The "clinical therapies" waiting room where I spend an hour each week waiting during Little Bug's physical therapy is a melting pot for children and families with some sort of need. I see families and children who navigate wheel chairs and feeding tubes. I see families and children who are trying to navigate therapy waters in a language they don't speak (or sign). I see families and children who have behavioral challenges and needs.
And I feel very at home here. Because in this waiting room, although we all have very different reasons for being here, we all want the same thing for our kids. To be accepted. To not be judged when our children start twitching and shrieking at the crayon table or run up to you and throw a book at your head. To have our children smiled at instead of stared at, even in the moments when you can't help but stare. To have a stranger strike up a conversation and keep it going even when our children cannot or will not. To have other children see a friend instead of a wheelchair, leg brace, inability to socially interact, or physical deformity.
In an odd way, I love this hour of my week. Even though I rarely talk to anyone else, it makes me feel less alone as a mom and gives me hope for a community for my son that I sincerely hope he will always feel comfortable in as he grows up and his needs evolve.
But yesterday I also saw the bleak truth of growing up in this waiting room. And I pretended to be reading something very sad on my phone as tears silently streamed down my face.
It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the waiting room. A family who spoke ASL sat in one corner, and Little Bro was engrossed in the iPad. From out of the practice rooms a boy about 7 or 8 years old came shuffling out, tears in his eyes and his face contorted in fear and sadness. A man who later called himself "Pops" came behind him, allowing the young boy to navigate them to some chairs across from me. There they sat in silence for a few minutes before Pops tried to sooth the boy.
The blow-by-blow isn't important (but will forever be etched in my mind), but basically this little boy had just been told that he needed to take medication for his attention needs. I have no doubt this information was delivered age-appropriately and compassionately, but all this little boy heard was that "something was wrong" with him.
And it hurt. Not anger. Hurt.
Pops, bless him, gave me some good lessons on how to talk to a pre-teen boy in pain. When the boy chose to sit across the couch from him inching away with each word Pops uttered, Pops told him that was okay if it made it easier to talk. When the boy didn't seem to want to say anything, Pops calmly and encouragingly told him how smart and kind and fun he was, using loving examples. He just needed a little help talking tests, that's all. The little boy's eyes filled with tears and buried his face in his hands.
"Does this feel like a big deal to you?" Pops asked softly.
"I don't know," the little boy admitted before dissolving into tears.
That's when I lost it, for the record.
As Little Bug starts maturing and getting ready for big time school, I have started preparing for how to support him emotionally, not just clinically. The emotions he might feel as he gets older and more aware of his challenges (guilt, anger, fear, embarrassment, rejection) literally keep me up at night with pains in my chest. To hear my deepest fears whispered by this confused little boy broke me. How can little ones be expected to understand just how unfair life can be or just how different and wonderful they are? How can I protect my Little Bug from the moments when he is told by strangers that he is different and needs help? How can I help him hear anything other than "something is wrong" with me in his head?
I don't actually have the answers. I don't know. And that sucks.
Showing posts with label other parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label other parents. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Everything Would be Easier with a Secret Handshake
You'd think after a number of years parenting a child with behavioral special needs, I'd know a thing or two about how to approach another mother in a similar situation. But I don't.
There is a little boy and his mom that attend the same "gym" class Little Bro and I attend. It took very little time for me to figure out that the no-need-to-attempt-participation approach the mother took to circle time and the stuck-like-glue helicopter mama approach she took to free play was a finely honed survival routine meant to maximize her son's freedom and enjoyment while protecting him and others from his behavioral challenges. THAT was easy to spot, since Little Bug and my finely honed survival routine is like second nature now. For the past few weeks, I've gone out of my way to smile and interact with this mother and her little boy, simply because it's clear others are learning to steer clear. But she's too busy helping her son have a positive experience, and I'm too busy chasing my fearsomely fast younger child around the gym to have a conversation that extended past the most basic of pleasantries with her.
Last week her son took a younger kid down. Hard. It happened so fast she simply couldn't stop the movement. I saw all the moms (and the teachers) momentarily pause in horror before trying to pretend they didn't see anything more than a little "oopsie" between two buddies. Worse, I saw the "how dare you" glare from the younger boy's mother before she could compose herself. But what made my heart hurt most was the look on the mother who had been so vigilant and patient and determined to make sure her son was able to have a normal gym experience. She seemed so defeated in that moment that she had failed her son by not protecting him from himself.
And I can identify with that feeling with every fiber in my body.
For the rest of the class she kept a wide berth from everyone else. Her son exhibited some behavior during his restraining time out that likely embarrassed her more, not just because of his screaming and thrashing, but having had to do it myself a number of times, having to hold your child in a restraining time out is a pretty awful thing to have to do in front of strangers who don't understand.
After class, I loitered a bit. I wanted to reach out to her in some way, to express in some form that I understood and that Little Bro and I were looking forward to seeing them again next week. I wanted to let her know that I understood how hard to is to take your child to an environment where they don't excel or fit in, where the protective buffer of understanding and accommodations isn't there. Where their challenges tend to be highlighted more than their many strengths and strides.
But I didn't know what to say. "Hi, I noticed your son clearly has special needs. Mine does, too. So...yeah" didn't seem like a great pick up line.
It felt wrong to force her to further acknowledge her son's challenges, and it felt wrong to invade my son's privacy and reduce him to "another special needs kid" just to make someone else feel better. So I just caught her eye and said good bye to them both by name.
But what I wish I could have said to her was this:
I know what it feels like to have your child struggle to have everyone else see what you can see...the amazing, strong, special child who just wants to be friends but isn't always able to show it the same way others do. I know what it feels like to have to be a mother other people secretly judge for being over-protective, too strict, unfun, and low-key because that is what your child needs to stay balanced. I know what it feels like to watch your sweet, loving child accidentally hurt another child in a way that doesn't look accidental. I know what it feels like to have so much progress derailed by a moment. I know what it feels like to see your child picked last, or not at all, in the toddler game of life. I know how it feels to dread going into another day of battle and to see your child miss opportunities.
And I know what you know...despite (or rather, because) of all that, you're a lucky mama and your son is a soul anyone would be lucky to call friend.
There is a little boy and his mom that attend the same "gym" class Little Bro and I attend. It took very little time for me to figure out that the no-need-to-attempt-participation approach the mother took to circle time and the stuck-like-glue helicopter mama approach she took to free play was a finely honed survival routine meant to maximize her son's freedom and enjoyment while protecting him and others from his behavioral challenges. THAT was easy to spot, since Little Bug and my finely honed survival routine is like second nature now. For the past few weeks, I've gone out of my way to smile and interact with this mother and her little boy, simply because it's clear others are learning to steer clear. But she's too busy helping her son have a positive experience, and I'm too busy chasing my fearsomely fast younger child around the gym to have a conversation that extended past the most basic of pleasantries with her.
