The First of Many Man Hugs

Today, as we walked into Little Bug's new classroom to pick him up from school, Little Bro reacted to his big brother's enthusiasm in a way we've never seen before.

He ran right up to him, put his arms around him, and gave him a hug.

This 14-day-old brotherhood has not yet consisted of hugs...by Little Bro's choice.  He's been apathetic at best with regards to his adoring older brother. But today was the first real sign of thaw, the first time he singled his brother out and showed connection and affection for him.

It warmed my heart to see Little Bro so accepting of his big brother and to see Little Bug finally get some of those "hug Little Bro" moments he has been begging for.

Life is slowly, slowly falling into normal for the four of us, and it makes me so happy I could hug someone.

Your Right

When Little Bug came home, he was developmentally at an age where he didn't get it totally, and thus, coupled with his chill disposition, made for a pretty trauma-free transition.

For my tiny Big Star, with his passionate spirit and deep affection and love for his family in Korea, the transition has gone from amazing to bumpy to hard to a downright hell.

His hell. Let me make that clear. For as much as it scares me to watch him physically and emotionally lose control in a fit of fear and rage over what seems like nothing and as tired and frustrated I am at having my own life so transitional and hard, my pain is NOTHING compared to what is going on with him.

Tonight, after two truly horrible days, as he sat on my lap facing me and shook his head violently while screaming no in Korean while hitting my chest, I focused on that....his pain.

You can read every attachment book in the world and talk to every parent who has ever gone through it, but all they can do is prepare you for some unidentifiable pain. They cannot prepare you for your child's pain.

My Big Star is in pain. It's a slow burning pain that has gained steam in the last week. After a week home, he is farther from a good place than he was a week ago. I know, for as long as I live, I will never forget the look in his eyes tonight, the strength with which his body thrashed, and the unnatural pitch of his scream.

E, someday when you read this and try in vain to remember this intense pain you experiencing right now, please know that I'm not minimizing your loss by trying to force you to get past it. I will not ask you to love me; rather, I will be here for every scream, every hit, every painful bottle and bath and mealtime, and no matter how it makes me feel, I will keep my face calm and pat your back and sooth you in my broken Korean. I will earn your love because you don't owe me any middle ground, any compromise. You have a right to every emotion, and I am the one that owes you the middle ground. Always.

Distance

It's 6,541 miles between where I sit tonight, on my couch with my TWO sons miraculously slumbering in their rooms upstairs and where I was a week ago.  I was sure that I'd be blournal the hell out of my trip to Korea, and while I would lay in bed at night unable to sleep, I would formulate what I wanted to say, but the words could never come out when I would sit down to write them.

The truth is, sometimes life is just too intense, and I need to process it before I can get it out of my head....I need distance.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about how instead of feeling this sense of connection between Little Bug and his birth country, the awkward subway rides where people would stare, tut, or talk to him in Korean before realizing that he had no idea what they were saying made it painfully clear to me that unless I find a way to get my sons at least semi-fluent in their first language, they will never be able to return as anything but a foreigner.  I know how badly I wanted to be able to communicate and connect with the people of Korea, and that longing must be nothing compared to what my sons could one day feel.  The distance of silence made me realize that my goal shouldn't be to just bring them back to Korea every couple of years, but rather, I need to give them the tools so they can go back on their own someday.  The connection isn't mine to foster because it's one I will never have myself...ultimately they will need to reconnect to their birth culture on their own.  But without language, they won't be able to do that.  This trip made that crystal clear.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about the way it felt to spend the evening with Little Bug's foster family.  How effortless it was, even with the language barrier.  How calling them family isn't just lip service anymore, but a real, true relationship based on love for each other, not just a common love for one little boy.  I'm not sure I will ever have the words to describe how right it felt that evening.  It wasn't even a "full circle" feeling because this is a circle that just keeps on going.  We'll have more evenings like this, I am sure.  There is so much loss in adoption, but watching my son cuddle into the first parents he ever knew made me thank God that we've been able to save such a precious relationship that my son will be able to cultivate all through his life.  To be loved is a wonderful thing.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about how I turned 30 and didn't even give it a second thought.  Instead I spent the day touring a beautiful city's historical offerings.  Clearly the cure for midlife birthday depression is to spend the day exploring Seoul.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about how natural it felt to see Little Bro in the flesh.  How after all this time waiting, there wasn't any dramatic heart palpitations, just a very calm feeling of recognition.  But after that first meeting, I noticed a twinge in my heart that had never been there before.  I missed him.  But not like I missed him for the last year.  Instead of missing the child, I missed the spunk, the chatter, the mischievous twinkle, and stubborn set of the jaw.  That was the moment I knew in my heart that he was truly my son.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about the way I would get physically sick every time I thought about Little Bro's foster family.  How worried and heartbroken I was for them. To gain joy through the pain of someone else is something I won't ever be able to reconcile.  As I sit here tonight, it keeps me up, gnawing at my heart and mind.  I pray and hope that someday we can connect in a more meaningful way that we have to date, but I realize that wish is selfish on my part, both for my son and my benefit.  But really, it's not about either of us.  It's about them. And I hope they find peace, however they choose to find it.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about watching my sons become brothers.  How hard it is to see them both suffer from what is inherently a loss of individuality and personal attention.  How hard it is to balance transitions of two children with completely different needs and temperaments who, at least for now, don't seem to mesh.  I wasn't expecting them not to mesh. In all my million of prepared scenarios, that was never one I considered. And it makes me sad.

