An Adoption Hypocrite?

I moderate my blog comments now.  I'm not sure why because even though the uglies don't get published, I still have to read them.  And then not publishing them makes me feel like a coward. *sigh* It started when an internet troll (a real thing!) added some horrible comments on a post about loneliness.  I decided then that I wanted my blog to be my "safe" place to share thoughts without grave judgment.  But I digress (within the first paragraph...never a good sign!)

So I wrote a post about ethics, and someone wrote a comment about how it's "interesting" that I chose to "see the light" AFTER bringing our beautiful children home from Ethiopia.  Well, that kind of stung.  And basically I've been feeling like a ginormous hypocrite for talking out about ethics in adoption now, a year after our boys have been home.  

And then add into the mix this interview with Kathryn Joyce on NPR's Fresh Air.  Joyce wrote a book titled The Child Catcher: Rescue, Trafficking and the New Gospel of Adoption. While I haven't read the book, the interview jarred me.  Because, well, you know, I'm a Christian who adopted from one of the countries she profiled.  I agreed with some of what she said in the interview, but I hated how it vilified international adoption.

But you know what?  While Jude and I didn't adopt to "save" our children or evangelize to them (gross!), I still believe that adoption can be a beautiful thing.  So now I have these mixed up, melted, jumbled feelings about adoption that make my words seem incoherent and ignorant.

Then just this week we received some incredibly shocking news about our boys' stories.  I won't share the details because my children don't even know yet.  I'll just say that in doing some investigative work in Addis Ababa, we learned of a minor discrepancy between the story our agency told us and what might be the true story.  This information isn't game-changing.  It honestly doesn't change the fact that our boys need to be with us; we aren't their first choice, but we're the best choice.  However, the news we received pushed us towards further investigations because our boys deserve answers when they are older.  We will pay whatever we need to in order to unearth every rock in their story.  I will not look an 18-year-old LD in the eye and say, "No, honey, we don't have those answers."  I refuse.

The news also made me shout from the rooftops in Facebook groups and to a friend who is pursuing a second adoption from the DRC.  Adoptive parents must do their own investigation regardless of the agency.  For PAPs it should happen before the finalized adoption.  That didn't happen for us, and that's why negative commenters want to call me on the carpet for my naivete and ignorance.  Honestly I can't blame them.  But if you're past the early stages, don't shake your heads and say, "Well, it's too late for us."   I can't emphasize enough the need to ask questions, to not believe the story you were told.  Because as much as I hate to admit it, adoption is a business that puts money in pockets because of vulnerable children.  And anytime people can make money off of other people's needs, corruption creeps just around the corner.  Our story is so teeny tiny when compared to the seriousness of information uncovered by other APs' investigations:  Supposedly dead birth parents still alive.  Birth families who sent their children away for an education in America with the promise they would return.  I don't care the cost!  Do the investigation!

So yes, I'm a hypocrite.  I believe adoption is incredibly beautiful and life-changing and positive.  And I also believe it can be ugly and corrupt and dangerous.  It's not either/or.  It's both/and.  That's what PAPs (and APs) need to know.  We can't wear our rose-colored glasses, but we also can't be complete pessimists either.  Beauty from the ashes, you know?

I know I'm not saying anything new here.  Actually I'm not even singing an old song to a different tune.  I'm just breathing my heart on the page hoping that someone, somewhere might be influenced by my jumbled up thoughts.  (And if you're going to write a super ugly comment, don't bother.  It won't be published.  Yes, I might be chicken, but I get enough drama in my daily life.)

Good Enough

I really like Elizabeth Berg's writing.  I appreciate the simplicity of her prose and the lovely images she paints with her words.  And usually I can relate so well to her characters.  Just yesterday I reread Open House, one of my favorites of hers.  Jude was working late, and I lay in bed past my normal bedtime finishing the story and wishing I was more present in life instead of always looking ahead or behind.  The main character, Sam, is recently separated from her husband and fighting the inevitable feelings of depression and loneliness when she starts to take in boarders.  One of her boarders, an elderly woman named Lydia, directly asks Sam, "Did you think life would be easy all the time?"  

