The Evolution of a Number

A little over 3 years ago I sat in a cold therapy clinic with my precious Little Bug and was handed a number that was meant to define him.  And in a lot of ways, it defined both of us for a long time.  That first number really cut deeply, and that experience has always stuck with me as one of the lowest points in my journey as a special needs mama.

Over a year ago I got another number for Little Bug.  There must have been more in between these two, but these are the two numbers that I remember.  Again, it cut deeply.  But unlike the first number, I didn't let it define me as much; in fact, I think it actually spurred me into bigger, bolder action.

Today I clutched my Little Bug's hand as we marched back into that first clinic room for a new number.  I admit, my eyes went immediately to that mat where we first started this number game and I got a bit panicky.  I didn't want my amazing son in this room.  I didn't want this to be the place his development and progress would depend on.  I didn't want to have this woman (who I can't be sure, but very possibly was the same woman who evaluated him 3 years ago) look me in the eye and give me a number meant to define my son.

But if my son has taught me anything over the last 3 years, it's to be brave, suck it up, and jump into the hard stuff with a smile.  So I did.  And he brought me to near tears over and over today as she put him through the physical evaluation because he ROCKED it.  Every skill he had was busted out in fine form and at the end of our eval, I knew no matter what number she gave me, it wouldn't matter.

This kid is a fighter.  And no matter what number she threw at us, the knowledge that he was going to continue to progress and make strides and hit milestones was going to be way more important than the number on his assessment.

For the record, it was 30 months.  Little Bug is 49 months old.

She gave me the number and paused, waiting perhaps for some sort of reaction that she didn't get.

"This isn't anything new to you, is it?"

No.  It isn't.  But unlike the last couple numbers, this one didn't cut deeply.  It stung for a moment, but then rolled right off.  Because this time, the number isn't going to define anything about any of us.  Little Bug has proven that he won't let anything stop him, and I have total faith in him.

I have faith in him.  Something that only recently I have come to see is a huge part of this journey for all of us.

I don't see a child 18 months delayed.  I see a child who battled his way up ladders until it became easy for him.  I see a child who regularly threw up on himself and then with tears in his eyes went back for more sit ups.  I see a child who trips over his own feet a couple times an hour and always, ALWAYS gets right back up and starts running again.  I see a child who wasn't strong enough to grasp a toy in his hand who climbed up a tube slide today before scaling a rock wall.

The number has evolved for me.  It's really no longer relevant.  They can write 30 months on paper and throw it around in meetings all they want, but for Appa and I, it's clear the number game has changed.

Thirty months means nothing to me.  I have a 4 year old, and he is a strong, positive kid who is working hard at reaching his max potential.

Tonight, I am proud.

WWTD

It seems like a no-brainer: teach you kids by example.

But sometimes I forget that it extends past the basic "please and thank you" or sharing to those more abstract (and bigger) life lessons, like how to deal with stress or anger.

I am working--hard--on patience.  I used to think I had a ton of it, but since I started staying home, that patience has worn thin.  I'm still trying to process why this is, but the fact remains that I am more apt to raise my voice or immediately punish than I was a year ago.  Although I don't think there is anything wrong with raising your voice at a 4 or 2 year old who is beating on their brother, trying to ride their push car down the stairs, or continuously trying to unscrew a lite light bulb from a lamp, there are other times when I can tone it down, and I know it.

I'm trying to focus this week on thinking about how I want my SONS to react in situations of frustration and anger.  When their little buddy knocks down their block tower, do I want them to automatically scream "NO."  Do I want them to glare at someone who talks flippantly to them?

What Would THEY Do?

If I continue on my current status quo, what will my boys do when faced with similar emotional stimulants?  If they see their mother going for the "NO" or no-mercy time out right away, they are going to learn to behave that way themselves with their friends/family/future spouses.

And when I play back my behavior sometimes, it definitely isn't behavior I would wish to see come out of my precious, tender-hearted sons.

My mantra for the week: WWTD

Breakfast with Mama

 This morning was not a good breakfast morning...or maybe it was an awesome breakfast morning.  I'm not actually sure.

It started out with two little boys refusing to eat their bacon and eggs.  That refusal turned into defiance, which somehow turned into a hysterically funny food fight.  And the laugher coming from those two little boys while throwing food was so genuine and enjoyable that I just sat there with a dumb grin on my face watching the brotherly bond between my sons practically strengthen before my eyes.

Then I realized there was food everywhere.  And my kids were throwing it.  And watching me watch them in approval (and maybe even take some pictures with my phone).  And throwing more food.

And I wondered if in this moment I was the world's coolest mom or the world's most irresponsible mom for letting my kids bond over making a giant mess of our dining room table, floors, and walls.

I didn't have too long to ponder because someone committed the ultimate sin and threw a slice of bacon on the floor. The laughter turned to anguished wails.

And the moment was over.

I think next time I'll find slightly less socially inappropriate and disgusting ways to bond, but I don't regret this morning.

Thanksgiving

Four years ago it was Thanksgiving Day.

And I was thankful.

I was thankful that my sister's first son was born, a thanksgiving baby whose traumatic but triumphant entrance into this world left us all with much to be thankful for.

I was thankful for our first home, which we had closed on just the day before.  A home whose bare walls whispered promises of the most important moments of my life I knew it would usher in.

I was thankful for family, health, love, and friendship.

I was so very thankful.

But what I didn't know, as I stood in the dark basement, phone in hand after just sharing in the raw and beautiful first moments of my sister's motherhood glory, overcome with tears of thankfulness at the fullness and beauty of life, was that there was so much more for me to be thankful for.

Like the little baby, just a few hours old, also born on my Thanksgiving just a world away, who would be one of the brightest lights of my life.

I didn't know it yet, but I was thankful for the young woman who was selfless enough to put her baby ahead of herself for 9 long months.  I was thankful for the foster family who would shortly take that baby into their home and raise him to know love and comfort and family.  I was thankful for the agency who would provide for that baby until offering us the biggest honor of our lives....to be his parents.

But most of all, I was thankful for that boy.  That tiny, soft bundle of life whose spirit could not be contained by body or mind. He's left a mark on everyone he meets. He's made the world a better place in his 4 short years on this earth, but in my world, in my life, he's rocked it to the core.  He is, quite simply, perfection, vintage 2007.  And I get the honor of being a part of that, of loving him as only a mama can.

So although his birthday doesn't always fall on Thanksgiving Day, in my heart, it will always be a day of true thanksgiving.

So very blessed. So very thankful.

I love you, Little Bug.  Happy birthday.

Puppy Love

A couple nights ago a package with two wrapped gifts came for our soon-to-be 4 year old. He and his little brother crouched excitedly on the ground as he opened the first gift, an animatronic puppy. Because their mama is super allergic to animals, this puppy (which was aptly named "Brendan" after a friend, the first time Little Bug has ever independently named a toy) is the closest thing either will get to a pet.

I moved to give Little Bug his second gift, but he refused it, over and over again. Not because he only has eyes for Brendan, but because he insisted that the second gift was Little Bro's puppy. No matter how I explained the concept of birthday presents, Little Bug adamantly believed the other box was a puppy to bring joy to his brother.

Luckily, it was smaller animatronic animal, and although slightly confused and bummed that Little Bro didn't have a puppy like Brendan, they were both thrilled with the arrangement.

So although the second gift was intended to bring Little Bug joy, it turned out that the greatest joy for him was being able to share with his little brother.

There is nothing more amazing than watching the childlike love of two little brothers.

Like a Diamond in the Sky

Little Bro and I are not cut from the same cloth. I am in uncharted waters when it comes to parenting him, not only because it is him uniquely, but because my experience with temperaments like his (namely my sister) haven't always been the easiest. I love this boy fiercely, but he has brought me to my knees daily in my quest to be a good mom for him.

I love rules. I love structure and routine and control. Little Bug spoiled me because he needs and wants all those things in a mother. And as uncool as it may seem at times, I really do think it's not a bad thing to teach and expect children early and often that following rules, even small ones, matter.

Little Bro loves independence and freedom. He loves to express emotions and explore and discover on his own terms. He also really likes control. As maddening as it can be for me at times, I also think it is very important to allow him to grow and learn in an environment that suites this level of independence and control he craves.

But what is a Mama to do when structured meets freedom, when logic meets passion, when because I said so meets screw you and your table manners, too?

Frankly, the blending isn't going as well as it should, and more evenings than not I lay in bed praying that tomorrow I'll manage to let it roll off me a little more, turn the other cheek just a little farther, whisper instead of raise my voice. Don't get me wrong, we're good, Little Bro and I, but I know I could be so much better for HIM. And I want to be.

Today I tried something new. I unruled him, in a way. Modifications to our routine and rules that I would normally never dream of allowing made their way into our day. Most notably, I gave him complete control in an area where he wants it most: food. Instead of sitting him in a chair and eventually fork feeding him every bite to get food in his belly, I let him run around our house playing while I followed him around forking bites into his mouth, ala Korean Halmoni style. And wouldn't you know, he loved it, asked for food, and ate a larger lunch than he has in a long time. From there, a day that was already going good went even better. For the first time in a long time, I can't think of a moment today where I wasn't in word and spirit the Mom I want to be.

