story played out. So, why is it that I am finding myself a little blue as my original agency group received their referrals today? Of course I am over the mood excited for them, it's not an either / or kind of thing. But, what has also come up for me is another layer of sadness about how all of this has played out. How the process brought so much pain, both in myself and for those I care about. This process just played out so differently than I thought it would. It was so different than the stories of PAP's of years past. Today I am grieving and letting go of the expectations I had 4 + years ago.
While I stopped waiting when I accepted A's referral in late February of 2008, I realize that I have not fully let go. I have been reading RQ daily and tracking referral dates closely, still counting down days until my 5/9/06 group referrals finally came. I will admit, there is a pat of me that secretly hoped that a mistake had been made and I would somehow still be on that list. Yes, this is a greedy thought, and not one that would even be feasible to work out even if it happened, but it's the truth. In addition to this, I have had a bit of survivors guilt going. I have cherished my own experience, but have felt funny knowing so many of my friends still waited. For me, I allowed this to taint my experience a little and have often found myself being careful or worried my sharing was insensitive. Even the sharing of my referral news, back then, was tempered with the worry about how it would be received by my pals in the adoption community. Now that 5/9/06 finally received their calls I am also feeling like an outsider looking into a party that I would normally be attending. I look at my groups Province and very young girl referrals and wonder if one of them would have been mine, or what she would have been like. Again, I am not feeling regret, but curious and confused by it all. What I do know, though, is that I feel like I can finally let go. I can stop tracking and start fully living in what I have in a way that I just couldn't until now.
While I am so happy with my reality, it is strange to be grieving a process that played out so differently than I expected. If community wasn't as important to me, maybe I would not have held on the way I have. Or maybe its just that little problem of overanylizing I seem to have, LOL.
Congratulations to all those receiving their referrals this week and those whose turns are finally coming down the pike.
While I am a very independent person, having a sense of community is something that has always been very important to me. One of the things that thrilled me about the way the China program was structured, was that folks generally travelled in a group, and that each group's children generally came from the same SWI. For me, I knew the experience of traveling across the world as a single woman and coming home the mother to a little girl who lost everything familiar to her, would be something so powerful that it would be hard to put into words. Going through this transformation with others, both in the support and the bearing witness of it all, ranked way up there for me in the fantasy I created about how this would all play out. Also, the idea of our children all coming from the same SWI, which is typical for groups traveling from one agency, excited me, as I would have at least a crumb of something from my daughters past to give her through future contacts. I looked at these children as cousins of sorts. As my dossier left for China back in April of 2006, my agency sent a list of the names and e-mail addresses of the people in my travel group. There were 4 families in all.
In addition to my agency group, I got busy early on joining Yahoo groups for people waiting. Several of those groups were geared towards those waiting with the same expected timeline. Again, in the beginning there was a lot of excitement, gift swapping, and idea sharing. There was a giddiness that was just so much fun. I made some good friends and we talked a lot about the hope of meeting up in China and introducing each other to our children. So much shared fantasy during those first months of waiting.
Well, we all know that things changed dramatically and the fantasy changed into cold hard reality. Many of us eventually changed course and moved to the Special Needs program, other countries, or became parents by other means. Some people dropped out as they needed to take themselves out of limbo. Many peoples life situations changed, some no longer qualified to adopt, and some put wonderful opportunities on hold in order to stay in line. Many of those who decided to wait it out eventually needed to put distance between all things adoption in order to mentally survive the unknown. Relationships formed, but many grew distant, awkward, or to had falling outs. For all in this process there has been pain. Some more than others, but all of us have had to do some amount of soul searching. Most of us thought deciding to adopt was the end of the journey of having to dig deep, not the beginning.
I am grateful every day that I was able to change to the Special Needs program and found my amazing daughter. Being her mother is an incredible honor and I would not change a thing knowing how this story played out. So, why is it that I am finding myself a little blue as my original agency group received their referrals today? Of course I am over the mood excited for them, it's not an either / or kind of thing. But, what has also come up for me is another layer of sadness about how all of this has played out. How the process brought so much pain, both in myself and for those I care about. This process just played out so differently than I thought it would. It was so different than the stories of PAP's of years past. Today I am grieving and letting go of the expectations I had 4 + years ago.
