It's been over a month since I wrote in this space.
Honestly, I didn't have words. To blournal the small things seemed wrong when the BIG things were looming. But the BIG things felt too overwhelming to write about, and frankly, I just didn't want to vent and moan.
But the truth is, that little pill kicks some serious baby butt. The first few weeks were filled with side effects--horrible, sad side effects that left my sweet boy in physical and emotional pain. That, in turn, left Appa and I nearly bereft for him. Once the side effects tapered off, it became apparent the dose was too low, so we had to increase the dose again, restarting the side effects.
Swallow, melt down, repeat. Swallow, melt down, repeat.
The bad news is that I have a mother's intuition that this dose/particular medication isn't going to be the right fit either. The good news is I have total faith in our doctor and appreciate the slow and conservative approach to medicating a child off label (due to age).
The best news is that Little Bug is still thriving and continuing to improve his knowledge and capability to help himself. We've made some big decisions for his education this Fall that we hope will give him his very best shot at making the most of his last pre-K year. Although we are very much in the present with him right now, we're serious about positioning him for his academic future, and I am excited to start taking advantages of the many unique resources we have available.
As an aside: giving up a master bathroom to get into a really good school district was one of the best decisions I ever made. Way to go, me 6 years ago!
So, the thing is, I need to move on from this. Swallow, melt down, repeat is going to continue for a while, and I can't just censor myself anymore while I wallow in the cycle with my baby love. I'm going to make a concerted effort to blournal more about the daily things like I used to. Maybe I will blournal about Little Bug's new trick of taking his underoos off and peeing on the floor when he gets angry or about Little Bro's daily expository speeches. Maybe I'll blournal about my baby sister moving the the freaking Philippines for an 18-month mission or how she and I wasted an hour and a half watching possibly the most pointless movie in the whole world simply because Adam Brody was in it (my choice).
And Lee Min Ho is filming a new drama. Since Appa just bought me the complete Rosetta stone for Korean, I'm now officially on my way to becoming fluent in my children's' birth language.....right?
Or maybe I will blournal about the week we just spent on my Aunt's farm in Michigan. How Little Bug and Little Bro had smiles mile wide on their faces from morning to night with attitudes to match. How perfect it was.
And can be.
And is.
Showing posts with label the downside. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the downside. Show all posts
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
"I Don't Know"
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.
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.
Friday, March 16, 2012
"Mommy, I'm TWO"
By the time I dragged him and his big brother (who is still doing really well with the oil therapy and was awesome today in class and was most definitely not that kid in class today), I was pulling out my hair trying to figure out what was going on with my littlest one.
Somewhere on the interstate, it hit me. Little Bro IS 2 years old. He has a right to act nuts in the middle of a class. He should be expected to be argumentative, naughty, loud, grumpy, disobedient, etc. And I'm not really supposed to get why. He's 2.
Surprisingly, this is kind of a new thing for me to focus on. Little Bro usually spends times with 3- and 4-year-olds, not 2 year olds, so I don't see a lot of the terrible 2s in action anymore. Even more deceiving, Little Bro has the soul of an 80-year-old man and a vocabulary to match. Quite simply, I forget he is only 2 because in so many ways he doesn't act like a 2 year old. And that isn't a bad thing, but it makes it harder for me to keep age-appropriate expectations for him sometimes. I'm proud of him for being so mature and living up to high expectations, but I shouldn't begrudge him his rite of passage in toddlerhood, either.
I am thinking about teaching him to say "Mommy, please give me a break, I'm only 2." Considering he managed to learn to count to 3 in Korean without any prompting or help after learning it in Korean class today while his head was spinning in circles, I think he could knock that sentence out no problem.
Monday, March 5, 2012
The Pendulum Swings
Saturday: Little Bug wakes up and has a wonderful music class where he participates and controls himself. He's happy and having fun. I breath in a deep sigh of relief.
Saturday afternoon: Little Bug begins to fall apart, throwing things, crying hard, whining, and unable to listen and control himself. Appa and I exchange sad looks before trying hard to make him comfortable and give him activities to work off some energy. It doesn't work, and he goes to bed exhausted and sad. Actually, the whole family does.