Granted, this sort of thing can't and should not be sustained. Tomorrow he's eating lunch in his chair like he always does, but the experiment got me thinking about other ways I could modify my expectations to be a little more palatable to his desires. I expect him to meet me on my side most of the time, as it should be when a parent is teaching a child to live life, but I think I can find some instances where I can return the favor.

Little Bro is one of the coolest kids I know, and I want nothing more than to make him happy while giving him life tools. I am really grateful to have the chance to expand as a person as I grow to become the Mama he needs and deserves.

My baby Big Star...all the things I don't understand about him are the things I love the most.

Trick-or-Treat

Tonight, after the sugar rush (the pavement pounding one....not the one that was percolating in my little kids' bodies), my kids sat at the table eating dinner while watching the trick-or-treaters come to our door.

As I handed out candy to a group of princesses and ninjas, one of the older princesses (maybe 10?) looked past me to my frantically waving and seriously adorable sons. In a very conversational tone she asked me "Are you babysitting tonight?"

Seriously, well-meaning 10-year-old girl?  Are you freaking kidding me?  In our own home?

I get mistaken for the nanny about once a month, but usually it is an understandable mistake.  I live in an area with a lot of nannies and a lot of Korean families.  I have learned to be quick and cheerful and totally non-awkward when it happens because I get it.

But in my own home?  Our safe place?

My response was my trusty "Nope, they're my babies" served up with a smile and mirthful eyes.

"They don't look like you."
"Nope, I don't look like them."

Then the moment was over as the princesses and their ninjas had other homes to conquer, but it left me feeling a bit out-of-sorts.  Because it reminded me that no matter where we are, how we see ourselves is not how others see us.  Even in our own home, the place that wraps all our family magic up and keeps us safe from the world.

And I can accept that.  It's part of being special...standing out.  I just need to make sure I never lose sight of my responsibility to teach my kids that no matter where we (or more importantly, they) are singled out, our truths and reactions should be the same.

I did give that princess the crappy gobstoppers though...I won't lie.

A Pile of More

Once, back many years ago when Appa and I were dating, he mentioned that he thought it was a bit odd that my family literally dog piled on top of each other when watching movies or lounging around.  Although I had never stopped to see it that way, it was true that my family could be found on any Sunday evening watching a Disney movie while looking like some couch form of family Twister.  We'd just grown up cuddling each other (not in a creepy, call-the-cops sort of way, of course) and never stopped, and that extended to siblings.

Tonight, as I rested my head on Appa's lap while Little Bro cuddled into his lap and nestled his hands into my hair and Little Bug draped his whole body over mine and anchored himself by digging his feet under my legs, I thought of that comment Appa made so many years ago and it made me smile to see a bit of a circle start to form.

There are many things I wish for my family to be 10 years from now, but one of them is a family who will still pile on the couch to enjoy the Lion King and the comfort and love we give to each other without reservation.

Just One More

I'm not sure whether to be heartbroken at having to shut them down or proud that my boys are clever enough to know that the surest way to prolong bedtime is ask Mommy for one more bear hug.

And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.
And one more bear hug.

And just one more bear hug.

THAT Mom

I'm THAT Mom.

I'm the one who passive aggressively makes comments and suggestions for months before breaking down and triple slamming you to the floor with a 180, complete with my own private therpist reports, research, and demands.

I'm THAT Mom.

I'm the one who puts on the cheery face and signs messages with "Have a great day!" when we both know my actual thoughts go more along the line of "I wouldn't be sad if you quit and someone else worked with my child."

I'm THAT Mom.

I'm the one who, despite not having any formal education in your field of expertise, is writing her own IEP goals, demanding and justifying doubling my child's services.  Who listens to what you say before dismissing it as incorrect and not fully-fleshed out.  I'm the one who is saying you are wrong.

I'm THAT Mom because I am HIS Mom.

It's not your job, or anyone else's job, to move hell and high water for my son.  It's not your job to fight for more and better and even more and even better for him.  It's not your job to know everything about him, including his strengths and weaknesses. It's not your job to focus on those strengths and weaknesses and find anyway possible to enhance them. And I get that.  I respect that.  I don't actually hope you quit......

But as HIS Mom, I have to fight for him.  I have to reach outside my comfort zone and challenge you when I know we're not on the same page. And as unpleasant as that might be for you, it is just as unpleasant for me.  I don't like conflict, I don't like looking an educated, respected woman in the eye and saying "You are not doing the right thing and I know better than you."  I don't relish calling you out, forcing you to justify yourself and your knowledge.

You see THAT Mom, but really, I am the Mom who spends hours agonizing over every word in those e-mails.  I am the Mom who lays in bed at night tossing and turning over whether or not to rock the boat.  I am the Mom who researches for hours just to make sure I can keep up with what I know you are already well versed in.  I am the Mom who feels totally inadequate and out of her league when it comes to therapies and goals.  I am the Mom who leaves those meetings and sits in her car and sobs....every.single.time.

I'm HIS Mom. 

I simply need the very best I can physically get to help him reach his potential.  I will spend any amount of my money and time and emotional capacity I need to in order to go to sleep at night knowing that today was a day that worked for him.  It's a lonely, isolating, slightly scary, and very uncomfortable place to be sometimes, but I will do whatever I have to for him.  That includes pushing you to give him the best and most accurate support that YOU can.

So yes, I am THAT Mom, and I won't apologize for it, but just so you know, it's harder on me than it is on you. 

It's also a million trillion times more rewarding.

Forgiveness

There is no greater lesson than the forgiveness of your children.

Today was not a great mommy day for me.  All three of us woke up in bad moods, but I didn't do my duty to rise above the occasion and was short, distant, and even a bit loud.  Of course, I tried to salvage the day by spending almost all of it outside, taking a long bike ride to reduce stress, and even napping, but the evening ended with Mommy still not being her best.  As we read books in our jammies, I felt so horrible for being such a crummy mom to them today, and I imagined them both laying sadly in bed being angry with me after I turned out the lights and left their rooms.

But none of it mattered to them in the end.  They showered my scowling face with cuddles and kisses and murmurs of "i loube ooo"s.  They nestled their heads into my chest and shoulder and relaxed in my embrace.  They forgave me for today and let me still just be the mommy who loves them more than anything else, who makes them feel safe, and who is the one whose kisses are needed to fall asleep.

Surely I can find it in myself to forgive them just as quickly for things like willful disobedience and epic tantrums.  Their example of forgiveness is inspiring.

Staying Me

So you might have heard: I'm a stay at home mama, now, and have been for 6 months.  And I am finally feeling like I am growing into this slightly-more-often-clad-in-workout-pants-even-though-I-am-not-working-out skin.  My house is finally starting to trend more clean than messy, although it will always be a home that a friend once aptly described as "lived in," which I actually like.  My kids are healthy and happy and transitioning super duper well into our new family dynamic.  I'm even cooking more, including pureeing veggies to slip into dishes. My house is starting to declutter and become more organized.  Sheets are getting washed more often, and not just for bodily fluids. I'm working on breaking up with my not-so-secret lover, T@rget and our almost every other day dalliances.

But most surprisingly, I am happy.

I never thought I would be good at being a SAHM.  The two times I was unemployed as an adult were horrible, depressing, slothful periods of my life, and I was terrified that would happen again, only with two little lives getting sucked into my "The OC" marathon sessions. 

But none of that happened this time.  It could be because this time I went into it knowing the stakes, planning the future out ahead of me, and surrounding myself with support.  Or it could just be that I've changed.  All I know is that I can't think of a single day (excepting the grieving days and the potty training days) where I woke up thinking "I wish I didn't have to be on duty today."  I don't regret leaving my job, which I loved.  I don't regret pairing down Little Bug's school schedule slightly so that I could have him home with me for part of the week.

I might not like doing dishes, laundry, cleaning, or cooking, but I am starting to take pride in having them done by my own hand (not that they were being done by anyone else's hands before). 

I love putting Little Bug on the bus each morning and standing in the driveway to wave to him until the bus drives off and his head can't crane around to see me anymore.

I love cheerfully but quietly greeting my sleepy and confused Little Bro after he stumbles out from his nap.  And I love how he want to lay on me for another 10 minutes after that while we sit quietly and listen to each other breath.

I love the sound of my dishwasher and laundry machine going at the same time while sun streams through my windows.

Granted, I'm not going to win any awards.  My tub hasn't been scrubbed in awhile; my bedroom is a mess; and my attempts to make spaghetti pie with carrot puree and spinach meatballs turned was one heck of a fail.  And I am blogging right now while a pile of dishes sits in my sink. But I wouldn't be me without some disastrous cooking attempts, dust bunnies, and a skewed perceptive on blogging.