While I stopped waiting when I accepted A's referral in late February of 2008, I realize that I have not fully let go. I have been reading RQ daily and tracking referral dates closely, still counting down days until my 5/9/06 group referrals finally came. I will admit, there is a pat of me that secretly hoped that a mistake had been made and I would somehow still be on that list. Yes, this is a greedy thought, and not one that would even be feasible to work out even if it happened, but it's the truth. In addition to this, I have had a bit of survivors guilt going. I have cherished my own experience, but have felt funny knowing so many of my friends still waited. For me, I allowed this to taint my experience a little and have often found myself being careful or worried my sharing was insensitive. Even the sharing of my referral news, back then, was tempered with the worry about how it would be received by my pals in the adoption community. Now that 5/9/06 finally received their calls I am also feeling like an outsider looking into a party that I would normally be attending. I look at my groups Province and very young girl referrals and wonder if one of them would have been mine, or what she would have been like. Again, I am not feeling regret, but curious and confused by it all. What I do know, though, is that I feel like I can finally let go. I can stop tracking and start fully living in what I have in a way that I just couldn't until now.
While I am so happy with my reality, it is strange to be grieving a process that played out so differently than I expected. If community wasn't as important to me, maybe I would not have held on the way I have. Or maybe its just that little problem of overanylizing I seem to have, LOL.
Congratulations to all those receiving their referrals this week and those whose turns are finally coming down the pike.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Attachment is a Process
Attachment is a process. I have always know this to be true and did not enter into the adoption experience expecting it to happen in an instant. Now, just passing the two year mark of being home with A, I am able to see more clearly the different stages of the attachment process I have gone through as a parent. In our waiting, so many of us focus on how to foster a healthy attachment for our adopted child, as well as learning to have realistic expectations of how much time that actually takes. Many of us also take an honest look into the reality of OUR OWN process of attaching to our new child taking time. However, it seems there is more talk in the community about the instant love felt, rather than the disconnect between what your heart wants to feel, but actually really experiences. I know this happens differently for everyone, and some do actually feel it instantly, but for me it has been a process.
I have talked a bit about this here before and to some of you in different settings. In the early weeks/months I though I was attaching, but today it feels like those were really just the outer layers of the onion. On the two year Anniversary of meeting A, I looked at the pictures of our first few days together. For days, I couldn't stop myself from weeping each time I thought of the look on her little face - those sad, sad eyes kind of haunt me. I wept for that scared and sad little girl and I wept with the guilt I was feeling for not seeing her more clearly during those days. I shed the tears that I wish I had been able to genuinely weep during those days my daughter lost everything she ever knew.
When I watched the Ayi bring my daughter in to meet me, I was overcome with relief. I was relieved that this was really happening, and relieved to see this perfect, alert, and beautiful little girl, whom would be mine. When she was handed to me and started to protest and cry, I felt protective and strangely calm. I focused on soothing her and watched her cues carefully, intellectually aware how sad and frightened she must be. Later that night she flashed me several of her whole faced charming smiles, and I again felt relief that all would be OK. It didn't dawn on me that this was her seductive way of engaging adults to make sure her needs would be met, it just seemed adorable and I was smitten. In the days that followed, A's need to be held 24/7 began to feel suffocating to me. I felt tender and protective of her, this tiny two year old girl. However, it felt like I was doing what I needed to, or "should", rather than the expansive feeling you experience when giving from a full heart. I eventually shut down emotionally. I gave everything I knew to give, and was so overwhelmed by her need that I short circuited. I started to go through the motions. I felt bursts of happiness during those times in China, and the attachment process was certainly underway for both of us, but I was a just lot further away than I realized at that time.
The day after returning home form China we had our first Ped. appointment. I was hit with a surprise concern of a potential serious neurological disorder. She was not diagnosed with anything, but the idea that there was something out there put me into a tailspin. I remember sitting by the bathtub each night watching this little girl, who was blossoming by the day, and thinking how I felt this wall between us. I wanted to feel mother bear protective of her and anything she may have to face medically, but I couldn't permeate that wall. How could I fall in love with this little girl who may get sick or may need from me more than I have to give? I was ashamed of myself for not having the natural mothers instincts to be willing to go to the end of the earth for this child. Along with the medical unknown, we struggled a lot with sleep for the first 9 months A was home. In the early days, it was hard for me to believe that A would ever sleep independently of me. It was hard for me to keep knowing and doing all the right things to foster her sense of safety and attachment, yet feel like I was giving so much and feeling so little. I cried a lot during those first months.