Last week her son took a younger kid down. Hard. It happened so fast she simply couldn't stop the movement. I saw all the moms (and the teachers) momentarily pause in horror before trying to pretend they didn't see anything more than a little "oopsie" between two buddies. Worse, I saw the "how dare you" glare from the younger boy's mother before she could compose herself. But what made my heart hurt most was the look on the mother who had been so vigilant and patient and determined to make sure her son was able to have a normal gym experience. She seemed so defeated in that moment that she had failed her son by not protecting him from himself.
And I can identify with that feeling with every fiber in my body.
For the rest of the class she kept a wide berth from everyone else. Her son exhibited some behavior during his restraining time out that likely embarrassed her more, not just because of his screaming and thrashing, but having had to do it myself a number of times, having to hold your child in a restraining time out is a pretty awful thing to have to do in front of strangers who don't understand.
After class, I loitered a bit. I wanted to reach out to her in some way, to express in some form that I understood and that Little Bro and I were looking forward to seeing them again next week. I wanted to let her know that I understood how hard to is to take your child to an environment where they don't excel or fit in, where the protective buffer of understanding and accommodations isn't there. Where their challenges tend to be highlighted more than their many strengths and strides.
But I didn't know what to say. "Hi, I noticed your son clearly has special needs. Mine does, too. So...yeah" didn't seem like a great pick up line.
It felt wrong to force her to further acknowledge her son's challenges, and it felt wrong to invade my son's privacy and reduce him to "another special needs kid" just to make someone else feel better. So I just caught her eye and said good bye to them both by name.
But what I wish I could have said to her was this:
I know what it feels like to have your child struggle to have everyone else see what you can see...the amazing, strong, special child who just wants to be friends but isn't always able to show it the same way others do. I know what it feels like to have to be a mother other people secretly judge for being over-protective, too strict, unfun, and low-key because that is what your child needs to stay balanced. I know what it feels like to watch your sweet, loving child accidentally hurt another child in a way that doesn't look accidental. I know what it feels like to have so much progress derailed by a moment. I know what it feels like to see your child picked last, or not at all, in the toddler game of life. I know how it feels to dread going into another day of battle and to see your child miss opportunities.
And I know what you know...despite (or rather, because) of all that, you're a lucky mama and your son is a soul anyone would be lucky to call friend.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Perspective
Today I was dragging Little Big and Little Bro through a long hallway in a children's wing of a large hospital. They had been woken from naps early and were tired, cold, and grumpy. Even grumpier was me, their seriously sleep-deprived mama (my own fault for deciding on a whim this week to paint our kitchen after bedtime), who was pissed off that we had to add yet another weekly therapy session that required me to shlup both my grumpy kids around at a really inopportune time of day. Classy and big girl, I know.
Bottom line, it was a three car frowny train barreling down that hallway about 7 minutes late.
A man and woman stood about 3/4 of the way down the hallway fussing in agitation over a large jogging stroller that was facing away from us. They seemed stress and unhappy and resigned, just like me. My thought as I approached them was literally "Man, I know how you feel. My kids are being pains, too!"
Then I reached the point where I could see their child in the stroller.
A child probably 3-5 years old with a trachea tube whose fragile looking body was having what looked like a seizure as her parents tried to keep her safe and comfortable in the moment.
Dear Me:
Shut the hell up. You have two healthy children who have every chance in the world to live out all the dreams you had hoped for them. Children whose needs are predictable and isolated and generally not impeding daily life. Get over yourself, hug your babies, be grateful, and send a prayer for quick peace for that family who just reminded you what real strength and challenge looks like.
Bottom line, it was a three car frowny train barreling down that hallway about 7 minutes late.
A man and woman stood about 3/4 of the way down the hallway fussing in agitation over a large jogging stroller that was facing away from us. They seemed stress and unhappy and resigned, just like me. My thought as I approached them was literally "Man, I know how you feel. My kids are being pains, too!"
Then I reached the point where I could see their child in the stroller.
A child probably 3-5 years old with a trachea tube whose fragile looking body was having what looked like a seizure as her parents tried to keep her safe and comfortable in the moment.
Dear Me:
Shut the hell up. You have two healthy children who have every chance in the world to live out all the dreams you had hoped for them. Children whose needs are predictable and isolated and generally not impeding daily life. Get over yourself, hug your babies, be grateful, and send a prayer for quick peace for that family who just reminded you what real strength and challenge looks like.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Mama Bear Doesn't Care About You
Today Little Bug walked up to watch a child at the children's museum play with an activity. He gently reached out to touch the toy boat and the child, who could not have been more than 4 himself, swatted his hand away and yelled "No. You are a bad boy."
Oh hell no.
In the back of my head, my mama bear roared, but out of my mouth came a smiling, sweet, quiet mama voice that cooed "Oh, he isn't a bad boy. He is a good boy."
Because he is, and he was being a good boy.
The kid's response was an even more aggressive "NO. He is a BAD boy."
H.E.L.L N.O. Did I mention his mother was sitting right.next.to.him and never so much as flinched. What do you do with that?
At that point, I was done. I calmly repeated that he is a good boy and told Little Bug we were moving on to another activity. I kept a calm, smiling face at all times.
And that mother had the NERVE to glare at ME as we walked away.
As I later recounted the tale to Appa, he asked if I said something to the horrible mom. And the fact is, I didn't. Here's why:
I try to use social interactions to teach my kids how to act, like we all do. In this case, my only concern was for Little Bug. I wanted him to know he was not a bad boy, and everything I said to that little boy reinforced that to Little Bug. He isn't a bad boy, and it isn't acceptable for anyone to call him that. But I wasn't going to say anything to the mom because I don't want Little Bug to learn that escalating a problem is a good idea. She didn't say anything to me, so me saying something to her would have been an offensive move. I want Little Bug to feel comfortable and calm enough to remove himself from a situation if he needs to.
But most of all, I don't give a crap about that mom or her kid. It's not my job to teach her kid manners or to teach her how to raise a child to not grow up as an @hole that no one likes. It is my job to teach my son how to be confident in himself and his ability to protect himself when he has to interact with said @holes.
I am his teacher and I reserve myself for him and him alone, and that is her and her son's loss.
PS: Screw you, lady.
Oh hell no.
In the back of my head, my mama bear roared, but out of my mouth came a smiling, sweet, quiet mama voice that cooed "Oh, he isn't a bad boy. He is a good boy."
Because he is, and he was being a good boy.
The kid's response was an even more aggressive "NO. He is a BAD boy."
H.E.L.L N.O. Did I mention his mother was sitting right.next.to.him and never so much as flinched. What do you do with that?
At that point, I was done. I calmly repeated that he is a good boy and told Little Bug we were moving on to another activity. I kept a calm, smiling face at all times.
And that mother had the NERVE to glare at ME as we walked away.
