This Reminds Me

While we were preparing for Julia, Keith and I digested every scrap of information we could read or hear about Russian adoption, older child adoption, etc.    One possibility topped the list of horrifying potential problems – failure to attach.  What if our “new girl” could not accept us as parents, or her sisters as true siblings?   What if we were still a family of five, with an emotionally-unavailable resident alien stapled on as #6?

We knew the consequences – chaos for the entire family.  Damage to our marriage; damage to our original three daughters; physical, emotional, spiritual and financial ruin, as this family is enduring with their soon to be disrupted five-year-old son.

I talked to so many adoptive families, I got to where I could tell in the first two minutes if I was going to hear a success story (success = attachment) or a horror (horror = no attachment).  I sorted through the myriad of variables and realized the books were right.  You could increase your odds of a successful adoption, but you couldn’t guarantee it.  And love was never Never NEVER enough.

Parenting a post-institutionalized child – particularly an older child – required different techniques and strategies than I used with homegrown Rachel, Lois and Hannah.   To help her attach, we practiced the “holding therapy” in Russia when she treated me badly.  We regressed her to a bottle at bedtime when she was first home at age 6.  When she first walked into her new “dom” (house), there were pictures of her in every room.    We had family pictures made very soon after she came home, and a framed copy went in her room and on the fireplace mantle.  When she was tired, listless or just seemed distant, I spoon-fed her, forcing eye contact.   When close friends came over, they knew to praise me loudly and repeatedly, showing her I was a person worthy of respect.  Holding her, rocking her, singing to her – making that eye contact – was a priority for Keith and me.   The summer of 2006 was “the summer we stayed home,” because we knew Julia needed to simply learn “home” and family.”

And how do you know when they’re attached?  They don’t look up from breakfast and say, “Please pass the butter, Mom, and oh, by the way, I’m feeling attached now.”

Keith thinks it was earlier, but I think the books were right and she attached after about 18 months at home.  I don’t mean she “began to fit in” or “finally started obeying” or anything like that.  I  mean “attached” where I knew with certainty she really and truly looked at us as her parents.

We had attached to her much earlier, but that’s the kicker with older child adoptions.  It’s a choice for everyone.  The child has to choose, too.

There’s no high drama around attachment – at least not for us.  There was no single magic moment with a big “ah-ha!”  No angels singing with fireworks filling the air.  Just little things, over time.  And little things mean a lot.

I had a difficult day Monday and came home exhausted.  Everybody knew it.  Rachel, Lois and Hannah suggested a game of Scrabble after dinner.  I love Scrabble!  Just thinking of it cheered me.  As soon as we got Julia in bed, we broke out the game.  Had a ball playing.

Julia must have heard us, though, because last night she came to me with a serious expression.

Julia:  “Mom, you played ‘Apples to Apples’ without me last night.”  (Julia loves that game.)

Me:  “No, baby.  We played Scrabble. ”

Julia:  “Can I play Scrabble next time?”

Me:  “Well, it’s a hard word game.  When you’re older, you can play.  But right now, I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

Long pause.

Julia:  “I like it when you play games with me.”

Attachment isn’t a game.  But when they want to play one with you – everybody’s a winner.

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