The cycle seemed to be that A needed a lot of me in order to settle, and I needed a little space from her in order to want to give more. Unfortunately, she wanted nobody else but me, so there was little space to have. We worked it out somehow and slowly things began to improve. As I wrote about a long time back, I remember the first moment of feeling the overwhelming burst of love and attachment towards her. It was a little over 3 months after we became a family. Since that time it has grown in leaps and bounds. I don't think it was until year two, though, that the feeling of being willing to go to the ends of the earth for her really kicked in. Just being honest here. I have really really loved her since that third month in, but attaching on that primal level took longer for me. I just didn't know it until now.
In reflecting back, I believe that while I knew better, I still believed my attachment to her would happen right away. In reality, expecting myself have that kind of love and attachment with a total stranger, who had lived a full two years without me, was pretty darn unrealistic. I felt an instant connection with A, almost like I had known her before, but that is different than attachment. I know I did a "good enough" job with her in those earlier days, but I so wish I could go back now and do it again with the depth of feelings I have for her now.
Attachment is a process and I am grateful to now be where I am.
I have talked a bit about this here before and to some of you in different settings. In the early weeks/months I though I was attaching, but today it feels like those were really just the outer layers of the onion. On the two year Anniversary of meeting A, I looked at the pictures of our first few days together. For days, I couldn't stop myself from weeping each time I thought of the look on her little face - those sad, sad eyes kind of haunt me. I wept for that scared and sad little girl and I wept with the guilt I was feeling for not seeing her more clearly during those days. I shed the tears that I wish I had been able to genuinely weep during those days my daughter lost everything she ever knew.
When I watched the Ayi bring my daughter in to meet me, I was overcome with relief. I was relieved that this was really happening, and relieved to see this perfect, alert, and beautiful little girl, whom would be mine. When she was handed to me and started to protest and cry, I felt protective and strangely calm. I focused on soothing her and watched her cues carefully, intellectually aware how sad and frightened she must be. Later that night she flashed me several of her whole faced charming smiles, and I again felt relief that all would be OK. It didn't dawn on me that this was her seductive way of engaging adults to make sure her needs would be met, it just seemed adorable and I was smitten. In the days that followed, A's need to be held 24/7 began to feel suffocating to me. I felt tender and protective of her, this tiny two year old girl. However, it felt like I was doing what I needed to, or "should", rather than the expansive feeling you experience when giving from a full heart. I eventually shut down emotionally. I gave everything I knew to give, and was so overwhelmed by her need that I short circuited. I started to go through the motions. I felt bursts of happiness during those times in China, and the attachment process was certainly underway for both of us, but I was a just lot further away than I realized at that time.
The day after returning home form China we had our first Ped. appointment. I was hit with a surprise concern of a potential serious neurological disorder. She was not diagnosed with anything, but the idea that there was something out there put me into a tailspin. I remember sitting by the bathtub each night watching this little girl, who was blossoming by the day, and thinking how I felt this wall between us. I wanted to feel mother bear protective of her and anything she may have to face medically, but I couldn't permeate that wall. How could I fall in love with this little girl who may get sick or may need from me more than I have to give? I was ashamed of myself for not having the natural mothers instincts to be willing to go to the end of the earth for this child. Along with the medical unknown, we struggled a lot with sleep for the first 9 months A was home. In the early days, it was hard for me to believe that A would ever sleep independently of me. It was hard for me to keep knowing and doing all the right things to foster her sense of safety and attachment, yet feel like I was giving so much and feeling so little. I cried a lot during those first months.
The cycle seemed to be that A needed a lot of me in order to settle, and I needed a little space from her in order to want to give more. Unfortunately, she wanted nobody else but me, so there was little space to have. We worked it out somehow and slowly things began to improve. As I wrote about a long time back, I remember the first moment of feeling the overwhelming burst of love and attachment towards her. It was a little over 3 months after we became a family. Since that time it has grown in leaps and bounds. I don't think it was until year two, though, that the feeling of being willing to go to the ends of the earth for her really kicked in. Just being honest here. I have really really loved her since that third month in, but attaching on that primal level took longer for me. I just didn't know it until now.
In reflecting back, I believe that while I knew better, I still believed my attachment to her would happen right away. In reality, expecting myself have that kind of love and attachment with a total stranger, who had lived a full two years without me, was pretty darn unrealistic. I felt an instant connection with A, almost like I had known her before, but that is different than attachment. I know I did a "good enough" job with her in those earlier days, but I so wish I could go back now and do it again with the depth of feelings I have for her now.
Attachment is a process and I am grateful to now be where I am.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