As I later recounted the tale to Appa, he asked if I said something to the horrible mom. And the fact is, I didn't. Here's why:
I try to use social interactions to teach my kids how to act, like we all do. In this case, my only concern was for Little Bug. I wanted him to know he was not a bad boy, and everything I said to that little boy reinforced that to Little Bug. He isn't a bad boy, and it isn't acceptable for anyone to call him that. But I wasn't going to say anything to the mom because I don't want Little Bug to learn that escalating a problem is a good idea. She didn't say anything to me, so me saying something to her would have been an offensive move. I want Little Bug to feel comfortable and calm enough to remove himself from a situation if he needs to.
But most of all, I don't give a crap about that mom or her kid. It's not my job to teach her kid manners or to teach her how to raise a child to not grow up as an @hole that no one likes. It is my job to teach my son how to be confident in himself and his ability to protect himself when he has to interact with said @holes.
I am his teacher and I reserve myself for him and him alone, and that is her and her son's loss.
PS: Screw you, lady.
Monday, May 9, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Window Shopping
Little Bug,
You've been home for 2.5 years now. You know who your mama is. So I'm cool with you calling any females who look between the ages of 16-50 "mama," because I know it's just the only name you know how to associate with adult women. Besides I love being your "my mama."
However, when the new little girl in your class has her Korean mother there, it's slightly mortifying for your "my mama" when you run into the Korean mama's arms and refuse to leave. I get that you were playing with her, but she looked at me like some horrific thing was happening, and she actually asked me if you were confused who your mama was because she was Korean. I couldn't even be mad at her for asking, not as I was watching the bizarre love fest you had going on. Granted, it got better when you moved on to your white teacher and did the same thing and she could see it had nothing to do with the way she looked or the accent she had.
You just didn't want to go home last night. That's okay. School looks a heck of a lot more fun some days than a healthy dinner, home therapy, and an early bedtime. So I'll jazz it up if you promise to go easy on the pseudo window shopping.
Love,
Your My Mama
You've been home for 2.5 years now. You know who your mama is. So I'm cool with you calling any females who look between the ages of 16-50 "mama," because I know it's just the only name you know how to associate with adult women. Besides I love being your "my mama."
However, when the new little girl in your class has her Korean mother there, it's slightly mortifying for your "my mama" when you run into the Korean mama's arms and refuse to leave. I get that you were playing with her, but she looked at me like some horrific thing was happening, and she actually asked me if you were confused who your mama was because she was Korean. I couldn't even be mad at her for asking, not as I was watching the bizarre love fest you had going on. Granted, it got better when you moved on to your white teacher and did the same thing and she could see it had nothing to do with the way she looked or the accent she had.
You just didn't want to go home last night. That's okay. School looks a heck of a lot more fun some days than a healthy dinner, home therapy, and an early bedtime. So I'll jazz it up if you promise to go easy on the pseudo window shopping.
Love,
Your My Mama
Monday, January 24, 2011
Get the Hell Outta There
When I got married, and then again when I had a child, one of the best pieces of advice I received was to get away from your family occasionally. I know this might not be good for some people, but it's been wonderful for me.
I take small weekend trips without Appa. I have awesome girls' weekends with my best friend (or sisters) where we gorge ourselves on book chatting and licorice. I come home with a stronger relationships and an absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder appreciation for my favorite man.
And now that I am a mom, I still take time away from that life to refocus on me for a bit. Usually this comes in the form of a hotel stay 20 minutes away with other mamas. We stay up late giggling and crying about life. We support each other. We revel in the break from diapers and potties and sippy cups....even if our conversations are dominated by them.
And when I come home, it's not with a pang of regret that I'm going back to responsibility; it's with a joyful heart that I am SO lucky to have my family AND my friends. I love on my baby like I haven't seen him for a month.
These mini me-breaks allow me to focus. I'm at my best as a wife and mother when I am balanced. Balance, for me, sometimes comes with a reset button that only "me time" can provide.
So when people ask me for advice on motherhood or marriage, my go-to advice is simply this: "Get the hell outta there sometimes." It makes all the time you are there so much better!
And, for the record, I firmly believe my son might have grown in the 18 hours I was away from him this weekend.
I take small weekend trips without Appa. I have awesome girls' weekends with my best friend (or sisters) where we gorge ourselves on book chatting and licorice. I come home with a stronger relationships and an absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder appreciation for my favorite man.
And now that I am a mom, I still take time away from that life to refocus on me for a bit. Usually this comes in the form of a hotel stay 20 minutes away with other mamas. We stay up late giggling and crying about life. We support each other. We revel in the break from diapers and potties and sippy cups....even if our conversations are dominated by them.
And when I come home, it's not with a pang of regret that I'm going back to responsibility; it's with a joyful heart that I am SO lucky to have my family AND my friends. I love on my baby like I haven't seen him for a month.
These mini me-breaks allow me to focus. I'm at my best as a wife and mother when I am balanced. Balance, for me, sometimes comes with a reset button that only "me time" can provide.
So when people ask me for advice on motherhood or marriage, my go-to advice is simply this: "Get the hell outta there sometimes." It makes all the time you are there so much better!
And, for the record, I firmly believe my son might have grown in the 18 hours I was away from him this weekend.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A Selfless Love
Little Bug's foster family has always been a big presence in our lives. We got the unique chance to spend a significant amount of time with them while we were in Korea, not just interacting with Little Bug, but together as adults. I'll never forget sitting on the floor as our social worker translated all the things the foster family had brought and made for our son, sobbing as she pulled out a little white baby gown, mits, and socks tied with a green bow that she told us was the outfit he had come to them in, lovingly preserved. A tangible symbol of how much he was loved and cherished from the moment he entered their home. Little Bug's foster mother gave me (another) tissue and grabbed my hand, holding it tightly as our hearts both broke and rejoiced. That was the moment when I knew this woman and her family were going to be part of our lives forever.
Since then we have shared pictures and e-mails and gifts and messages. They've cheered Little Bug on through all this therapy, sending messages of encouragement and pride. They've even met Little Bro (in passing at the agency)! We've had a chance to see and share the joys their family has continued to experience.
They are, in every way but blood (and that seems so insignificant anyway), family to us.
Last weekend they sent us a video that was aired on Korean television promoting fostering. It was a "Day in the Life" video of their family. Appa, Little Bug, and I excitedly watched it over breakfast.
Within the first 2 minutes tears were rolling down my face. It was so overwhelming to see Little Bug's first home "in action" instead of just in pictures. To recognize the toys and clothes and pillows and couches and green tub from his pictures. To see the outside of the building I have always wondered about.
Within 5 minutes I was openly crying. Pictures of Little Bug were popping up all over the place, both as a focus and in the background. It was clear that his family still had pictures of him (and their other babies) all over their home. Especially touching were the number of pictures from our home...proving that their love and interest didn't end the day he left them.