When I laid in bed at night, across the world from where I am now, I wanted to write about the way this trip changed me.  It was bound to, of course, just by the nature of it. I'm more jaded and more hopeful, all at once.

But for all this, I needed the distance of space and time.  I needed to mull it over, move away from the rawness of it all, before I could find words suitable enough to share.  Words that I didn't want to sob or scream or sing.

And now that it's out, I feel free again.  I can go on with my life, capturing the moments both my sons give me and exploring my evolving definition of motherhood.

A definition that still includes a whole subsection on bodily fluid, as Little Bro wasted no time proving to me he can roll with his big brother in that department.

To My Little Bug on the Eve of Everything Changing

Tonight is our last night of normal.  Tomorrow begins a period in our lives that won't be normal, but will eventually usher in a new normal.  That normal looks similar to our normal now, but it will never be the same.

But tonight I want to focus on our normal.  The normal that has me sitting in your dark bedroom as you peer at me through the faint light of your nightlight while drifting off to sleep.  The normal that is running hugs and rough play and cuddles while watching your favorite parts of your favorite shows.  The normal that is spur of the moment Mommy/Son dates where we spend the whole dinner talking to each other about whatever you want to talk about (usually some form of moving vehicle).  The normal that is your favorite books every single night and wagon rides.  The normal that is the pitter patter of your feet each night and your delight at shower time.

Normal right now is devoting every ounce of myself into you.  Your therapy dictates my schedule.  Your needs dictate everything that is in our home.  Your triumphs are the biggest high I experience.  You are the king of my life, and your rule is absolute.  You need it; you got it. (And let's be honest, you want it; you've usually got it, too.)

It's going to be weird for a while, this new normal.  The one where I need to balance the needs of someone else with yours. I'm not scared that I won't be able to do it, but I think it's going to take some getting used to for you and I...this balancing act.  Your rule over my heart isn't being reduced, but rather, my heart is impossibly expanding.  And I get it; until you are a parent, that feeling simply can't be understood.  I hate saying that, but it's true.  So trust me when I say, you're still my #1 boy.

And as much as we will love your little brother and our new normal, there is a part of me that sighed tonight as I kissed your sleeping shoulder.  Because, my sweet oldest son, I have loved our normal so very, very much, and I am sad to see such a beautiful chapter in our lives close.

Love, Mama

My Favorite Scene

There is a scene in the movie "Love Actually" where a young boy, triumphant from fulfilling a deep wish, runs with wild, physical abandon, joy radiating from his face.

Tonight, although not exactly the same style, my little bug had a moment of triumph.

After a day of cousins and carousel and grandmas and french fries, Appa and I decided to toss this whole packing and preparing business out the window and take our son to the park to round out a pretty delightful day.  Little Bug ran and jumped (an emerging skill we find adorable) and screamed with delight.

Then Hannah came along.

Miss Hannah seemed interested in Little Bug right away, and he took to her, too.  The two of them followed each other around, taking turns mimicking the other.  Even though the clock ticked shockingly close to bedtime, Appa and I just stood on the playground with stupid grins on our faces.....because Little Bug has never engaged a child like this on a playground before, even one he knew.  He is still trying to find his confidence and place in the social world of toddlers, and tonight was his coming out party.  He worked that playground like a pro, and Hannah responded with friendly companionship.

Little Bug was so incandescently happy, but we finally had to drag him away.  I was sure he would throw a fit or cry and pout.

But instead he yelled what sounded like victory whoops and he walked proudly ahead of Appa and I, swinging his arms out in a huge motion pretty unusual for him.  He was on top of the world in that moment, and I know it was the high of Hannah's engagement.

If only life had a soundtrack, I think that moment would have warranted a crescendo.