And I am still me, just a me who is there more for them.

Lights and Rain

There is at least one or two times a day when something pops into my mind or happens and I think, "I must remember to blournal that."  Yet, in the last month my mental blournal list has sat stagnant, mostly unwritten or half written, some written and deleted, and some forgotten.  And the reason isn't because I don't have time to blog or even motivation.  I'm just simply interested in doing other things during nap time or bedtime lately.

Because life is quite lovely right now.  My family is happy, my sons are both going through some wonderful maturing phases, my husband has had a couple excuses to come home earlier in the week, my home is more consistently in order, and my world just feels very comfortable.

Of course, not every moment of every day has been rainbows, unicorns, and kittens, but it's been good enough that even the bad things like illness and crummy weather don't seem so defeating.

So instead of rehash all the lovely little moments I've missed blournaling, I'll just mention two things about today.

The rain and the lights.

It was raining all day today.  Not the violent storms we experienced this summer that have left me a teeny bit traumatized, but the constant steady rain that sounds like a soothing CD and reminds me of my family cabin near Yellowstone National Park (my mental "happy place").  I opened the windows and Little Bro and I went peacefully about our day caring for our home, giggling and cuddling with each other, learning our letters, not pushing each others buttons, and listening to the rain.

It was just the sort of day that made me stop and think "I don't want to be anywhere in the world more than I want to be right here, right now."

And the lights.  This morning, in a spur-of-the-moment attempt to avoid loading the dishwasher after breakfast, I finally took control of an area of my house that I have aesthetically hated for a long time.  We needed some more light in our dark and deary front room, but the outlets and layout didn't lend itself to anything.  On a whim, I dug out some old lamps of ours and moved some stereo equipment my husband had just piled practically near our TV.  It was free, took about ten minutes, and had made all the difference to me. The soft yellow glow of the lamps and the cleaner look of the area in general has left me feeling all warm and cozy inside all day long.

And that is where my head and heart are at right now.  Warm and calm and soothed and refreshed.  And when seasons like that come into your life, I think it's worth remembering.

The Language of Love

It's no secret that my Little Bug is hard to understand when he speaks.  His apraxia and low tone in his mouth make his speech patterns come out very muddled. He is, usually, unintelligible to strangers and about 30% intelligible to those who casually know him.  Even Appa sometimes has a hard time understanding a new phrase or word.  In fact, the only person in the whole world who truly understands him almost totally is me.  Like anything else you adapt to, I have learned the language of Little Bugese to a point where I have to remind myself that people can't understand that "Obama ah Daooo" means that "Grandma lives in Idaho."  I serve as a translator when people need help understanding him, and it has become second nature for me to automatically repeat things he says when we are with other people so they can understand him better.

Right now, I'm his translator to the world.  And while I wish for him that he didn't need one, I am proud to be his mouth when he needs one.

But something interesting has happened in the last month.  Little Bro has learned to speak Little Bugese.  Although Little Bro's language is superb and even likely advanced for only hearing English for 5 months, he seems to understand anything Little Bug says.  He often repeats his brother, only in a more traditional English articulation, or will just continue on with their conversation without skipping a beat.  To listen to them is like listening to two kids speaking different languages (and it becomes adorably comical when they both start speaking Korean on top of it all), but to them, it's normal.

They're bilingual.  Trilingual?  1.5-lingual?

As these two have truly become brothers, their bond has extended to work around Little Bug's language delay.  I've been worried for a while that it would impact Little Bro's own language or his ability to bond with his brother, but there is not a phrase Little Bug utters with regularity that Little Bro doesn't immediately understand.  It's shocking and amazing and very, very cool.

Because now Little Bug has another person in his corner who can help him access others socially when he needs it.  I imagine in the years to come (because this apraxia is something Little Bug is going to struggle with for a while yet) when my sons are playing with friends in a fort or playground and Little Bug excitedly exclaims something no one understands, his little brother will be there to back his big brother up.

His brother will have his back when his mama can't.  Or, as Little Bug would and has said "wiw bha, ah boo bah?"  Little Bro's translation: "Little Bro, aboobah?"

I fiercely love these two boys.

Mommy Has a Ghina

The last 5 days in my house have been an intense period of time where all four of us focused on two things and two things only....pee and the penis.  We're big believers in giving our kids the correct terminology upfront for things (expect, of course, for the mythical "fire bus"), so we now have two little boys who are very comfortable talking about their penises, what their penises can or are doing, what their penises look or feel like, and who they know who has penises, which in their little minds, is everyone.

So far we've established that Appa, Little Bug, Little Bro, Pappa, cows, kitty cats, tigers, and Santa Claus all have penises.  Carousels, trains, and raggies do not have penises. But it's been a hard sell to convince my boys that their mommy doesn't have one.

But today, randomly, they got it.

So now, when they are sitting on their potties listing off the anatomy of everyone in their world, when they come to Mommy they always laugh and point at me and say "Mama has a GHINA!"

And that, truly, is the story of my life right now.

Oh, and my Little Bug rocked the crap (pun intended) out of his first day at school in big boy underwear.  He asked to go to the potty three times (including once while outside), never had a single accident, and kept it up all evening long.  He is awesome.

An Apology to My Little Bug

It's been a lonely couple of weeks for me.

Sometimes being a mom of a kid with special needs, especially behavioral special needs, just plain sucks.  It's stressful, emotionally draining, depressing, and scary, which leads some (me) into periods of isolation as I try to swing our family pendulum back into sync with some serious sleep and diet modifications and a super low-key environment.  Even as I took the boys on a 5-day vacation last week, I felt so off, a mirror to Little Bug's off mood (that was likely a bit of a cycle between the two of us by the end).

And that isolation extended to my writing, which I deliberately avoided, simply because the things I wanted to say were not things I actually wanted to say.

In fact, I just had about seven additional paragraphs to this post detailing my last couple weeks that I just deleted.  Because it wasn't what I wanted to say.

Instead, I want to write about how amazing my Little Bug is and how humbled I am tonight to be his mother.

Little Bug came to us as a sweet, beautiful 10-month-old infant.  He's always been so far behind in development that Appa and I just grew accustomed to parenting him at his delayed age.  He was our first child, and our parenting experience has been entirely built upon ignoring all conventional parenting methods and milestones. What we have given as compassion, acceptance, and avocation have in some instances been nothing more than enabling or selfishness.

That has now been put into blessed clarity for us.

Little Bug is a couple months away from turning 4.  Yet, he has never been formally sleep trained and has been cosleeping in a most unhealthy way since his first birthday.  Why have we never bitten the bullet and kicked this habit?  Oh, that would be because he couldn't be walk, then he couldn't stay in his big boy bed, then he couldn't fall asleep without us, then he needed his sleep and it was easier to put him to sleep in our bed, then we would be going on vacation, then he was getting a new room, then he got a new brother, then then then then then.

All excuses, every one of them.  The real reasons were that Appa and I loved having him cuddle in our bed with us and that we simply didn't have enough faith in him to be able to go to sleep on his own and cognitively follow the rules.

In the last four days, he's almost completely sleep trained.  We still have tears, but they are short.  And most importantly, he understands the expectations and accepts them.  Appa and I are ashamed to think of the YEARS of sleep deprivation we have imposed on our tough son simply because we underestimated him. 

And we started potty training him today, too.  Again, I didn't think this would work, at all.  If anything, I thought Little Bro would potty train and help eventually with Little Bug's training.  After only 4 hours, my son who has never peed on the potty in any intentional way was telling us, over and over during dinnertime, no less, that he needed to go potty.  He kept his big boy pants dry for hours as he motored back and forth to put his business where it needed to be.  (And he started taking the stairs without holding any railings.....another first for this super kid.)

In 3 days, I actually think he'll be potty trained.  Officially.  And it shocks me, to be honest.  Both Appa and I are pretty incredulous.

And we're both a bit humbled and ashamed to have underestimated our son in such huge ways.  In every challenge we've thrown his way, he's breezed through it.  Not even really struggled, but just breezed through it.  He's shown us time and time again that he's up for the challenge.

We just haven't been challenging him like we thought we were.

So although there are still a lot of challenges facing Little Bug that can't be fixed with a modified sleep training program or a 3-day miracle potty training program, there are a lot of little life lessons that Little Bug IS probably ready for.  And that is going to force us to change how we parent him a bit, which includes me cutting out some of our isolation therapy. Which is probably going to make us all happier.

I know every mother thinks this of their child, but I just really feel deeply that there is something special about Little Bug and what his future holds.  Of course I think Little Bro is very special, too, but I feel strongly that Little Bug was given his gifts of a fighting spirit, charming disposition, and joy of life to turn his challenges into something really amazing.  He's going to inspire people in some way, some day; I know it.  I know it.   And someday, when he reads this note from his mother in the midst of all my random musings, I hope he knows that I, more than anyone else in this world, have been blessed beyond measure by him simply being who he is.