Within 7 minutes, around the point where the video showed a picture book I had sent as a gift, I was trying hard to stifle the sobs that were threatening. Little Bug was starting to look at me oddly.
At 10 minutes, when the video ended, I excused myself and went and sat on my bathroom floor and sobbed, racking sobs that shook my body. It was overwhelming to see the places and people that made up so much of the first year of my son's life, but to see the continued heartbreak these people who I love face willingly, over and over, was too much for me to bear that morning.
It was inspiring and terribly sad and an amazing gift.
It also opened up a raw nerve that has been tingling for months, ever since Little Bro's foster family send us their gift of pictures. I've poured over those pictures and videos, and while I love the ones of Little Bro, the ones that speak most to me are the (hundreds) family candids. The love Little Bro's foster family feels for him as a son is evident....and very reminiscent of Little Bug's foster family. Watching this video, I saw Little Bro's foster mother's daily life, her commitment and total devotion to this little boy she knows she has to say good bye to. And she does it anyway.
And it kills me to know what's coming for her. Not only the moment of the goodbye, but the weeks and months after. It's been making me ill for months when I think about it.
There's nothing I can do about it, really. I can't stop the pain from coming, but I can make sure she never has to feel the pain of the unknown once he leaves her. This quote from Little Bug's foster mother comes to mind:
"I always speak with my husband that being a foster mom is a blessing to me. ...One day i hope that I can meet these children again. Because I want to say to them, "Thank you for growing up well.""
In just a few+ months, she will finally get her first chance to see one of her babies again when we bring Little Bug back to Korea. I'm so excited about that. Although continuing a relationship with my sons' foster families is important for them, it's equally as important as a way to honor these families and the sacrifice they have made.
And, quite simply, I love them, and I want them to know that.
Since then we have shared pictures and e-mails and gifts and messages. They've cheered Little Bug on through all this therapy, sending messages of encouragement and pride. They've even met Little Bro (in passing at the agency)! We've had a chance to see and share the joys their family has continued to experience.
They are, in every way but blood (and that seems so insignificant anyway), family to us.
Last weekend they sent us a video that was aired on Korean television promoting fostering. It was a "Day in the Life" video of their family. Appa, Little Bug, and I excitedly watched it over breakfast.
Within the first 2 minutes tears were rolling down my face. It was so overwhelming to see Little Bug's first home "in action" instead of just in pictures. To recognize the toys and clothes and pillows and couches and green tub from his pictures. To see the outside of the building I have always wondered about.
Within 5 minutes I was openly crying. Pictures of Little Bug were popping up all over the place, both as a focus and in the background. It was clear that his family still had pictures of him (and their other babies) all over their home. Especially touching were the number of pictures from our home...proving that their love and interest didn't end the day he left them.
Within 7 minutes, around the point where the video showed a picture book I had sent as a gift, I was trying hard to stifle the sobs that were threatening. Little Bug was starting to look at me oddly.
At 10 minutes, when the video ended, I excused myself and went and sat on my bathroom floor and sobbed, racking sobs that shook my body. It was overwhelming to see the places and people that made up so much of the first year of my son's life, but to see the continued heartbreak these people who I love face willingly, over and over, was too much for me to bear that morning.
It was inspiring and terribly sad and an amazing gift.
It also opened up a raw nerve that has been tingling for months, ever since Little Bro's foster family send us their gift of pictures. I've poured over those pictures and videos, and while I love the ones of Little Bro, the ones that speak most to me are the (hundreds) family candids. The love Little Bro's foster family feels for him as a son is evident....and very reminiscent of Little Bug's foster family. Watching this video, I saw Little Bro's foster mother's daily life, her commitment and total devotion to this little boy she knows she has to say good bye to. And she does it anyway.
And it kills me to know what's coming for her. Not only the moment of the goodbye, but the weeks and months after. It's been making me ill for months when I think about it.
There's nothing I can do about it, really. I can't stop the pain from coming, but I can make sure she never has to feel the pain of the unknown once he leaves her. This quote from Little Bug's foster mother comes to mind:
"I always speak with my husband that being a foster mom is a blessing to me. ...One day i hope that I can meet these children again. Because I want to say to them, "Thank you for growing up well.""
In just a few+ months, she will finally get her first chance to see one of her babies again when we bring Little Bug back to Korea. I'm so excited about that. Although continuing a relationship with my sons' foster families is important for them, it's equally as important as a way to honor these families and the sacrifice they have made.
And, quite simply, I love them, and I want them to know that.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Joyful Christmas
I've been searching for over a month for an ornament for Little Bro. It's a tradition that each child gets a special ornament each year, and although he isn't here with us, he is part of our family, and I desperately needed to prove that in the form of an ornament.Unfortunately, most everything I found was painfully cheesy. I wanted something classy, whimsical, and representative of him. A tall order for a small object.
Coming to the end of the rope, I purchased a small bulb painted with Little Bro's name and the phrase "waiting for...." It incorporated his "Big Star" name, and I liked that. But as cute as it is, I look at it hanging on our tree, and it makes me sad. The "waiting for" part always jumps out at me, and I find myself frowning in self pity as I read it.
How merry of me.
A sweet and talented friend of mine also has a second son in Korea who won't be home for this holiday. She had mentioned that they were designing a special ornament to represent his place in their family and offered to make one for me, too. I accepted without seeing the design she had in mind.
When I opened the e-mail a couple nights ago to see the mock up, I was blown away. It was completely unlike anything I had expected or envisioned. The design was classy and whimsical and prominently displaying a favorite recent picture of Little Bro. But the thing that really stood out to me was the simple phrase beneath his picture.
"Joyful Christmas" in Hangul and English.
That was it. No waiting for this or missing him that. Just a picture of my son and a reminder that the fact he is my son makes for a very joyful Christmas. Because at the very root of the matter, that is what matters. His presence in our lives during this Christmas.
And yep, that makes this holiday really joyous.
That ornament is now hanging prominently in the front of our tree where I can see it from across the room. Instead of looking at it and frowning in self pity, I look at it and am so ridiculously happy.
It's also been an eye-opening reminder to me about this process in general. I can choose to focus on the sad parts (the waaaaaaait), or I can choose to focus on the joyful parts (the anticipation, the future). So even though it's just an ornament, it's taken on a big meaning for me this Christmas. I know for years to come when I hang it on the tree I will tell Little Bro about how loved he was this Christmas and how happy we were that he was joining our family.
Thanks, S (and B), for the gentle and unintentional reminder I needed as we head into the home stretch of the holidays.
Although I try not to link to things, I wanted to share the link to this ornament with others who might be in the same spot I am. There might still be time to get it on your tree this holiday.
Because no matter how long we have to wait, the fact that we get the chance to one day be the parents to these children is so incredibly amazing.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Mea Culpa
To all the mothers that I secretly cursed at when they told me "3 is way worse than 2":
I'm sorry. You were right; I was wrong.