I've been thinking about that question posed by Lydia.  And the sadly honest answer is that yes, at one point I did imagine life would be easy.  Even now when I'm having a rough day it's too easy to think, "If only _______________ could be different, everything would be easier."  Depending on the day, the blank could be filled with BD's problems at schools, the size of our house, my indecision about work, my physical location, the color of my hair, or any other number of superficial concerns.  

You know what, though?  Even when life isn't as easy as I once imagined, it is still overflowing with so much beauty and goodness.

When I have my head on straight, I remember Paul in Philippians 4:11 expressing his contentment in all circumstances.  In another non-biblical illustration, Ani DiFranco sings in one of my favorite songs, "As Is," "When I look around, I think this, this is good enough, and I try to laugh at whatever life brings.  'Cause when I look down, I just miss all the good stuff.  When I look up, I just trip over things."

Those words "good enough" don't have to be an admittance of resignation; they can be words of contentment, of acceptance.  That's where I am today, where I want to stay.

So today in light of the unthinkable tragedy in Boston, I'm spending some time being grateful for the simple, lovely things, the "good enough" of this imperfect life I choose to embrace.

a fresh apple pie made with love by my mama

BD's marble collection and his ability to beat me every stinkin' time

the stark beauty of this late winter wonderland

my grandma's yarns resting sweetly

my vintage birdies perched in peace

And these lovely little treasures?  They are just a drop in the bucket of the good and the beautiful in the world.  Today I will focus on spreading a bit more.

In Which I Feebly Address Ethics in Adoption

I've had just enough wine to write this post and press "send" without too much editing and rethinking.

Amanda over at Watershed has started a series of posts about ethics in adoption.  She's fighting the good fight, and I raise my sword with her.  At the same time, I must hang my head in shame.

You see, going into our adoption of BD and LD, the term "ethics in adoption" meant, well, nothing to me.

Here's the short version for those of you who aren't familiar with my former blog:

1.  We tried to conceive for almost two years with no success.
2.  The Haiti earthquake occurred.
3.  My heart was moved by the multiple news stories about orphans left in Haiti.
4.  We decided to pursue international adoption.
5.  We chose an agency without much thought.  (I had a family member who worked for our agency.)
6.  We chose a country because we fit Ethiopia's qualifications.
7.  On a whim (God's calling??  so confusing??) we decided to adopt siblings.
8.  We found our sons on a list of waiting children.  (And THAT I have not second-guessed one time.)

Bottom line:  We did hardly any research, a fact that now makes me want to vomit.

As we continued through our process, though, I discovered that not everything nothing in adoption was black and white.  It's hard to write about this without disclosing sensitive information about my sons, but as we learned about their story, we began to understand firsthand the adoption triad.  I distinctly remember an agency-sanctioned workshop where we met with domestic birth mothers and spent some time examining the loss in our sons' stories.  (The layers of loss are profound.)  Our story is maybe a little less confusing than others, and that's possibly because our boys were older when they entered the orphanage.  It wasn't a case of abandonment or coercion, but beyond that I'm not comfortable sharing the details.  We have since discovered (via methods that I will perhaps share later) that all other options were exhausted for them, but that obviously isn't the case for others.  As Amanda wrote, "Babies come from mothers," and I'm afraid that's a fact that many adoptive parents choose to ignore.

Since coming home a year ago I've received Facebook messages from at least two friends who are considering international adoption.  At the same time I've started to understand that the number of orphans we print on our well-meaning t-shirts and discuss on our blogs isn't really that accurate.  And here's the thing: I believe that the Gospel does call us to care for the orphan.  I believe that Christian or non-Christian, the idea of children surviving in this world without parents breaks hearts and calls us to action.  

I think about what my sons' lives in Ethiopia would be like now, and I can hardly breathe.  BD tells story after story of stealing leftover food from restaurants and saving every little santim they could find on the streets.  LD recounts tales of his job sharpening knives over a hot fire to earn a birr or two to use for buying bread.  When we talk about their sleeping arrangements of several adults and children in one room, and their fear at night, and their frequent hunger....it's enough to cause this mother to cry herself to sleep, something that has happened on more than one occasion.  