The Question

We're a conspicuous family, and I've always fielded multiple questions a week from strangers regarding Little Bug and whether he was adopted or if I was just the devoted nanny.  Usually the questions were just varying degrees of "is he adopted?", but I realized today that ever since Little Bro came home, that question rarely comes up.

Now, the new, more subtle was of determining how I came to be wrangling two small Koreans is a different, seemingly innocent question that I literally get 2-3 times a week.

"Are they brothers?"

And although the snarky responses you read in all the adoption literature comes to mind, my go to answer falls in line with my general rule on these sorts of questions...simple and honest.

"Yes."

But the thing is, I know that isn't what they are asking.  I know they aren't using the word brothers the way I am.  I know they are asking about blood and biology and a single birth mother and some history or story that is bound to be interesting.  But, if that was all it was, me choosing to ignore the implications behind the question, that would be fine.  It's the follow-up comments that I have been shocked to discover nearly always follow my simple and honest answer.

In the last week alone, these are some of the comments I have received in response to my answer.

"How wonderful you were able to keep them together."
"I can tell.  Their eyes have the same shape."  [Really?!  Here is a news flash, nice lady handing out chocolate milk samples at Costco,  there are around 50 million other people in the world who have the same "shape" of eyes as my kids.  I am pretty sure they aren't all related.  If they were, Lee Min Ho would be having dinner at my place...like every night.]
"What a sad story with such a happy ending!"
"You can tell."
"I didn't know you could adopt siblings from Asia."
"They're twins, right?"

So here is my dilemma.  I really like my less-is-more approach in general because it works for my personality, but in this case, I am finding it increasingly important to offer up information speaking to the implication of this question.  It's not a huge deal right now with my boys understanding what is being said, but when they get older, I don't want to have to continue the conversation with these strangers in order to set the record straight when their assumptions become clear, nor do I want to lie or hide the fact that my children are not biological brothers, because it doesn't make them any less of brothers, and I want them to know that and own that.

I have started practicing with the answer "they are now," and that seems to get the point across, but also tends to fluster people and make them backpedal, which makes me feel bad.  Then again, it's not offensive, so perhaps I shouldn't care that I've made people who asked an awkward question feel awkward themselves.  But even that answer feels like it has a shelf life, as it might be a little odd to say "they are now" when they've been brothers for 10+ years or something.

It's the most interesting of transitions from going from one child to two, and I find it has made our family even more conspicuous, more interesting to strangers, and more vulnerable to prying questions.

But for the record, as far as I am concerned, the only answer that is really true is "yes."

They are brothers.

45 Minute Glimpse

Today started badly.  Bad sleep, two grumpy kids and one grumpy mom, and no daddy made for a unhappy morning.  I also decided today would be a good day to force some potty training for both kids.  That lasted about 30 minutes.

I was determined to rally and knew the day was going to go up or down based on how I reacted.  A couple silly songs later, I managed to convince both kids to sit at their kiddie table and busted out the craft box.

Usually this activity can net me some decent interaction time with Little Bro, but has never lasted more than 10 minutes with Little Bug.  In fact, sitting still and focusing on anything for longer than a minute or two is so challenging for Little Bug, it is written into his IEP as a goal.  So craft or art time isn't really a go-to activity when Little Bug is home.

But today, with moderate cueing from me as I sat next to him, he participated in scissor work (or rather, scissor practice), markers, stickers, crayons, and playdoh (without even eating any).  He and his brother happily sat and created and played and giggled and focused.

For 45 minutes.

To me, that is a huge accomplishment.  Never have I seen Little Bug sit and focus for that long, and I certainly didn't feel like he was needing more cueing than he would receive with his aide at his developmental preschool.

Bottom line.  It was a huge win for us.

And that has bolstered me all day, especially considering we had a disastrous nap, and he spent his entire $150-an-hour sensory therapy session refusing to get out of a tub of dried beans, and he had not one, but TWO of his new and very disconcerting "car rages."

Because that 45 minutes gave me a glimpse of what I know will one day be able to be our new normals, and that makes fighting through the rest of today a whole lot easier.

Crying Over Spilled Lemonade

A few evenings ago, if you happened to meander in a forgotten corner of our local botanic gardens as you were listening to a very cool concert fill the entire space, the mom you saw sobbing as she crouched down near two little boys in their stroller would have been me.

Little Bug's behavioral needs are changing or maturing or increasing or whatever the official term for it would be, but the reality is things are becoming harder for him to control while his life becomes increasingly in need of self-control.  As we try to expand his world and life responsibilities little by little, the blunt truth is that for a reason we might never get our hands fully around, he's just not capable of helping himself right now in the ways that he needs to at times.  The baseline he needs to exercise and understand self-control isn't there for him in some instances, and these missing instances often encompass critical education and social skills.

He CAN learn, he CAN control, he CAN do damn near anything he wants to.

But not right now because we haven't figured out how to get him to that baseline he needs.  And that is scary and frustrating and sad and is forcing us to go places we had hoped not to go.  But he needs to be able to eat a treasured and earned reward doughnut in his car seat instead of impulsively throwing it over and over on the floor, only to sob that it was on the floor.  He needs to be able to stand still for longer than 5 seconds to look at a color in his hand and match it to the color on the wall or sit for longer than 30 seconds at "circle time" at school or hold back from knocking down a friend's block tower any time he passes by, only to cry right along with his friend. He needs to be able to stand next to me in a parking lot or store without having his hand is a vice grip to stop him from dashing off with wild and often dangerous or unintentionally destructive abandon. He is almost 4; the time when others will start holding his accountable is coming soon.

And when we are enjoying a lovely evening in a forgotten corner of the botanic gardens while listening to a concert of bells and I buy him as a very special treat his very own bottled lemonade, he needs to be able to take a sip before reflexively throwing it like a water bomb all over myself and the ground.  Because he doesn't WANT to do any of those things, but simply can't help himself right now.

So we will help him.  Somehow.  Any way we can.  Even if it is a way that we didn't really want to help him.  Even if it means sacrificing other things that are deeply important to us.

I am scared for my baby.  I am scared that we won't be able to do enough for him and that we won't be able to help him reach the baseline he needs in order to start reaching his higher potential and enjoying life a little more stably.  Lately a heavy weight has settled on my heart as the path is becoming more and more clear and unfun for all of us. 

And it all came rushing to the surface a few evenings ago as I stood there in shock, soaked in what was meant to be a special treat for my special boy.  No reason to punish him....he knew what he did was wrong and seemed equally shocked at what had happened.  Instead I just bent down and sobbed over that spilled lemonade and the rough road ahead my little love must continue to tread.

And now that it is out of my system, we move on.

Esse Quam Videri

Lately I have been feeling like a bit of a fraud. Little Bug's behavior is getting more and more uncontrollable and impulsive, and we have started the process of making some big changes in his therapy, which has required me to take off the rose-colored glasses I wasn't aware that I was wearing. Little Bro is simply settling nicely into his rightful terrible twos, but his passionate nature have made him a perfect storm of noise and button pushing and mischief.

Oh, and my power went out after some giant big storms.....again.

So while people comment to me about how patient I am or well I do as a stay-at-home mom while my husband travels the majority if every week, the fact is, I put on a good show for people (most people, that is). But at home, when no one is around except the ones who matter most, I am lounder, shorter, less flexible and patient, and often less happy.

But what I recently realized is that it doesn't need to be that way. Clearly when others are around I can act more like the mom I want to be like, so why can't I do that without an audience?

I can. I just chose not to.

So this is my new mantra that I have been chanting this week: Esse Quam Videri (To be rather than to seem). I want to actually be more consistently the mom I seem like I am...I want to BE her.

And it has helped. Not 100%, but I do find myself chanting it in my head in that split second before I formulate a reaction to Little Bro throwing a cup of milk or Little Bug taking off his shoe and throwing it at my head in the car before melting down in a sadly now predictable cycle. More and more, I am responding how I would if someone was sitting next to me...other than my precious babies, of course. And that is progress!

My other recently acquired mantra is something I read off my new "Mommy's time out" wine glass, so I've got the post-bedtime covered, too.

Today I Lost My Kid

I had grand plans to post about how awesome, thought-provoking, and decadent my long weekend was, but instead I'll blournal about today....when I lost my kid.

I was in a play area in a mall I wasn't familiar with, chatting with two lovely ladies I don't usually see, and honestly, I was pretty proud of myself.  This helicopter mama was letting her 2-year-old Big Star have free roam of the enclosed play area (a tree with lots of tunnels and slides and secret rooms).  He would come check in with me and I would check in with him.  He was happy, I was happy--good times had by all. But as silly as it sounds, suddenly I just had a feeling, and went to check on my kid. And he wasn't to be found amongst the 20+ kids and adults in that enclosed area.


HOLY CRAP  HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP HOLY CRAP

Only in my head, and possibly out loud, I wasn't saying "crap."

And in that moment, I heard a woman from outside the play area yelling "does this child belong to someone?"

