This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Adoption’ Category

In the context of disagreeing about child discipline, someone recently told me, “You really don’t understand adoption because you already had children (when you adopted).”

Really?  Hmmm.  This reminds me of people who have told me I’m not a real mother because I work outside the home, or aren’t a real Texan because I was born in Indianapolis.

There’s plenty I understand about adoption.

I understand that all kids have behavior problems.  That’s because they’re kids.  It’s our job as parents to correct them.  Not every behavior problem is adoption-related.  A three-year-old who tantrums in a public place needs to have his attention re-focused on his parent so that parent can correct – whether by words, or forcible removal, or perhaps warming the child’s bottom.   He doesn’t need an ooey-gooey, “Oh, Mommy knows you have problems because you’re adopted!  Mommy is here for you.  Let Mommy make sure you don’t hurt yourself as you annoy everyone within earshot and totally destroy what could be a pleasant experience for everyone else here.”

My first picture with minutes-old Rachel.  Easy baby – at least compared to those to come (preemie Lois, then 11 lb., 6 oz. Hannah).  I boiled the water used to mix Rachel’s formula for her first year.

I understand that all adopted kids have attachment issues to some degree or another.  We’ve dealt with some ourselves.  More may emerge later during those delightful teen years.   It’s just part of the package of nurturing a child you didn’t birth.   Attachment issues, though, can’t be allowed to define a child.  Neither can height, weight, birth order, intelligence, physical abilities or whatever crazy aunt that child resembles.   You can’t throw your hands in the air and whine, “Well what can I do?  He’s adopted.”  It’s just part of the package.  Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

My first picture with Lois – and the first time I was allowed to hold her.  She was two weeks old and had just come off the ventilator.  I used bottled water to mix Lois’ formula for her first five months.

I understand that you cannot love adopted kids and bio kids “the same.” But really – you can’t love bio kids “the same” either.  They’re all different, born to you at different stages in your life with different appearances, and talents and characteristics of their own.  I throw up in my mouth when I read of some nanny-laden celebrity blithely quoted as, “Oh, I don’t even remember which of my kids are adopted and which are bio.”   That’s not cute, or touching.  It’s just silly.  And to me – it gives adoption a tinge of shame, like there’s something disgraceful about an adopted child that must be hidden.  I don’t see anything wrong with responding to invasive inquiries with, “I’m not sure why you’re asking,” or “If you my kids want you to know that, they’ll tell you.”   But to place bio and adopted kids in some murky, ill-defined stew of “sameness”  is as foolish as trying to force Child A to be a great artist because Child B is, or telling Child C that she has to dye her hair the same color as Child D.  Kids are different.  And – at different stages in our lives – so are we parents.

My first picture with Hannah, who was five months old.  By the time the third one comes along, you say things like, “Honey, didn’t we used to have a camera?”  and “I rubbed her pacifier on my jeans, so it’s clean.”  Hannah started off on tap water.

I understand that many adopted kids have gaping holes in their history – and that stinks.  I hate writing “unknown” on Julia’s medical history forms.  It’s irritating to respond, “I don’t know” to a doctor’s questions.   Mostly it worries me to be ignorant of what might be lurking in her genes.  Is that stray “my tummy hurts” comment just the result of too many malted milk candies, or should I worry about a family history of stomach cancer?  Were bio mom and dad in glasses by age 12 so I better be watching for vision issues?   I often tell Rachel, Lois and Hannah – “Aunt Judy and I each had our high blood pressure diagnosed at age 42, and high blood pressure killed your Uncle David at age 42.  Have yours checked – especially in your 40′s!”   What can I tell Julia like that?  Nothing.  I want so badly to protect her, and to teach her to keep herself safe.  The lack of a birth history is painful.

My first picture with six-year-old Julia, who chose us as well as our choosing her.   That’s a lot like marriage – and a whole lot different than giving birth.