If the twos are terrible, the threes are terrorizing, traumatic, and way too thought out. It's so much worse when the whining and disobedience is coupled with clever manipulation and an actual thought process that results in planning....planning to thwart me in the most creative and annoying ways.
It's so bad that even Appa is scared of our tiny treasure. 11 months to go and counting!
Sincerely,
A battle-worn mama
I'm sorry. You were right; I was wrong.
If the twos are terrible, the threes are terrorizing, traumatic, and way too thought out. It's so much worse when the whining and disobedience is coupled with clever manipulation and an actual thought process that results in planning....planning to thwart me in the most creative and annoying ways.
It's so bad that even Appa is scared of our tiny treasure. 11 months to go and counting!
Sincerely,
A battle-worn mama
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A Lump of Coal
This weekend we made two attempts with Little Bug and Santa. The last two years have resulted in tearful pictures of the nanosecond Little Bug was on Santa's lap.
This year, we tried twice more. The result, two more tearful pictures. Which, I admit, I think are sort of endearing in the memory/tradition aspect. But he's old enough now to have more of a say in these sorts of things, so after attempting to get him comfortable with Santa like we successfully did with Disney characters, we're letting him take the reigns from here on out.
But here's the thing
The backhanded comments I have received regarding these pictures sort of shock me. It's one thing to not agree with someone and mentally cluck, but to make some thinly-veiled critique about how selfish it is as a parent or some nonsense like that....I think people should save it for things that really matter.
I'm not saying I don't judge. I do...all the time. But unless someone is doing something unsafe, I keep my self righteousness to myself. I don't post my comment and then congratulate myself on what a better parent I am.
This has reminded me to take more time before judging other parents. I don't know their circumstances, just like people don't know that Little Bug is obsessed with Santa (he even carries a small Santa around our home). It wasn't selfishness, but rather an earnest attempt to allow him more access to someone he shows great interest in. He was interested and curious up until the moment he got right next to Santa. One camera snap later and he was outta there and happy again. But people don't know that...nor do I know what is going on behind the snap shots in their lives.
My child is happy and healthy and loved, despite meeting Santa four times. That's what matters to me.
This year, we tried twice more. The result, two more tearful pictures. Which, I admit, I think are sort of endearing in the memory/tradition aspect. But he's old enough now to have more of a say in these sorts of things, so after attempting to get him comfortable with Santa like we successfully did with Disney characters, we're letting him take the reigns from here on out.
But here's the thing
The backhanded comments I have received regarding these pictures sort of shock me. It's one thing to not agree with someone and mentally cluck, but to make some thinly-veiled critique about how selfish it is as a parent or some nonsense like that....I think people should save it for things that really matter.
I'm not saying I don't judge. I do...all the time. But unless someone is doing something unsafe, I keep my self righteousness to myself. I don't post my comment and then congratulate myself on what a better parent I am.
This has reminded me to take more time before judging other parents. I don't know their circumstances, just like people don't know that Little Bug is obsessed with Santa (he even carries a small Santa around our home). It wasn't selfishness, but rather an earnest attempt to allow him more access to someone he shows great interest in. He was interested and curious up until the moment he got right next to Santa. One camera snap later and he was outta there and happy again. But people don't know that...nor do I know what is going on behind the snap shots in their lives.
My child is happy and healthy and loved, despite meeting Santa four times. That's what matters to me.
Monday, November 1, 2010
1,000 Ways to Love You
Little Bro,Today we received close to 1,000 pictures and video of you. Pictures from when you were just 8 weeks old to pictures of you crawling and walking and now running.
Even though I am blessed to have many of these same pictures of your older brother, seeing your pictures now, before I have met you, has allowed me to feel like I know you in some way. I know what you look like smiling and sleeping and snotty and drooly and angry and tired and bored and amused and curious. I know how sure of your feet you are now, and how tentative you used to be. I know what your first baby smile looked like and how your voice sounded just as you were finding it. I know what you chose on your Tol, and I know how you only chose your item after a melt down, cuddles from Omma and Appa, and a bottle break.
I'll never be the same.
This wait is awful, and I think it was/is bound to get worse, but being able to share this history with you...having more pictures than day left waiting....it makes it so much more bearable, makes you so much more real. It makes the wait more unreal than you.
I feel so guilty that I got this blessing and others have not. I can't wrap my mind around how randomly lucky I am.
Seeing these pictures today also made me very sad. Not that I was missing these moments with you, but that these beautiful moments are temporary for this family who clearly loves you as a son with a passion that oozes from every film cell. It makes my heart hurt in a way I won't be able to sooth for the rest of my life.
Because I feel like I know them now, too.
As I sit here tonight with your big brother curled up against me, my heart is filled with thoughts of you and him and your families in Korea.
And my heart is so very full tonight.
Friday, October 22, 2010
More than Words
Last week we finally sent Little Bug's birth mother a letter; or rather, we sent Little Bug's birth mother's file a letter. We were told that if the agency could contact her, they will. Whether she goes to get the letter is her choice, and one we won't know anything about unless she chooses to contact us.
We've sent pictures for her file before, and even written other letters, but none of those letters ever made it over to her file. I'm pretty ashamed of that. Knowing representatives from our Korean agency were in town, we recently sat down to pen and send a letter they would take back with them.
There will never be enough words to express our measure of gratitude and heartbreak for the decision she made, so we kept that to the point and heart felt. Besides, I tried to put myself in her shoes; if I got a letter from the parents of my child almost 3 years after I last laid eyes no him, their feelings would not be what I wanted to focus on.
If it was me, I would want to soak up every word about my boy, every detail I could glean. I'd want to know him.
So we wrote paragraph after paragraph about Little Bug. We wrote about his laugh and social nature. We wrote about his favorite foods and the things he refuses to eat. We wrote about his love of music and dancing. We wrote about his raggies and love for "choo choos." We wrote about his height and weight and his impish need to turn all the lights in our house on and off...just because he can.
We wanted her to have something tangible to hold onto.
I have this hope that perhaps the little details will give her something to anchor her to him. When she sees Elmo or Phung Phungie she can connect with him on some level. She can strip away one tiny bit amount of the unknown.
We also wrote about his spirit. I don't believe she knows that he has any special needs, and we debated mentioning it at all, but ultimately we wanted her to know what a fighter her son is...a trait I truly believe he must have gotten from her. We want her to be proud of him.
And I sent 30+ pictures. Screw the 7-10 pictures they suggest. I know they won't throw the other 25 away. I included candids with genuine smiles and posed pictures with obligatory smiles. I included pictures that reinforced his personality: happy, joyful, silly, loving, sweet, calm, and determined. I included family pictures and picture with Appa and I interacting with him. I included pictures of our daily lives: picnics to the botanical gardens, vacations, camping, celebrations, and down time.
I hope she looks at the pictures and is happy to see him happy.