Turns out my Big Star had figured out how to open the only door in the play area and taken off down the mall.  Like, seriously down the mall.  A grandma had chased him down and was dragging him back as her daughter tried to figure out who the little Korean escape artist belonged to.

That would be me, the mortified mama who wasn't sure whether to scream or cry and was almost definitely in shock.

What would have happened had that grandma not made the call to chase my kid down (and he is a fast little sucker, especially in open spaces) and manhandle him back to the play area?  He was apparently almost to a corner and could have turned either way.  He is fast and fearless and tiny....and mine to keep safe.

I tried to play it cool since it was my fault ultimately for not keeping a closer eye on him and not parking my behind right next to the door, and we just moved to a position right near the door to better watch him as he continued to escape.  Which he did, over and over, with his little trademark smirk that melted my frustrated heart and made me sick to think of all the what ifs.

So that's my lesson.  In a blink of an eye your child could be gone, gone, gone.  So barricade those doors and practice your death glares before returning to the mall play area.

It's either that or the monkey leash.

Airplane 0, Mama 1.

I owned that airplane today.

I don't want to relive the meltdown that happened in the beautiful mountain-nestled major airport this morning as I tried to calm my shrieking 2 year old (who was pissed for no reason other than life was boring to him in that moment) while my 3 year old spent a full torturous 25 minutes loudly and violently throwing himself on the ground in fury that we could not board the white plane that had just pulled up to our gate.

And I certainly can't relive the horrific 45 minutes it took me to get my nap-deprived, stamina-challenged 3 year old from the end of our very big home Midwest airport through baggage claim and out to the passenger pick up.  I was this close to crying right along with my nap deprived, hot inexplicably screaming 2 year old as his older brother gave up and went limp and refused to walk anymore in the middle of terminal C during rush hour. Your baby laying on the floor in the middle of one of the largest airports in the country is seriously gross.

But on that airplane, I OWNED it.  Oh yes, I saw the cringing, dirty looks as the other passengers took their seats next to this poor little young mama with two toddler boys shooting energy out of their eyeballs.  I don't blame them....I fully believed those 2.5 hours would be hell on earth.  But I was determined to do my best to suck all that hell into myself and make things as easy as possible for my fellow doubters.  My voice is hoarse tonight from talking, singing, soothing, teasing, and scolding nonstop.  When I stopped talking, reading, singing, or playing my kids started entertaining themselves by dueling screams of fun, so I just kept right on talking and talking and talking.

I even successfully got us all to the bathroom for a diaper change.  That alone drew some impressed looks from some ladies.  I consider it one of my finer motherhood moments.

And I should mention that I hate flying VERY much and spent the whole time secretly thinking the plane was going to crash at any moment.  Making up songs about applesauce and poop (Little Bug's requests for the day) is not easy to do when your internal monologue is making peace with God before your plane goes down.

But as people passed us on their way off the plane, a number of men and women commented to me on how well-behaved my boys were and how impressed they were.  Although I was proud of the way my boys and I had handled the flight, it was validating that we did well enough for people to comment to us.

Sometimes that is the best praise a mama can get is that her kids are well behaved.

Home

For me, although I love where I currently live, home is Idaho.

It's Fiesta Ole and Walkers off Broadway and the Greenbelt and 17th Street and Skyline and Pancheri Road and the Grand Tetons and the Snake River and the Rocky Mountains and my family and my friends.

It's not where I was born, but it's where I grew up and became me.  Living there has shaped who I am, how I see things, and how I react to things.  It's shaped my hobbies, talents, and likes and dislikes (expect country music...no thank you).

Tomorrow I am going home with my two babies and my husband (who also calls it home).  I am starting to feel this delicious curl of anticipation at my first glimpse of the mountains; my first breath of solid, clean mountain air; and my flood of memories waiting at each street corner.  I know this place somewhere deep inside me, no matter the 12 years I've not called it "home."

It makes me wonder where my sons' home will be.  Sentimentally, I would love for it to be Seoul, but the reality is there will be no memories lurking on the street corners for them when we return again, no senses reawakened.  I suspect home will live in their hearts here, in our large Midwest city.  And that's okay.  Seoul can be their history, or maybe one day even their physical home.  They can make new memories and it can grow in their hearts as it has grown in mine.

But just like home to me is eating a $0.99 soft bean burrito with no enchilada sauce with a side of ranch dressing from Fiesta Ole while staring up into the snow capped mountains instead of munching on a crisp apple while watching hydro-boats skim the tops of the Columbia River from my birthplace in Washington state, home to my boys might be a stuffed pizza and a poorly-played baseball game rather than kimchi and urban hiking. No matter where it is, going home is always a really special feeling.

Fiesta Ole.....yummmmmmm.

8B, 3M, and Tonight

8 years ago tonight I was shaking my booty to "Baby Got Back" with my groom at our beautiful wedding, surrounded by the people we love best.  It is the 3rd best night of my life.

3 months ago tonight I was sitting in a hotel room in Korea, watching my new son shake his booty to Korean music I couldn't understand, marveling at the fact that the three people I love most in the world were all finally together with me.  It is tied for the best night of my life.

Tonight I am sitting in my oldest son's room after missing him terribly for the last week while he was in Hawaii with his Daddy.  In the other room I can hear my younger son belting out a mash-up of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "Happy Birthday" to my husband of 8 years, and because I am getting to know this little impish big star so well, I know he's got a couple more encores in him before the curtain is going to come down.

And although we weren't able to do our traditional fancy Jamaican dinner for our anniversary this year, I feel such a pleasure and triumph on this anniversary and don't consider it a letdown.  Life is just really sweet right now, and I am so happy to have three amazing people to call my own.

The '85 Bears Would be Proud

Tonight Little Bro danced a dance I have been waiting 3 months to see.

The day we took custody of our Big Star, his foster mother sent us home with a final CD filled with pictures they took on his last night in their home.  I cherish these pictures, but one video of Little Bro dancing this awesome high-kick, tap-dance, Super Bowl Shuffle type dance while grinning stuck out, initially because it was so cute.  Then it stuck out because while Little Bro likes to get his groove on, never once since he has come home has he busted out that particular dance.

And believe me, I've tried all sorts of things to get it out of him, right down to doing the dance myself.

I know it's not truly important and probably means nothing, but I still mourn the loss of the child we saw in pictures and videos from Korea, because my child laughs a little different, looks a little longer before jumping, and seems a bit more jaded.  It's understandable based on what he has gone through, but he's also just getting older and more mature (for a 2 year old, of course).  I thought that maybe the dance was this little lost moment I'd never get to see for myself.

But tonight, after 2 days of some serious attachment loving Mamma/Big Star while Appa and Little Bug learn to hula in Hawaii without us (I don't want to talk about it), as I was singing a ridiculous song about bath time, I saw it.

The shuffle/high kick/tap dance while grinning routine.  Over and over again while I continued to belt out "Let's go take a bath, let's go take a bathhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."  And it was just as cute as it was in the video, cuter even, since it was finally in a moment we were sharing together.

Textbook Mistake

Last night we hosted a family birthday party for Little Bro.  As is tradition for us, our family parties are small, intimate affairs with around 10 people, some pizza (or in this case, Beebimbap), and a couple hours of family time.  Because Little Bro has been doing so well for so long, we felt that just days shy of 3 months home, it would be safe to have these important people in our home and interacting with him in a meaningful way.

Oh.My.God. What a nightmare, or rather, in Little Bro's case, night terror.

I blame us, totally.  We let it all slide last night with people holding him, playing with him, comforting him, and generally getting up in his face.  Our social butterfly ate it up happily, and everyone left an hour past his bedtime feeling like this was the beginning of a beautiful new chapter.

And almost immediately the meltdowns began.  It was initially a perfect storm of over-tired/over-stimulated, but morphed into the grieving night terrors we haven't seen in a long while.  He didn't want us near him at night, but sobbed and could not be comforted without us.  All night long.  Anger, fear, rage.

And I knew it was my fault for letting my guard down and piling extra stressors on him (lack of sleep, us being on the other side of the room, etc.)  As the hours ticked on throughout the night, I was once again humbled by how huge this trauma is that my kids carry within them.  Although each day snips a little of the hold it has on their heart, it is still there lurking silently, especially for my little one still so newly home in the grand scheme of things, ready to come to the surface in moments of stress.

So we regroup.  He woke up happy and "normal." We'll step up attachment activities and pull back on the social interaction for a while.  Because it's my job to make sure he is always in situations where he feels safe and secure, and I dropped the ball this time.

Peaceful Birth Day to Her

I once heard a woman who was adopted as an infant say that her birthday was the worst day of the year because it was the day of her most profound loss...that of her first mother. I admit, since then, each of my sons' birthdays comes with this secret melancholy as I think about the woman half a world away who is undoubtedly in pain. I don't plan to pass this mournful outlook on to my kids, but I subtly acknowledge their loss by placing two flowers (one for their mother and one for their father) in the undon vase we purchased for them and saying a prayer for peace in the hearts of their first parents. And then I fill the house with balloons and cake and presents and fun things and celebrate the heck out of my amazing boys and their new year.