I understand that adoption comes with its own birthing process.  Instead of watching a test strip for a color change that may or may not ever happen, you’re watching a phone that may or may not ever ring.  Instead of  feeling kicks, you’re feeling anxiety.  Instead of labor pains, you have bureaucratic pains.   Instead of stretch marks, you get stretched finances.  Instead of  “She’s got your dad’s nose” comments, you get…..well, you get other comments.  Some make you smile.  And some….well, some like “you don’t understand adoption”  – those comments make you lift an eyebrow and retort, “I do understand.”

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.

I notice big differences in the perceptions and actions of people that have  adopted children.

If the child was adopted domestically and looks like the parents, “passing” seems to be most common.  Adoption seldom enters the conversation.   It’s seldom a “secret.”  But it’s not advertised.

If the child was adopted internationally, or if the child doesn’t look like the parents, then the level of investment in the adoption seems to be governed by the presence of bio children.   Parents – particularly mothers – of these adopted kids with no bios seem to focus more on the attribute of adoption itself.    They don’t merely feed their kids.   If their kids were adopted from Russia, they scour the user boards for Russian recipes.     If their kids were adopted from China, they have adorable silken garments to wear for Chinese New Year.  If their kids are of a different race,  they rush to deify leaders of that race.

But if the child was adopted internationally – and/or if the child doesn’t look like the parents – and there are bio kids in the family, “blending” seems to be more the norm.  And because we blend, maybe we seem like we don’t care enough – whatever “enough” is.

Look what I found on Julia’s desk at Parent’s Night tonight.    She’s proud of being adopted.   Good thing, since we’re also proud of her.

I remember the judge in St. Petersburg asking me, “How will you be able to give enough attention to this child when you already have three children?” and my replying, “Those three children will make her life richer.  She will never lack for attention.”  And that’s been true.   Rachel, Lois and Hannah have had every bit as much to do with Julia’s acclimation and attachment as have Keith and I.

But because those three children were already here, there are lots of things we just don’t do.  Yes, yes, I took the advice of the adoption experts and scattered Russian stuffola around the house.  We hang a Russian flag for Sister’s Day.  We have somber icons on the mantle, colorful photos on the walls and decorated eggs on the bookshelves.  In fact, just this week I made Julia a collage of herself in Russia to decorate her room.

The girls’ rooms are very expressive.   Keith and I don’t much care what they tack up as long as it’s not vulgar.  We figure we’ll paint when they leave.

But our lives aren’t centered around adoption, or Russia.  We don’t belong to a single adoption support group.  (User boards?  Yes.  But there’s only one I visit regularly now, and not every day.)    We don’t cook Russian food because we typically cook what the whole family likes and makes good leftovers for lunches.    We don’t seek out Russian cultural events, of which there’d be darned few in San Antonio anyway.  Julia doesn’t own a single piece of Russian-themed clothing – and I honestly don’t think she’d wear it if she did, she’s so picky about her clothes, none of which includes a ruffle, ribbon or bow.  We’ve been invited to countless adoption-themed ministry events at different churches and – unless I was working a table for Buckner (our agency) - haven’t attended any.

I worry less about our integration of all things Russian than I do about the blending of six day-to-day lives in America.  Julia’s wanted to play soccer, but we can’t make the times work with our two full-time jobs – it’s hard to say “no,” though I told Hannah that, too, about swim team.   Julia would like to come home on the bus instead of going to the after-school program, but again, not an option for her….or for Rachel, Lois or Hannah at the same ages.

Our dinner table rocks with constant bantering.  Over spaghetti, or hamburgers, or chicken pot pie – not borscht.   With big glasses of cold water – not hot tea.   And while we wear T-shirts and shorts – not tunics and flouncy skirts.

