This Reminds Me

Archive for the ‘Adoption’ Category

Last night, Hannah and I returned a pair of shorts to Sam’s.  They didn’t fit.  No big deal.

Last week, an American mother returned her seven-year-old adopted son to Russian after seven months in her home.   She felt her life was endangered by his behavior, including his threats to burn down their home.  She had her mother put him on a non-stop flight to Moscow, where Russian officials promptly hustled him off to a hospital for a physical examination.

Julia’s first plane ride was part of a 27-hour coming home marathon.

The mother was wrong on sooooo many levels, not the least of which is that now Russian officials are – once again – looking at suspending all adoptions.    We were caught in a similar mess in 2004 – 2006, which is why our adoption  took 21 long months.  My heart breaks for the families in process who have a referral, or who are waiting on court dates to book that oh-so-important second trip.

The Russian adoption community is in a furor.  With blogs, forums, Facebook and other forms of social networking – even with relatively few of us – it’s easy to make contact with other families.  And they are steamed.

3,702 Russian adoptions in 2006, when Julia came home

I understand the furor.  In no way, shape or form do I condone what the mother did.  In fearing for her own life, she destroyed her son’s chance at a better one, and may have crushed the hopes of thousands of PAPs (prospective adoptive parents) as well as the abandoned children they sought to embrace.

I also understand what is too-seldom a topic of discussion:  Not all adoptions are going to be successful.  Successful means an attached child and in the case of an older child – attached parents.  To me, adopting older (past infant/toddler) children is like a marriage.  You have to go into it thinking “forever.”  They have to choose you as well as your choosing them.  And you don’t really get to date those kids before you’re married.  And like a marriage – there’s a honeymoon period.  And later – there’s just the marriage.  And what do you do when it’s not working?  Counseling?  Medication?  Structured behavioral modification? Go ask Mom for advice?  Spend more time away from home?  Or is it divorce – on, in adoption, disruption?

I don’t know what this mother or her son did and didn’t do.  The seven-year-old boy had been home only seven months.  That’s not long enough for attachment.    Was he really so badly damaged that it was not safe for her to parent him?  Maybe.  Or did she just quit trying too quickly?

But there’s another major player here – the agency.  I didn’t love our adoption agency – Buckner – every moment of our process.  In fact, Keith and my good friend Sharon can tell you about an afternoon in a Chicago conference room that I absolutely gnawed on them,  slammed down the phone and spent the evening crying.    But as I have told every PAP who has asked:  Buckner does a better job of preparing adoptive families than any other agency of which I’ve ever heard.  We had to read books, and prepare book reports.  We had to attend a two-day session in Dallas in which they basically tried to talk us out of it, telling us every horror story imaginable.   We had to pass a home study,  and after Julia was home, our social worker visited monthly for the required six months, then annually for three years.   When we needed help from Buckner after we got home, we could pick up a phone and get it.

So where was this woman’s agency – which is one of the powerhouse agencies, BTW?    Did no one from her agency discern any red flags when they met this child in Russia?   Was the mom not counseled that attachment would take longer than seven months?  Was she not visited by a social worker monthly?  Her last visit should have occurred in March, before she put her son on a plane in April.   What happened there? Was she not matched with other adoptive families – with mentors?    Was she not pushed at forums?  Was she not given books and articles to read?

If she wasn’t prepared – if she wasn’t equipped to deal with this troubled child – then yes,  I understand why she did what she did.   And her son would have been troubled.  Those kids are thrust into school not speaking the language.  They’re eating food they don’t like with people they don’t know.  They miss their orphanage mates – their family.   They miss all things familiar.   And somewhere under it all – they miss their birth parents, and they’re angry at being abandoned.  And they take that anger out on you the parent,  just like every bio child who is unhappy does, too.

Love is not enough to overcome all those circumstances.  It never, ever is.   And that is why your agency prepares you.

I’ve spoken to or emailed with parents who have awoken to their adoptive children standing over them with knives.  Children who have set fires.   Children who constantly lie, and try to break up marriages.  Children who have abused younger siblings.  Children who have stolen from home, school, church, stores, you name it.  Horrible things that generally escalate over time when a child suffers from Reactive Detachment Disorder.  Not one of those families was a Buckner family.

This child may have needed professional therapy.  If he was really threatening violence, he may well have needed 24 x 7 monitoring.  His adoptive mother was single.   How would she accomplish that plus work to pay for that therapy?

I know the adoptive community wants to vilify the mother.   And she was wrong.  Without a doubt, she was wrong.  A child is not a pair of shorts to be returned so casually.

You don’t need much preparation to decide you want shorts.  Shorts don’t threaten to burn down your house.  You don’t keep shorts forever.  You’re not paying an agency to help you find those shorts, and ensure they fit your family.

And in adoption – that fit is a very, very big deal.

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.