And I hide myself away and blog a letter to the woman who I will always share the name "mamma" with. Because I can't help but think of how her heart must twist to wake up and relive in perhaps painful and beautiful detail how the sweet baby she grew and protected and loved inside her for 9 months entered the world. How she must cling to that first glimpse of him. And the last glimpse. What she might have whispered to him. Her pain and love must have been so intense that day, and it makes me so sad for her.

To her, on this second of many birthdays, I wish for peace. I wish for her to know, either through our letters or just by some feeling, that her big star is loved by so many people and is happy and healthy and adorable. I want her to know that I think her legacy lives on in him. I know enough about her to see what I can only assume is a strong similarity in both physical and personality traits. I want her to know she is loved by us and by her son. The world is a big place, but hearts are bigger, and she is always going to be in ours, whether he turns 2 years old, or 20.

And I want her to know he will always be hers. He's mine, too, but her role as his mother doesn't diminish because of mine. I want her to be able to celebrate his life, if she can. I want her to feel like she has a right to observe this day. And maybe she does, but if she doesn't my wish for her is that clarity someday.

Two years ago she gave birth to an amazing child who has already changed the lives of many people and is destined to be a big star in some way. I wish for her a peaceful day surrounded by those who love her. It's as much an anniversary for her as it is for our son.

I don't want to say thank you because everything she did was for her son, not for me. So instead I will simply say that I honor her and will always respect her role in our son's life.

The Great Debate

What came first, the fussy children or the cranky mom?

I'd like to think that my mood over the last 3 days can be blamed on my sons.  They are both going through some "emotionally fragile" phases due to the fact that they are toddlers and can't regulate their emotions.

Unlike their 30-year-old mother, who certainly can, but has chosen not to.

My kids have been all sorts of naughty, loud, grumpy, defiant, and generally annoying as hell the last couple days, but what I realized is that my sour, cranky, tense mood could perhaps be exacerbating, if not causing the higher level of...passionate expression...in our home.  Kids can tap in and feed off emotions, especially those of their parents, and perhaps my mood isn't really due to my kids, but my choice to eat less healthy and get less sleep the last few days, thus causing my kids' moods to devolve into toddler nastiness.  When we wake up in the mornings, who is the first one to frown lately.

I'm betting it's been me.

So tonight I apologized to my sons for causing what has been a relatively unfun and stressful few days and promised to try harder tomorrow.  One said "I waaab ooo, mama" and the other gave me a silly grin from behind his bottle.

And tomorrow, I really will try harder.

Mama

Almost 2 months to the day he came home, Little Bro started calling me mama (and Appa, dada).  What was noted in Korea as a speech delay has turned out instead to be a mark of impressive and hardcore stubbornness and a fondness for pointing and grunting to get his way.

Not that we've been cracking a whip or anything, but yeah, that wasn't going to continue long-term here.

Within the first month home Little Bro had picked up a handful of words, and in the last month his vocab has exploded. Granted, his most consistent words are a bit random (cheese, turtle, hi, hawk), but he's actually got more words than I care to type out, many of them functional and appropriate for his day to day life, and he loves to repeat anything we say (when in the mood).  He's also a whiz at picking up baby sign language, to the point where I have to go back and review his DVDs to see what he is saying.  He strings together multiple signs and enjoys communicating wants and needs effectively.  He's even using please and thank you consistently.

Cute and polite.  Be still my heart. Did I mention he's got the swagger of the Beibs and the cheeks of a Gerber baby?

But mama, he would not say.  I knew he could say it, as it's so close to omma, a word I heard plenty in our first weeks together, although not in relation to me.  I admit, this last week has grated on me, and I am not proud of the fact that instead of pushing more functional words, I pushed him to use this word; pushed, begged, bribed, and threatened (okay, not really that one).

But that whole stubborn streak...I could see his little lips tightening in a epic battle of wills as he refused to let the sounds pass his lips. Impressive, and pretty freaking scary for me to imagine what sort of show downs Little Bro will be able to whip up when he's 16.

But yesterday after his nap, "Mama, mama" slipped out as I held him in my arms, rushing around to get ready to leave the house.  Before nap = not gonna happen; after nap = sure, your name is mama.  He knew what he was doing, too, as he immediately started clapping for himself. Since then he's being using it A LOT, which I love, although it's mainly when he is whining for something that he busts it out. 

I'll take it though.  Hearing him call me Mama and point to Appa over webchat and exclaim "dada, dada" over and over is another little slice of normal that has fallen into place.  And tonight, as I listened to both of my little sons call my name in their little voices, my heart felt very full (and good thing, too, as they were both actually whining in an attempt to avoid bedtime).

The Joy of Parenthood

There are some days where the joy of being a parent just wraps you up in warm fuzzy happiness.

Today was not that day for Appa and I.

Little Bro is teething some pretty major back teeth (3), and it turns out that when you add one passionate and dramatic Big Star and three back molars, you get something that resembles a tiny but fearsome Korean monster whose unnatural war cries can immobilize its enemy with burst ear drums. The puking is a pretty neat trick to protest the pain meds, too. And of course, pain anywhere is pain everywhere, so the act of wearing shoes was probably something the United Nations would agree was torture.

I will be honest when I say it almost came down to rock, paper, scissors to decide who got the....pleasure....of putting our smallest son to sleep tonight. As I am typing this from his room while he rolls around and glares at me for stopping singing time at 50 renditions of the Elephant Song, let it be known that I took one for the team.

Little Bug, our gentle giant of a child, must have watched some National Geographic show recently on toddlers because he suddenly realized that he can and should be directly defiant or oppositional to EVERYTHING his mother or father say, suggest, hypothesize, consider, mentally consider, or send via smoke signal. And when the ten+ time outs get annoying, he decided to kick it up a notch and throw something at his brother's head, resulting in a nasty looking bruise and a NEEDED Mommy timeout so things didn't go freaking nuclear.

I love my children fiercely, I really do, but as soon as both my heavily medicated life joys are snoring away, Appa and I are cracking open a bottle of wine and toasting to the joys of bedtime.

Goodbye, Professional Mama

For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to be a mom.  For almost as long, I've wanted to be a teacher.  That is, until I realized about 8 years ago that I wanted to be an editor instead.  It was there, amidst the red pencils and stacks of papers and colorful track changes that I found a career that I loved.  Most people work because they need to, but I have been blessed to be able to work because I wanted to.

Last night I quit my job.

Being a working mother is all about sacrifice.  For me, choosing to work has meant sacrificing time I wanted to spend with Little Bug and Little Bro, even though I believe their current school is critical for their social development.  If I stayed home, I would be sacrificing a career for which I have worked hard laying a solid foundation.

Either way, I sacrifice something I love.   And I came to realize if I was going to sacrifice one of them, it shouldn't be my babies.

The precise reasons for my decision don't need to be hashed out, but the decision was both hard and easy all at once.  Making the right decision is easy...making the decision that comes with heartache is hard.  But my kids will benefit from me being home, especially Little Bro.  And that is what matters most.

Unlike every other time I have ever considered quitting my job, I feel a great sense of peace about my decision. I don't get all panicky when I think about it, and in fact I am pretty excited to get more invested in my home care and feeding my family nutritious, home-cooked food.  I'm still in the "figuring it out" phase (truly, I'm taking a long time getting a good groove down in the housework department), but even on the hard days, I still find myself thinking about how lucky I am to have this chance to focus on my children, my home, and my husband.  NOT because I don't think I deserve to be a priority too, but because I've been stretched so thin in the last year that I haven't been able to give as much to the people and things that mean most to me.  It makes me happy to have my overworked husband come home to a clean house, it makes me happy to see my kids eating real food made with ingredients I can pronounce, and it makes me happy simply to be in a clean house, connected with my kids.

Editing stuff made me happy.  Scratch that....editing stuff does make me happy.  But it turns out that, at least right now, being a domestic goddess (although a rebel one who is NEVER going to have a bow in her hair when the hubs comes home and who will likely always struggle with cooking and cleaning) is what makes me happiest right now.

The Name's Mama, Their Mama

My hair is a mess, strands of my ponytail out and frizzy.  I'm so terribly tired, physically a bit sick, and sore.  My feet and fingernails are dirty, and I am pretty sure I smell.

Yet, I can sit here in this stolen moment (and it truly is practically just a moment) and know without a shadow of a doubt that I was one bad a$$ mother today.  I rocked it hard from my rare 4:45 am wake-up call to the skipped nap to bedtime.

My kids got to see trains, jump in puddles, help bake super healthy veggie muffins, have a very long and physical music parade, read books, sing songs, help me tidy up our house, learn numbers, look at birds, play in a public fountain, get new Cars shoes that light up, and eat a decent meal outside.  It was just a charmed day, despite the fatigue, constant rain, and slightly messy house.  And I made it happen for them.