However (that blasted word again), I have also seen firsthand how grief and loss have impacted my sons.  I have sobbed with them as they've grieved their birth home, birth family, dear friends, beautiful culture.  Just this week I had to remind them again, "Please tell me every story you remember about your birth mother.  I want to know all that I can."  Together we laughed and cried as they recalled stories about their previous lives in Ethiopia.  (I am so grateful that my begging and pleading with my agency resulted in a picture of their sweet birth mother.  It is a treasure for all of us.)

So when my innocent friends sent me messages on Facebook asking for my thoughts on international adoption, I've been brutally honest.  I've shared that they should research agencies and understand ethics and ask a billion questions.  One friend didn't respond, and not soon after I watched as she started a blog and asked for money and talked about the two children from Uganda that she was "saving."  The second friend read the blogs I recommended and asked more questions and expressed fear.  That, I think, is the correct response, and even that is not black and white.

So I guess that's where I am now.

Honestly I'm not sure why I'm writing this here other than the fact that I've been thinking about this a lot since Amanda started her blog posts.  I realize that basically this blog has a teeny tiny following, and not many PAPs (if any?) read it.  But I guess for my own satisfaction I needed to get some of these muddled thoughts out there.  So there you go.  

Anyone else out there have some ugly confessions about their ignorance on adoption ethics?  Or questions they are itching to ask?  Or stories they are willing to tell?

It's Been a Year!

And pretty much that's all I need to say.  (Except that my title should not be read with sarcasm.  Because I mean it's been a beautiful, trying, exhausting, liberating, loving, messy, amazing, would-do-it-all-again-in-a-second year.)

The Forgotten Child

So I actually have two children.

What's that you say?  I only talk about one on this blog?  Well, it's time that changed.  

LD has been thriving at school since January.  He comes home every day eager to talk about his best buddy, how many points he scored in the recess basketball game, and the funny cat story he read during independent reading.  Favorite pastimes include playing anything with a ball, following me around the house, and making up nonsensical knock-knock jokes.

They might go something like this:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Mechanic.
Mechanic who?
Mechanic fixing your car for you!!! (followed by insane amounts of giggles)

He is light and laughter and love.  BD is all of those things, too; our boys just show their beauty in different ways.  The outside world sees more of LD's because he is such a charming entertainer.  (In many ways, I think that became a successful coping mechanism for him during his earlier life.)

I recently learned that LD also gives good marriage advice.  We hosted an informal shower for good friends who are getting married, and when asked if he had any advice for them, LD said, "You have to talk to her."  Not bad for an eight-year-old, eh?

When we made the painful choice to bring BD home from school, we predicted some increased jealousy and outbursts from LD.  My direct quote to the therapist was, "He's going to be mad as hell."  She reminded me that I could handle mad as hell, and we committed to pouring extra into him as much as we could after school and on the weekends.

He was mad as hell.  Some days I think he still is.  We have to continually remind him that my days at home with BD aren't all sunshine and roses and movies and injera for lunch.  Slowly that has been sinking in.  (It didn't help when he learned that BD's OT sessions often involve a lovely heated pool.)

As much as possible I try to pick him up from school early, take him on dessert dates, read extra books with him, and pour that love in.  Jude pours in love by hours of basement basketball and general male-bonding wresting.  If I'm going to be honest, there are afternoons and evenings after some roughness with BD that I just don't want to be therapeutic mom anymore.  Sometimes I want nothing more than to pop in a DVD while I make dinner and tell LD to leave me alone for just 30 minutes.  BUT....I fight that urge.  Because I really don't want him to feel forgotten.

I've been thinking a lot, though, about the "forgotten children."  I'm sure LD isn't the only one; I'm guessing some of you can relate, too.  It seems like many families have a child or two (or more) who just require more of us.  If I'm not driving BD to one of his appointments or filling out paperwork for his next appointment or trying to play our way out of dysregulation, I'm just doing normal "life" stuff.  And when I'm not doing any of the aforementioned, I'm sleeping because this life is pretty darn exhausting.

But this LD?  He's my beautiful boy, too, and he's worth pouring into.

If anyone out there has some advice for pouring into the "easier" child, please let me know.  Because we can't forget them, you know?  (And mine does have a rather unforgettable dimple.)