We talk about Russia, sure – but usually, it’s Keith or me that brings it up.  I expect Julia to be insanely interested in Russia when she’s older, and when she is, we have papers, pictures and gifts for her.  We’ve even talked vaguely of re-visiting St. Pete when she’s a teen.  But today, she cares more about playing swords in the cul-de-sac with the neighbor kids.   And in the meantime….Rachel’s started college and has a job.  Lois is carrying a super-heavy load in high school and pondering the fate of the Latin Club.  Hannah is creating an eco-system project and anxious about advanced choir.

If Julia was “the only one” – I’m sure we’d celebrate Victory Day, drive to the nearest Russian Orthodox church every Sunday (it’s in Houston, BTW) and slurp vodka every night.   But she’s not.  We swirl in a blender of activities.

We don’t deny where she was.  But we also know where she is.  And who she’s with.  And what everyone is doing.  And it’s all gotta blend.

I finished a fascinating book this week - The Baby Thief – The Untold Story of Georgia Tann, The Babyseller Who Corrupted Adoption.

Georgia Tann kidnapped or illegally procured more than 5,000 children in Tennessee in the 20′s, 30′s and 40′s to sell to wealthy(er) parents.  Not all babies either – some were young teenage girls, sold to single men.  Many were school-age children, snatched from their front yards with the justification of a court order secured by bribery.  Scores if not hundreds of infants died in her care, often sweltering in the summer heat of attics.

Horrifying stuff.  And yet – really historically interesting, because she also single-handledly created the first American market for adoption.  Fighting the prevailing national eugenics ferver which condemned children needing homes, she convinced couples to adopt – and thus line her own pockets with handsome fees.

I don’t agree with all of the author’s  conclusions about Georgia Tann’s legacy affecting adoptions today.  Though she herself is an adoptive parent, she refers to us “as the most pampered of the birth triad.”  Sorry.  The adoptive parents I know have been anything but pampered.  I also don’t agree that every single adoptee has the right to know his birth family.  In a perfect world, that would be true.  But if a girl has chosen life for her baby under the condition of anonymity, I think that anonymity has to be respected.   To me, that’s no different than honoring the Baby Moses laws.   This society created the “right to choose,” and that means the right to choose privacy, too – or watch for more girls to make more difficult choices.

The book’s recurring theme is the constant gnawing ache of these adoptees to know their histories, especially if they were taken at an age when they could remember a past life.  Their pain oozes from the pages as they describe frustrating, life-long quests to fill that familial void.

I couldn’t help but think of Julia, whom we adopted at age six.  She remembers Russia, of course – the good and the bad.  And I’ve made an effort to ask her questions about what she thought when she met us – what foods she liked to eat – who her friends were – what she liked to play – so that as she forgets, I can tell her those things as part of her adoption story.

The day we met in the office of the Director of Children’s Home #47 – isn’t she a cutie?!  Keith could easily lift all 37 lbs. of her with one arm.  He said, “I don’t remember this little.”  Rachel, Lois and Hannah were that size around age 2 1/2.

I’ve made an effort, too, to talk with her about her first mother.  We know little about her, but I do know she cared enough to give Julia life, and was in difficult circumstances herself.  Julia will never hear a harsh word from Keith or me about her.  Julia and often speak at bedtime about how we’ll all be together in heaven one day, and how I’m going to hug her first mother’s neck and tell her how proud I am to share a daughter with her.  I want to keep the lines of communication open on First Mother, because I don’t want my baby afraid to talk about her.  Ever.   I don’t want her afraid to “offend” me, or be swallowed by the black hole of loss, frantically “looking for love in all the wrong places.”

I think adopting an older child is a lot like getting married.  You choose them – but they also have to choose you.    There are two families coming together, not just one absorbing the other.  The honeymoon is way easier than the distance.   And while you don’t know what tomorrow brings, you know each of you had a past that will influence it.

An adoptee kidnapped by Georgia Tann said, “There’s a hole in me that can never be filled.”

That hurt me just to read it.

Pray that we families of adoptees do the things we need to do so we don’t have to live it.