And everyday...heck, most days, won't be like this.  But today, I declare that I was a really great mama, and that is a nice ego boost.

Ka Chow

 

In my quest to be a more fun mom, I've slowly been letting go of my idea of cool and embrace the cool of a 3.5 year old.  Last year it started with Thomas the Train jammies, which snowballed into an extensive Thomas the Train wardrobe.  But Little Bug's elation each time he wears a train shirt makes it worth him not dressing in my version of cool.

There has been one hold out though...shoes.

I liked to think that I was simply unable to buy my kid the toddler-crack shoes because of his orthotics.  I have always had a very limited selection of shoes that could accommodate his leg and foot braces, and because of this Little Bug only owns one pair of shoes at a time.  I stick with a basic brown or blue or black to make sure it sort of matches with his whole wardrobe and can be dressed up a bit if needed. 

But on the heels of my realization that I unnecessarily power trip as a mom, I took the plunge and bought two pairs of cheaper shoes instead of one pair of more expensive shoes.  One pair was a basic brown....and the other pair was this tacky, gaudy pair of Lightning McQueen shoes that light up red in the heel when Little Bug walks.  I'll admit, as much as I dislike the look of them, I was absolutely stoked to get them home and show them to their new owner.

And, of course, it is a love affair between boy and shoe.  Even more than that, it's a conversation starter with his friends at school, which gives him the chance to be the cool kid for once.  And because of that, he'll always have a pair of fun tennis shoes from now on, no matter how obnoxious I privately find his selections.

To me, they are just shoes.  But to him, they are a constant source of joy and pride.  And I will happily give him that.

My Little Prince

My little bug is ALL boy, whatever that actually means. He loves to rough house and get dirty and all sorts of things that go.

This includes, in particular, the British Royal wedding carriage.

A few weeks back, when THE wedding was being aired very early in the morning, I was sleeping. But Little Bug was wide awake, so thanks to DVR, with a couple hour delay, Little Bug and I found ourselves getting an early start to the day by cuddling up to hours and hours of wedding coverage. I didn't actually expect him to watch, but I don't like to reward the super early wake ups with favorite shows, so I didn't feel bad having it on.

What I didn't know was that Little Bug would be riveted to the TV, clapping and singing to the wedding music and waving happily while screaming "HI" every time the camera panned to a waving princess or prince. He was especially taken by the carriage they rode in and asked me to rewind to their journey from the church to the palace over and over and OVER again.

Since then he asks to watch "carriage" at least once a day, usually the mornings. We cue up the point where they get into the carriage and let it go from there. Little Bug curls up on one of us and sucks his thumb and enjoys the heck out of that carriage ride.

It is such an unexpected and quirky love, but it is so typical of our boy. He marches to his own tune and doesn't need flashy cartoons or songs to always keep his attention. Some of his very favorite things are the most random, and his delight in the big and small things in life, as well as his passion and loyalty to the things he loves, are some of his very best qualities that I am excited to see bloom as he matures.

And who knows, maybe the Duke and Duchess will one day have a little girl and my handsome Bug will snag her and get his own fairy-tale wedding (complete with carriage).

Sweating the Small Stuff

Anyone who knows me knows that I am not the mama who doesn't sweat the small stuff. In fact, not only do I sweat the small stuff, I sweat the potential small stuff, the imaginary small stuff, and the small stuff that could possible happen if the moons align is some rare cosmic way.

Being home has allowed me to focus on who I am as a mother, and the fact is, I don't super love her. Technically speaking, I'm fine. But I have realized that I'm simply not a very fun mom (I'll pause here for everyone who knows me to silently cheer that the message has sunk in).

Hello, my name is Cori, and I am a helicopter, overly strict and rigid mother.

I don't think I was raised in an overly anal and controlling home, so I think this is all my construction. Part of it is my typical first-born, bossy, anxious personality. And part of it is honestly because when Little Bug came home and made me a mama, he NEEDED a helicopter mama to help him move and play and eat and function. That mama role is something we all just got used to.

Enter Little Bro, who does not need, nor appreciates, a helicopter mama with a penchant for saying "ahn dweh," and a more able-bodied and mature Little Bug who need the cord cut with his mama. Spending the last month at home focusing 100% on being a mama has helped me see that many of my knee-jerk words, tones, and decisions don't have any reasoning behind them, other than the dreaded "because I said so," not that either son has questioned me about it yet (verbally, of course).

So I have slowly been trying to slow down and let the small stuff go, the stuff that doesn't hurt anything. I'm trying to mentally reason with myself before telling my children "no" because I am often finding no reason to not let them go for it.

Case in point, today as I was getting ready for the day, Little Bro started playing in a tub of bathroom items we hadn't yet put away after our bathroom remodel. My first inclination was to stop him, but then I reasoned that I was the one who had left it out. If I don't want my small child playing with it, I should move it, which I did not intend to do. Second, was there a reason he could't bang my nail polish against a soft plastic container or examine a tampon? No. What seemed unnecessary to me wasn't actually a deal breaker. So as grating as it was for me, I let him continue to explore. He kept looking at me with this little grin, as if he was waiting for the redirection. And that made me feel like a schmuck that my child, who had only been home a month, already has me pegged as a stick in the mud.

Anyway, the experiment has continued. I have been letting the boys do things that I normally wouldn't, just to give myself some exposure therapy and practice not sweating thus small stuff. Consequently Little Bro got to steer the cart all over T@rget and open and play to his heart's content with a package of birthday candles (at home, not at the store....I'll never be that mom). Little Bug jumped in puddles and got his coat all wet and had a couple illicit minutes playing with toys in an empty room at school he always tries to drag me into. Both boys have managed to get some good cluncks on the piano during music class and get a good distance away at the park. They even got to dump sand all over each others' heads.

This probably sounds ridiculous, but honestly, it's really hard for me not to hover over the boys and let them explore unapproved areas. But I want my kids to be curious and free-spirited and feel comfortable moving away from mama. I want to be that mom who is usually good for a "sure" when a crazy idea comes up, and I want to be that mom who has a reason for her "no". My kids, Little Bug because of his developmental stage and Little Bro because of his outrageous hatred of not getting his way, both need more structure than is right for some families, but at least now they are free to play with birthday candles, tampons, and sand.

Because seriously, if that isn't a recipe for a charmed childhood, I don't know what is.

Catching the Distance

There are moments when it comes back, that distant look or tension, the subtle (or not so subtle) inching away from my body or attention. The eyes that close for just a little too long or the nervous gnawing on a favorite blanket from the past.

It's easy to forget, amidst the smiles and cuddles and games and laughter, that everything isn't "normal" yet for my little one. But there are moments, more and more now as we try to pick our battles and introduce some boundaries, where it is obvious at Little Bro isn't convinced we're the ones.

Which is totally normal. One of the most poignant things I took away from adoption training was the difference between bonding and attachment. Bonding is a connection, a relationship built on shallow but pleasant ground. It is what makes most first time adoptive parents crow confidently after 1 month that their child is attached and loves them totally (Appa and I included), and it is what makes BTDT adoptive parents wary of celebrating too much after 1 month, knowing the grieving relapses are bound to come and the true attachment takes time....truly. You bond with a friend, and that is where we are at right now with Little Bro. He trusts us, he likes us, he maybe even loves us, but if we left tomorrow and he was back with his foster family, he'd mourn our loss minimally. That's what attachment is, the emotional connection that can only be broken by trauma. It's the kind of relationship you have with only a few people in the world.

And we'll get there eventually. I know that even 15 years from now I'll tell Little Bro "no" and he'll turn away and make it clear he hates me in that moment. But the difference between then and right now is that neither of us will feel the fear that hides underneath the pain or anger right now because we'll be attached to each other in a way that can't be broken.

So, as I have caught that distance in my little son lately, I keep reminding myself that if I stick with him, keep building tear by tear and smile by smile, our foundation will be rock solid someday.

A Love Letter to My Littlest Love

Sweet Big Star.

I've been your mama for exactly 1 month now.  As in, close to the minute.  People always say it seems like only yesterday and forever when looking back on a special moment, but it's true.  I still look at you throughout the day with this sense of wonder and surprise that you are actually in my arms, in my home, in my family; yet, I also have a hard time connecting back to the life before you were home.

We're not there yet, you and I.  Your love is worth more than a month's time and I don't expect you to be handing it away, and I'm daily finding new ways to be a better mother to you, for you.  But I have no doubt we'll get there in the end.

You make it easy though, you really do.