The Importance of Play

When I was a child, I was an expert at play.  My older siblings were in high school when I was an elementary youngster, so by necessity I had to play on my own.  I created elaborate soap opera scenarios with my Barbies, built detailed cities with my Fisher Price Little People, and raced my brother's old Matchbox cars down a plastic track.  

I've mentioned before that BD and I are going to weekly therapy.  I do parenting sessions twice a month, and BD comes with me for "practice" on the other weeks.  One of the first things our therapist, Leah, taught me was the necessity of play.  Jude and I have often complained that that boys aren't great at playing with toys.  We have tubs of Legos, Hot Wheels, Bay Blades, etc. that go untouched for weeks at a time.  LD prefers to play anything related to sports, and BD could spend hours looking at his books on raptors or throwing his paper jets.

Leah gave me homework several weeks ago:  frequently engaging BD in daily play.  (Because I don't want LD to feel left out, he gets his time, too.)  This isn't just any play, though; it's "Special Play," and it comes with rules.  (I'm sure this wouldn't work with every kid, but I've seen this working with both of our boys already.  I'll share some of the "rules" in case any readers think it might work with your kiddos.  Leah mentioned that this is designed for younger children, but because of the boys' emotional ages, this works for them.)  Some of you parenting veterans are now thinking, "Well, no shit, Sherlock.  We've been doing this for years."  Please kindly remember that I'm a parenting newbie.  New dog = new tricks

Of course there's a fancy acronym for this that I can't remember, so I'll do my favorite form of random organization:  bullet points.

• We have to play with toys.  It can't be board games, balls, or books.  Some of our favorites are cars, blocks, and Play-Doh.  Creativity is a key.
• We are supposed to do "Special Play" for at least five minutes a day, but I find much of this creeping into many of my interactions with the boys.
• As much as possible, I give labeled praise for something they do well.  This can't be a generic "Good job!", though.  It has to be specific.  "I really like how you organized those Legos into a pattern."  "Thanks for coming closer to me to play.  I like it when we play together."
• This is the weird part, but I try to reflect what they do and what they say.  If BD is driving the blue car down the Hot Wheels track, I say, "You're driving that cool blue car down the track."  If LD and I are playing with Play-Doh, I might say, "You're rolling a huge snake with that pink Play-Doh."  When I first started this, they thought I was borderline crazy crazier than they already expected.  I just answered, "I'm doing what Miss Leah taught me to be a really good play partner for you."  Now they aren't surprised when I say those things.
• I'm supposed to ask no questions and give no directions during "Special Play."  This is super super hard, especially the question part.  I think the intent is that this entire experience is supposed to be child-centered.  Leah is teaching me the next stages this week, so we'll see where it goes from here.

Leah also taught me that a dysregulated child cannot be actively engaged in play.  That was a pretty big "a-ha" moment for me as I realized that too often I try to talk my boys out of dysregulation rather than play them out.  I got an object lesson in this right in our therapist's play room.  BD initially hated with a burning passion wasn't a tremendous fan of going to therapy, mostly because he doesn't like the thought that he needs help.  (Who does?)  He often displays a disrespectful attitude when we first arrive, and that happened this last week, too.  Leah and I got down to business with playing, though.  She hooked me up with an earpiece and went into the other room to coach me.  I started by building my own house with Tinker Toys, describing my every step as BD verbally spit poison about some of my trigger points (blog on THAT coming soon).  Soon he was quiet and watching, and within five minutes he was playing right with me.  Then I kicked in the labeled praises.  "I'm so glad you're here playing with me.  Wow, you can really roll that car straight."  (Uh, sometimes I'm stretching for the praises, you know?)  And then he was back.  His eyes were shining, he was looking to me, and my beautiful BD was smiling with me.  Play brought him out.

In another instance, LD was upset with Jude and me for something that I can't recall right now.  We were walking Rooney around the block while he rode his bike with what seemed to be a permanent scowl painted on.  Initially I was ticked that he was ruining what could've been a really fun experience, but then I remembered some of the techniques we've been working on in therapy.  I started with the reflections.  "You're pedaling pretty fast."  "You're turning the next corner."  Then I moved to some labeled praises.  "Whoa, buddy!  You can ride standing up.  That takes some big leg muscles."  "I can't believe how much confidence you've gained on your bike since last year.  That's taken some dedication."  And within one trip around the block, I kid you not, the boy was smiling and laughing and engaging us again.  