We also asked for contact. We offered to receive letters or even visit her when we go to Seoul. I have no idea if anything will ever come from that, but I wanted to make sure there was no doubt in her mind that if she wanted contact, we wanted it, too.
She is the mother of our son, of course we do.
And even if she isn't able to contact us or even access the letters and pictures we will continue to send, someday Little Bug might go back to Korea and open her file. And he'll not only see proof of our love for him and the woman who gave him life, but he'll see our absolute, unwavering faith in her love for him.
We've sent pictures for her file before, and even written other letters, but none of those letters ever made it over to her file. I'm pretty ashamed of that. Knowing representatives from our Korean agency were in town, we recently sat down to pen and send a letter they would take back with them.
There will never be enough words to express our measure of gratitude and heartbreak for the decision she made, so we kept that to the point and heart felt. Besides, I tried to put myself in her shoes; if I got a letter from the parents of my child almost 3 years after I last laid eyes no him, their feelings would not be what I wanted to focus on.
If it was me, I would want to soak up every word about my boy, every detail I could glean. I'd want to know him.
So we wrote paragraph after paragraph about Little Bug. We wrote about his laugh and social nature. We wrote about his favorite foods and the things he refuses to eat. We wrote about his love of music and dancing. We wrote about his raggies and love for "choo choos." We wrote about his height and weight and his impish need to turn all the lights in our house on and off...just because he can.
We wanted her to have something tangible to hold onto.
I have this hope that perhaps the little details will give her something to anchor her to him. When she sees Elmo or Phung Phungie she can connect with him on some level. She can strip away one tiny bit amount of the unknown.
We also wrote about his spirit. I don't believe she knows that he has any special needs, and we debated mentioning it at all, but ultimately we wanted her to know what a fighter her son is...a trait I truly believe he must have gotten from her. We want her to be proud of him.
And I sent 30+ pictures. Screw the 7-10 pictures they suggest. I know they won't throw the other 25 away. I included candids with genuine smiles and posed pictures with obligatory smiles. I included pictures that reinforced his personality: happy, joyful, silly, loving, sweet, calm, and determined. I included family pictures and picture with Appa and I interacting with him. I included pictures of our daily lives: picnics to the botanical gardens, vacations, camping, celebrations, and down time.
I hope she looks at the pictures and is happy to see him happy.
We also asked for contact. We offered to receive letters or even visit her when we go to Seoul. I have no idea if anything will ever come from that, but I wanted to make sure there was no doubt in her mind that if she wanted contact, we wanted it, too.
She is the mother of our son, of course we do.
And even if she isn't able to contact us or even access the letters and pictures we will continue to send, someday Little Bug might go back to Korea and open her file. And he'll not only see proof of our love for him and the woman who gave him life, but he'll see our absolute, unwavering faith in her love for him.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Boo Yah
Let it be remembered for all the ages that after waking up and sobbing "Mama, Mama" for 20 minutes while the beloved Appa tried to calm Little Bug, Mama (me!!) came to the rescue. Less than a minute after I crawled into bed with my baby, spooned him close, and started humming into his hair, he had calmed down and was peacefully resting once again.
Little Bug is the World.Biggest. Daddy's.Boy, so this was a nice little victory for me.
Thanks for throwing me a bone, baby boy.
Little Bug is the World.Biggest. Daddy's.Boy, so this was a nice little victory for me.
Thanks for throwing me a bone, baby boy.
The Legality and Emotional Investment of Holiday Cards
As I was waiting in line for zone 4 to board (I'm so spoiled when I travel with priority-seating Appa), I struck up a conversation with another off-duty mama heading home to her three kids. It was pretty superficial, but when she asked how many kids I had, my deliberate response was "Two. An almost-3-year-old and a 1 year old."Usually I qualify this statement to avoid the confusion that results when I am found to only be parenting one child, but this time, with this stranger, I just tested it out on my tongue, the idea of being a two-boy mama. I let her believe that I was heading home to a rambunctious pair of brothers.
It was fun.
Granted, there was a bit truth stretching involved. Oh yes, I totally get the way brothers fight and make up. Oh yes, there isn't anything better than two little boys snuggling on their mama. Mmm humm, mmm humm, mmm humm. However, I consider Little Bro my son, and see little harm in role playing my upcoming reality.
Yet, when I started designing our holiday cards last night, I was stumped as to whether or not to include Little Bro in the signature. He isn't really a member of our family yet, not fully. Something could happen. I'm not really his mama and Appa isn't really his father and Little Bro is decidedly not wishing our 80 friends and family warmest holiday wishes for this holiday season and the new year.
It's okay to role play with a stranger in an out-of-state airport, but it's different when it comes to serious business like holiday cards.
I take my holiday cards VERY seriously.
I asked Appa to weigh in on the subject, and he immediately responded that Little Bro should be in the signature. When pressed why, his response was "why not?"
Appa does not take
This period post referral/pre travel is such an ambiguous period. You fall in love with a picture, the idea of a child, but can't truly love the child as your own until you meet him or her. Because legally, the child isn't yours. And beyond that, you don't know what to love about that child. I love the idea and future possibility of Little Bro. I love the way his mouth quirks up and his mad drumming skills. But what else is there that I can love about a child who I only have pictures and some basic eating and bowel movement information on?
Do I love him....YES, not in the same way I love Little Bug.
Not yet, but I have no doubt I will.
To people involved in the adoption process, these conflicting feelings make sense. You can love and claim that child as your own without actually having met him. You can declare your position as his mama even though that position currently belongs legally and physically to two other women. It's all good. It's how we roll in the adoption world. It's our version of bonding with a huge swollen tummy.
To the 60 other people on our holiday list, that might not make as much sense. It might seem more final that it actually is. It might seem more delusional than it actually is.
And yes, I am over thinking this, but holiday cards are basically legal documents to me, so they bring up strong emotions.
Anyway, bottom line is that Little Bro is going on the signature line. Not because we are pretending that he's home and not because he gives two hoots about anyone's holiday season, but because in Appa, Mama, and Little Bug's hearts, right now his name belongs there with ours.
Monday, October 11, 2010
My Mommy Voted for Obama
Little Bug is exploding with language. It's so fun to listen to him explore using words to share his thoughts. As his mama, I think I, better than anyone else in the world, can speak Little Bugese. Many of his words are the same grouping of sounds with just slight differences. We often run into situations where Little Bug tries talk to someone less familiar with his words and I need to act as a translator.
This weekend, I was tempted to just let people go it alone, just for giggles.
Little Bug's newest word is "grandma." He started mimicking it on Friday afternoon with a garbled "abamama," but soon found his groove and settled into a very defined version:
"Obama."
I can honestly see how "grandma" sounds like "obama" to a little child. It's definitely not as big of a stretch as "uhduh" is for "balloon" or "uhzuh" is for "raggie." To us, it was just a really great (and cute) execution of a long word.