I love your running hugs that end with your tiny hand patting me on the back.  I love how you always pull a section of my hair out of my ponytail to caress as you fall asleep.  I love how you always play the "ko, ko, ko" game during our night routine and how you always think you're being such a ham by starting with head instead of nose.  I love the noise you make when you pucker up for a kiss.  I love the smile you flash when you hear the words "Super Why" or the opening notes of your Korean music.  I love your "oooooo" face when you see something especially exciting.  I love how you pat your beloved blanket so tenderly after I pull it up to your chest at night.  I love the way you nestle your head into my shoulder when you need some extra comfort and the way you confidently start climbing on my back whenever you feel the need to go "aboobah."  I love your scream of joy.  I love how you clap for everything good that you do.  I love how despite your tough and dramatic act, you're deep down compliant with tooth brushing and medicine.  I love how you usually stay in your bed, even when you're awake.  I love listening to your babble, the unmistakable Korean accent flavoring your baby stories. I love the way you run, a mix of a toddler toddle and cheetah stride.  I love the impish gleam in your eye right before you pluck a key on the piano during music class.  I love how confident and happy you are to explore your world, but always come back to me.


Has it only been a month since I started loving you for you?

You are already changing who you are since coming here, and there is a part of me that mourns that.  I dread the day your Korean babble switches to one with an American accent.  It makes me sad that we so easily drastically changed huge parts of your life, like your eating and sleeping and pooping habits, not because it wasn't best for your new life, but simply because it removes you from your inherent life routine in Korea.  I watch you listen to your Korean music and shows and wonder if you are already losing your retention, and it breaks my heart to see the language I so desperately want you to have slip away sound by sound.  I show you pictures of your foster family and you tenderly touch each face with your sweet finger, pause for a moment, and then hand the picture back to me and move on with your activity.  I don't know what that means, but it makes me sad in a way, too.

I know this is part of your life story now.  One month ago a new chapter started, one that would be written in a different style and language, but one that is still yours and that I have a part in writing.  Tonight as your splotchy red face screamed at me for daring to change your diaper before bed, it hit me that there are two other women who would desperately love to be crouched in my position now, battling their way through a painful bedtime routine with this tiny Big Star.  I'm lucky and blessed and completely unworthy of the privilege of ushering you through life, and I'll try not to forget that, even for a day.

So, my baby Big Star, 30 days down and forever to go.  Thank you for letting me love you a little more each day and for being you.

Love, Mama

PS: I am sorry about dinner tonight, but you do need to consume something besides apple juice for an actual meal, no matter what your feelings on the subject are. But I give you props for pulling together such an epic meltdown in such a hot second.  Scary impressive.

Fear of Tears

When we had our first meeting with Little Bro, his foster mother told us through the translator that he would tantrum sometimes, and that when that happened, we should ignore him. While I was not offended, I remember later telling Appa that it felt like she was telling me what to do as a parent, which clearly I already was. His response was that she WAS telling me how to parent.....THIS child.

A month later, I replay her words in my head daily.

Little Bro had a period during his initial transition where his tears were loud and hard and super intense. And although those tears haven't made an appearance in a couple weeks, he still sobs and glares at me with what I imagine is a mixture of hatred and despair sometimes.

Like when I took a package if Rollos out of his hands today.

And in my head, as I watched his freak out and glare at me, I remembered what his foster mother said....ignore him.

Classic tantrum response for a classic toddler tantrum. No brainer. Except as a new mother to this child, still twitchy from the hard grieving and conscious of attachment, any tears from Little Bro strike fear into my heart and have me rushing to placate him.

"Don't cry! Mama will meet your basic needs like Rollos candy and playing with the dinner knives! Here small child, carry on with whatever it was you wanted to do."

It is a hard line, walking between promoting attachment and getting played by a toddler. Although Little Bro already gets a wide berth in behavior right now, his free pass is starting to get smaller and smaller as he clearly starts to act more like himself....the self that his foster mother said to ignore during temper tantrums.

Although no one can tell you how to raise you child, I am grateful she had the thought to give me permission to ignore these little things.

Besides, Twix are way better than Rollos.

Brook the Bird

Today I took Little Bro to the fancy zoo for his first play date with kids other than his brother (who was in school and missed the fun). It was a nice time for him and a delight for me to chat with friends.

But too soon for me, Little Bro started nodding off in his friend's wagon, and I knew it was time to go. Of course, as soon as we were on the course for the car he woke up and was absolutely fascinated by all the exotic seagulls flying around. Despite the looming threat of a seagull shower, the moment was one I relished. As the oldest, I have no frame of reference for the plight of a second child, but the reality is that now whenever #2 gets something, #1 does, too. In the interest of fairness, there isn't a lot of time or opportunity or reason to spoil just the second child.

But as MY second child sleepily delighted in watching the birds with me, I knew I was going to seize the moment and spoil him and him alone.

I took him to one of the zoo gift shops and let him pick out a stuffed animal. I steered him toward the birds, since that nice memory was fresh in my mind. He doesn't seem like a stuffed-animal-loving kid, but he did take immediately to a weird looking stuffed penguin (a bird we did not see at the zoo) with over sized, weird cracked out TROLL eyes.

Whatever. My baby was getting this weird doll.

And to my satisfaction, he held it the whole way to the car, playing with the wings and laughing at it. He clutched it during nap and while watching SuperWhy. I started to think that maybe this special treat was going to be something that would mean something to both of us.

Of course tonight he took one look at it, realized it had creepy Chucky eyes, and promptly freaked out until I hid it from him.

Oh well, it's the thought and memory that counts....and I have a feeling Brook the Big-Eyed Birdie is going to be popping up again and again as I try to force my darling second son to love this silly little doll.

You, Me, and Us

 

We've all spent the last week changing.  Each one of the members of my family has had quite a week as we noticeably have started falling into our new normal.  With that new normal comes some inherent changes in each of us.

Little Bro and Little Bug are no longer only children.  For the first 2 weeks, they both, in their own way, resisted this change.  But in the last week, both boys have started embracing their roles as brothers.  Little Bug is becoming more tolerant (and even, dare I say it, empathetic) to Little Bro's transition and normal demands on our time and attention.  He is learning to give him space when he needs it.  He is beginning to accept that we can't always read his favorite book at night first or watch Yo Gabba Gabba's Train episode all the time.  He is beginning to explore this whole "big boy versus little boy" idea, which is helping him with some independent play skills.  Hopefully it will also one day help him stop from trying to "sit on Little Bo" because the reality is we really do have one BIG boy and one LITTLE boy.

Little Bro came out of his personal hell stronger and braver than I could have imagined.  It humbles me when I think of the strength and resilience my sons have already had to dig deep for in their little lives.  Although they won't remember it, the lingering effects, both good and bad, will always be with them.  I truly believe that.

Little Bro is embracing us as people he likes, trusts, and wants to be with.  As is normal, sometimes he pulls back, but in general, this week we've seen more of the real Little Bro, the fiery, fast, funny, and curious child we met in Seoul.  He has started giving all of us (including his big brother) unprompted hugs, and he and I are developing a pretty tender and intimate sleep routine that fosters a lot of attachment.  Things that were too intimate for him before (like brushing teeth, changing clothes or diapers, giving medicine) are now less trauma and more just a typical toddler affront to life.  He's started throwing tantrums again, as opposed to grieving, which is oddly encouraging.  In the biggest hallelujah, he's started eating solids for us.  That alone is a HUGE step. Just in general, he seems happier, more comfortable, and less like he is desperately wishing for something he won't be able to have again.

Appa is, not surprisingly, doing best of us all.  He's an emotions-close-to-the-vest kind of guy, but watching Little Bro literally loss his will to exist last weekend was an eye-opening experience for him, I think.  Even then, he was the rock who spread himself thin so that he could focus on Little Bug while still taking care of me while I focused on Little Bro.  At one point, during a dark day, I looked over at him and thought "Thank God this is the man who I picked to be the father to my babies."  He's a keeper, my Appa.

And me....I'm doing better than I expected, with everything but blogging, that is.  Living life is getting easier and more normal, but writing about it is still a bit tedious.  After my serious bout with post-adoption depression last time, I've been watching and examining myself for any indications of those feelings so I could deal with them immediately.  Surprisingly, other than the very normal, sleep deprived "THIS IS THE WORST MOMENT OF MY LIFE"  feelings during the late nights while watching my sweet son shatter into a million sad pieces, I haven't felt the feelings I did last time.  I think a large part of it is due to already being a mother, so the jolting loss of freedom isn't there this time.  I think is also helps that Little Bro is older and more engaging.  In short, bringing home a baby was slightly boring and gave me more time to stew in depression, while this time Little Bro, at 22 months, is able to immediately interact in a more meaningful and fun way (although as I write this he is zoning out to Phung Phungie).  

With Little Bro's grief aside, the hardest thing has been trying to find balance.  I have found that my identity now is not the mother of two little boys, but rather, as Little Bug's mother and Little Bro's mother and Appa's wife and myself...each role needing its own attention and not a simple lump together.  The reality is that two-child shopping cart I have been eying out  for the last year is actually really cumbersome to push.  You can't easily go one way on a whim, instead you have to position the whole darn thing and slowly make your turns. 

And that is my life right now...slowly making the turns that lead my whole family in a new direction. But that's not a bad thing.