Finally, last Friday and Saturday I had the boys by myself for much of the day as Jude had a big work project to complete.  I had a long list of household tasks that I really wanted to do, but instead I decided to work on some play.  Typically our days together at home can be long and peppered with arguments between the boys, but as I worked on an elaborate car track with LD and created a new exercise game with BD, our time together flew by with little conflict.  I'm not saying I will now be their play partner all the time.  Obviously they need to become more independent at this, too, but I think I had forgotten that because of their early childhood trauma, they hadn't played much, especially not with toys.  Just last week BD told me that he was afraid to play with the stuffed dog we brought with us on the Embassy trip because he'd never had one before.  He was 8, and he had never before had a stuffed animal until a year ago.  

So play is important, and it seems we have a ways to go.  But I think I could be doing worse homework assignments than playing with my boys.

Date Night

Mostly I remember her perfume.  She would prep in the bathroom, and I would memorize her rituals.  The soak in the tub, the blotted lipstick, the carefully lined eyes, the block-patterned sweaters and turtlenecks. Mostly, though, I remember the scent of her perfume that would trail her around the house as she made last minute preparations.  When Estee Lauder's Beautiful was in the air, I knew it was date night.  

Date night for my parents meant dinner with friends or an evening spent playing 500 with their card club.  Their car would crunch over the gravel driveway around dinnertime, and I would be lost in slumber when they returned.

Date night for me as a child meant my favorite junior high babysitter, Debbie.  Earlier in the day I would travel with mom to the Family Market to pick out my dinner for the night, either a Totino's pizza or a TV dinner.  (My favorite was salisbury steak with fake mashed potatoes and a gooey brownie.  At the age of seven, I was obviously the picture of health.) After my early dinner, I would ride into town with my dad to pick Debbie up from her house on the highway, and the two of us would spend the night watching too much TV and maybe coloring or playing Barbies.  I went to bed without fanfare, and I always woke the next morning to the strong scent of coffee brewing and my dad's work boots echoing on the linoleum in the kitchen.

Now that I'm a parent, date night has gotten a bit more complicated.

photo from a date long ago

We've been on four dates now since the boys have been home.  Each date has come with a side order of pre-date meltdown drama with LD.  My sister and her family always provide great entertainment for the boys; she goes to great lengths to cook food they like and give LD the sweets he craves.  They are always all smiles from playing with cousins when we arrive home, and after the first night, the backlash wasn't very severe.

Our time together on dates has been refreshing and hard.  Refreshing because we are in the car and then a restaurant together without the constant yammering of two energetic, inquisitive boys.  Hard because we find ourselves talking about the boys all. the. time.  And it's not that I don't love them.  It's not that they aren't our world right now.  It's just that I do have a distant recollection of a time when we used to be able to carry on conversations about great music or politics or the current state of the American church.

So basically I've decided I need to splash on the perfume and go out more often.  I think the consistency will help the boys, and can we be serious for a minute?  Therapeutic parenting is bloody hard on a marriage.  Jude and I are really doing well.  We really are.  We make time to connect most every night after the boys are in bed.  Sometimes it's a short chat and then some March Madness basketball.  Sometimes it's lying in bed and venting about the day followed by some praying.  And sometimes it's laughing and then crying together during an episode of Modern Family on the DVR.

The thing is, working on ANY marriage takes work.  I remember being seventeen and thinking I could marry my high school boyfriend and live happily ever after because "love is all you need."  And love IS all you need, but love isn't the mushy-gushy feeling I thought it was back when that boy gave me my favorite lip gloss and An Affair to Remember for Christmas.  Love is a verb, an action word.  It's pushing and struggling and forgiving and sharing and intertwining and grieving and laughing.  That's love, and it isn't easy.

And now even date night is work, but it's work worth doing.  So I'm making the commitment.  

I WILL go on a date every other week.  
I WILL make an effort to talk about things other than our children.  
I WILL remember some of the weightless beauty of first falling in love. 

And I WILL give my boys memories of the trail of perfume I left behind on date night.