To the people at the botanical gardens and the store who watched my son scream "OBAMA" with joy and wail "OBAMA" with sadness (depending on the situation and the crazy mood swings of a 2 year old), it was probably a little surprising to see this small child so passionate about our president.
Don't get me wrong, I'll go on record saying I was *this close* to buying a "Babies for Obama" shirt for Little Bug during the election. He actually owned and wore a shirt to his first voting experience with a donkey on it. A while ago, when I thought it was cute and funny to use kids as billboards for their parents, I would have been all over teaching him to chant "Obama" and busting it out as a party trick.
But I wised up over the last 2 years and realized it doesn't do Little Bug any good to be the vehicle for his mama's causes. He's got about 14-16 years before he needs to start thinking politics.
Anyway....
When people were doing double takes and giving us stink eyes or winks and nods as Little Bug chanted "obama, obama, obama" over and over, I didn't feel amused as much as I felt a little weird. (One woman gave me a scathing look and harrumphed her kids away from Little Bug...) Even though he wasn't actually saying anything political, I felt this urge to scream out
"I'm not stealing my kid's childhood by forcing him to be a political puppet!"
Because the truth is, I'd probably judge someone else a tiny bit, too, no matter how cute it was.
On the other hand, I'm so stoked that Little Bug conquered another word. He's perfected his version of it and has started pairing it with other words to make simple sentences. He's got another word to add to his growing arsenal. To me, it's cute and awesome and worth every ounce of pride I have.
Yes. He. Can.
This weekend, I was tempted to just let people go it alone, just for giggles.
Little Bug's newest word is "grandma." He started mimicking it on Friday afternoon with a garbled "abamama," but soon found his groove and settled into a very defined version:
"Obama."
I can honestly see how "grandma" sounds like "obama" to a little child. It's definitely not as big of a stretch as "uhduh" is for "balloon" or "uhzuh" is for "raggie." To us, it was just a really great (and cute) execution of a long word.
To the people at the botanical gardens and the store who watched my son scream "OBAMA" with joy and wail "OBAMA" with sadness (depending on the situation and the crazy mood swings of a 2 year old), it was probably a little surprising to see this small child so passionate about our president.
Don't get me wrong, I'll go on record saying I was *this close* to buying a "Babies for Obama" shirt for Little Bug during the election. He actually owned and wore a shirt to his first voting experience with a donkey on it. A while ago, when I thought it was cute and funny to use kids as billboards for their parents, I would have been all over teaching him to chant "Obama" and busting it out as a party trick.
But I wised up over the last 2 years and realized it doesn't do Little Bug any good to be the vehicle for his mama's causes. He's got about 14-16 years before he needs to start thinking politics.
Anyway....
When people were doing double takes and giving us stink eyes or winks and nods as Little Bug chanted "obama, obama, obama" over and over, I didn't feel amused as much as I felt a little weird. (One woman gave me a scathing look and harrumphed her kids away from Little Bug...) Even though he wasn't actually saying anything political, I felt this urge to scream out
"I'm not stealing my kid's childhood by forcing him to be a political puppet!"
Because the truth is, I'd probably judge someone else a tiny bit, too, no matter how cute it was.
On the other hand, I'm so stoked that Little Bug conquered another word. He's perfected his version of it and has started pairing it with other words to make simple sentences. He's got another word to add to his growing arsenal. To me, it's cute and awesome and worth every ounce of pride I have.
Yes. He. Can.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Best Part of Adoption is _________
The best thing about my adoption journey: my sons.
The second best thing about my adoption journey: the friends I've made.
When I brought my son home for Korea, I thought my little Korean cupcake was going to be the only real "addition" to my life. I had no idea that the other mothers I would meet through adoption would becomes such a special, important part of my life.
I'm grateful that the biggest blessing in my life has ushered in so many others.
The second best thing about my adoption journey: the friends I've made.
When I brought my son home for Korea, I thought my little Korean cupcake was going to be the only real "addition" to my life. I had no idea that the other mothers I would meet through adoption would becomes such a special, important part of my life.
I'm grateful that the biggest blessing in my life has ushered in so many others.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Coming Out of the Closet
I . like . cosleeping .
I spend 3 nights a week without my husband, and the honest truth is my perfect little hot pretzel stick son is a fantastic spooner. Most of the time, I really enjoy having him share my bed with me. I absolutely cherish the time I get in the morning when he is still nuzzled up to me while I watch him sleep.
However, I've determined that, for our family and my son, it's not the healthiest choice, physically or emotionally. So, starting next Monday, after our last vacation for a while is finally complete, I'm going to be retraining all three of us away from cosleeping.
Appa is not happy about it, I'm a little bummed about it, and I can guarantee Little Bug won't be on board. But it is the right thing to do for us, and what is right isn't always what is easy.
I've started looking into sleep training books and methods and there are so many to choose from. I'm considering just blindly picking one and going with it. Seriously, I assume they all are just different methods to the same end, right?
I hate the fact that Little Bug is going to be sad and put up a good fight. I hate the fact that I'm going to be the enforcer because Appa is such a push over when it comes to this. I hate the fact that I'm going to need a lot more DDP to make it through the day. I hate the fact my little boy won't be spooning me for much longer and mumbling "choo choo" in my ear.
But I love the fact that my family is growing and changing and that this is in preparation for one son to grow up a little so our next son can assume his position as our baby.
I spend 3 nights a week without my husband, and the honest truth is my perfect little hot pretzel stick son is a fantastic spooner. Most of the time, I really enjoy having him share my bed with me. I absolutely cherish the time I get in the morning when he is still nuzzled up to me while I watch him sleep.
However, I've determined that, for our family and my son, it's not the healthiest choice, physically or emotionally. So, starting next Monday, after our last vacation for a while is finally complete, I'm going to be retraining all three of us away from cosleeping.
Appa is not happy about it, I'm a little bummed about it, and I can guarantee Little Bug won't be on board. But it is the right thing to do for us, and what is right isn't always what is easy.
I've started looking into sleep training books and methods and there are so many to choose from. I'm considering just blindly picking one and going with it. Seriously, I assume they all are just different methods to the same end, right?
I hate the fact that Little Bug is going to be sad and put up a good fight. I hate the fact that I'm going to be the enforcer because Appa is such a push over when it comes to this. I hate the fact that I'm going to need a lot more DDP to make it through the day. I hate the fact my little boy won't be spooning me for much longer and mumbling "choo choo" in my ear.
But I love the fact that my family is growing and changing and that this is in preparation for one son to grow up a little so our next son can assume his position as our baby.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Here's a Tip
On Friday morning I got on a 6 am flight with my 2.5 year old son. I was running on about 3 hours of sleep, but I had my act together.
Snacks, check.
New toys to stagger as distractions, check.
Favorite books, check.
Extra seat, check.
But let me repeat, 6 am flight, one parent (who hates flying), 2.5 year old child.
Little Bug was, I'll admit, whiny. BUT, in the grand scheme of aggravating baby/plane experiences, this was nothing. His whining was intermittent and not very loud. I was doing a diligent job keeping him from standing on the seats or bothering anyone else.
Apparently I do a crappy job.
About 30 minutes into the flight the woman behind me said, very loudly, "Excuse me, is he going to take a nap sometime soon? I was hoping to get some sleep on this flight."
I was blown away. Her tone was completely hostile and I was mortified, on top of already being frustrated with my kid on my own. I stammered an profuse and humble apology.
Apparently I do a crappy job at apologizing, too.
She went on to ask if I had any medication I could give him (I had heard her telling a stranger before the flight started that she always medicated her step kids and never once had them bother other people on the flight) and told me "he hasn't stopped talking since we stepped on board."
Let's recap.
6 am flight, one parent (who hates flying), 2.5 year old child (in speech therapy).
Instead of the second, even more mortified apology, I should have said, "F You, lady."
But I didn't. Instead, I apologized a couple more times and turned around and burst into quiet tears. And I cried, on and off depending on Little Bug's volume level (which, for the record, was never really loud, but pretty consistent for the 4-hour flight). The mean woman drank three mini bottles of vodka (recap: 6 am flight) and made sure everyone knew it was because she was being driven to drink.
Here's the thing. I HATE imposing on others. I get that little kids can be annoying. I try my very hardest to make sure my family isn't causing other people discomfort. I was alone and trying SO hard. This woman's comments, especially so freaking early into the flight, terrified me. And truly, my kid wasn't that annoying to anyone but myself.
When the flight ended the woman told me "Honey, I'm sorry. I am just really tired. You're a great mom and didn't lose your cool the whole flight."
I just stared at her and gave a mumbled thanks. What did she expect me to do? Scream at him? Drink myself into a stupor. Give up and let him throw stuff at her (as tempting as that was).
Yes, I am a good mom, and I worked hard and did a really good job on that flight. It wasn't easy or fun, but I am proud of the way I handled it. I did not, however, need her to tell me that.
Little Bug wasn't the only one on that flight who needs to learn to keep their mouth shut.
Snacks, check.
New toys to stagger as distractions, check.
Favorite books, check.
Extra seat, check.
But let me repeat, 6 am flight, one parent (who hates flying), 2.5 year old child.
Little Bug was, I'll admit, whiny. BUT, in the grand scheme of aggravating baby/plane experiences, this was nothing. His whining was intermittent and not very loud. I was doing a diligent job keeping him from standing on the seats or bothering anyone else.
Apparently I do a crappy job.
About 30 minutes into the flight the woman behind me said, very loudly, "Excuse me, is he going to take a nap sometime soon? I was hoping to get some sleep on this flight."
I was blown away. Her tone was completely hostile and I was mortified, on top of already being frustrated with my kid on my own. I stammered an profuse and humble apology.
Apparently I do a crappy job at apologizing, too.
She went on to ask if I had any medication I could give him (I had heard her telling a stranger before the flight started that she always medicated her step kids and never once had them bother other people on the flight) and told me "he hasn't stopped talking since we stepped on board."
Let's recap.
6 am flight, one parent (who hates flying), 2.5 year old child (in speech therapy).
Instead of the second, even more mortified apology, I should have said, "F You, lady."
But I didn't. Instead, I apologized a couple more times and turned around and burst into quiet tears. And I cried, on and off depending on Little Bug's volume level (which, for the record, was never really loud, but pretty consistent for the 4-hour flight). The mean woman drank three mini bottles of vodka (recap: 6 am flight) and made sure everyone knew it was because she was being driven to drink.
Here's the thing. I HATE imposing on others. I get that little kids can be annoying. I try my very hardest to make sure my family isn't causing other people discomfort. I was alone and trying SO hard. This woman's comments, especially so freaking early into the flight, terrified me. And truly, my kid wasn't that annoying to anyone but myself.
When the flight ended the woman told me "Honey, I'm sorry. I am just really tired. You're a great mom and didn't lose your cool the whole flight."
I just stared at her and gave a mumbled thanks. What did she expect me to do? Scream at him? Drink myself into a stupor. Give up and let him throw stuff at her (as tempting as that was).
Yes, I am a good mom, and I worked hard and did a really good job on that flight. It wasn't easy or fun, but I am proud of the way I handled it. I did not, however, need her to tell me that.
Little Bug wasn't the only one on that flight who needs to learn to keep their mouth shut.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Bracing Myself
I'm not exactly sure if a recent realization makes me a monster or a saint....or perhaps just human, but the truth is, I'm slightly disappointed that Little Bug isn't going to be wearing leg braces anymore.He's been graduated out of them, which is an amazing accomplishment because our goal was to have him transition to smaller braces by kindergarten, so to have him transitioning (and skipping the mid-sized braces entirely for just a small insert into normal shoes) before age 3 is nothing short of a miracle.
I'm thrilled, of course. Proud, happy, relieved, etc. etc.
But honestly, there is a part of me that isn't all those things. I realized I have used those braces for a number of purposes.
1. I use them as a nonverbal cue to strangers that my kid has some special needs. People look at my kid all Forrest-Gumped-up and make allowances for him, allowances maybe they should or should not make. This used to annoy me, but now it honestly makes it easier when out in a larger group setting.
I'm not saying I'm all for kids who have special needs to have a label stamped on their forehead, but the reality is that it's easier to assimilate in a social setting if people know going in that there might be some extra care needed with my kid. Have the big braces do the introductions is a lot easier than me saying, "Hi, Little Bug has balance issues and might not play at the same level as your kid. Please make sure your child doesn't push mine over, because mine will hit yours in the face.....Nice to meet you." I'm pretty sure this isn't 100% morally okay to feel this way, but it's the truth.
2. I also realized that I look at Little Bug's braces as a badge of honor. I'm so tremendously proud of the hard work he endures daily to get where he is, and the braces are a visual manifestation of that. People can see that he has physical limitations, and yet, watch him chase after a goose or walk through the aisles of a store. I want people to be impressed with my kid, because I sure as hell am. I'm pretty sure that is not 100% okay, either.
Without the braces, I worry that strangers will see my big-for-his-age son and expect him to act like a normal 3 year old would. I worry they will make assumptions about him that I'm not comfortable with once they start interacting with him or see him wobble with his not-quite-all-there-yet balance. Even more, I worry about the reactions he'll get. The surprise or confusion on the face of a stranger playmate or parent at the children's museum or swimming pool when he trips over his own two feet or can't follow his new friend up a set of stairs. I worry about when he gets old enough to start feeling self conscious.
I know these concerns are contradictory, but the truth is Little Bug won't be the only one adjusting to a world without leg braces, and that makes me feel a little ridiculous. Or human.
I'm not sure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)