Sunday morning: Little Bug wakes up very uncomfortable in his skin. Appa cuts his rare and much deserved b-ball session short to come home and support us. Little Bug is cycling through emotions fast and furiously and is really unhappy and unpredictable. I steal a moment with Appa and tear up as he hugs me because we hate seeing my boy so unhappy.
Sunday afternoon: We go outside to get some air and Little Bug gets on his tricycle, give it a couple good rocks, and then starts pedaling.
PEDALING.
Little Bug has never really pedaled before, or even shown any real interest. Then Sunday, in the midst of a very long stretch of bad days, he just decided that pedaling was the best way to ride his bike and made it happen. I happened to turn in time to catch the moment, and just like his first steps years ago, my heart stopped a bit before I started running towards him screaming praises and excitement. I will never, ever forget his face as I crouched low to his and started showering him in kisses. His cheeks were cold and red from the almost-snowing weather, his eyes were bright with excitement and joy, and his smile was one of his most authentic, joy-filled big smiles--the kind I don't realize are so rare until I see one. It was one of those moments where we both know he just broke through another milestone, another big skill that isn't just a stepping stone, but a full skill.
It was easily a moment I will never forget. I'm so proud of him.
But the pendulum swings in extremes in our world, and although it swung so high in that moment, the truth is it was coming from a low place and went back there fast making Sunday another rough day overall.
I share this for two reasons. First, we're deep in pendulum swings right now and writing it down simply makes me feel more in control and helps me remember for every bad weekend, there are more good weekends. But most important, I share it because in the midst of a terribly hard weekend, I want Little Bug to know how strong he is, even at age 4, to fight to swing the pendulum to something high. His fighting spirit is what has and will help him continue to rise above his limitations to reach his full potential.
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.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Intentional Mothering
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I've been an unequal mother to my boys recently, or perhaps ever since Little Bro came home. With Little Bug in school for most of the week, Little Bro gets full days of Mommy time. Little Bug, however, comes home from school and has to share the time he does have with me with his little brother. I mean, obviously brothers spend time together with their mom. But Little Bug...that became all the time he got with me, shared time.
Our home life is such that evening schedules are critical and must be done together. Little Bug needs an early bedtime, he can't occupy himself independently while I put his brother down to bed, and truly, he loves his brother so much that he doesn't want to be without him. We even do Little Bug's home therapies as a group. Simply put, we function in nearly every moment between school and bedtime as a unit of three.
Before Little Bro came home, I would pick Little Bug up from school and take him out to dinner at least once a week. There we would sit, just the two of us, watching trains go by and "talking" about our day. I think back on those moments and realize how special they were, and how much I miss that with Little Bug (I still have it with Little Bro).
When Appa comes home for the weekends, we try to soak up every moment with him and consequently, do very little not as a family unit. And although this is a good thing, it once again shafts Little Bug from quality one-on-one time. One of us taking him to the grocery store to relieve the double duty is hardly quality time.
I guess I just realized that Little Bug needs and deserves a little time with his mama without having to share her with anyone else. I'm shocked at how little of this precious time he has actually gotten in the last months. It makes me feel really crummy, actually.
But I have two kids and only one me, and the truth is having more than one kid really does make it very hard to have quality time alone. For me, the first step was realizing one of my kids was getting less and determining what I considered to be (and not to be) quality one-on-one time. The next step is hardest: actually making the time. Because for our family, it doesn't come organically. Little Bro doesn't softly plod off to play some educational game in one room while Little Bug and I can snuggle and whisper secrets to each other or play a game on his terms at his speed. I have to manufacture an activity for Little Bro and devise another activity removed from Little Bro's activity. Then I have to sell them both to my kids.
How is that working? Not super, but I am getting there. I don't love turning "Jake" on the TV for my 2 year old simply so he will leave me alone for a while. But when I have managed to get Little Bug alone and give him my special attention, he had blossomed. I attribute it in small part to some of his recent developmental successes, and I have definitely noticed an increase in his affection and desire to snuggle since I've made the effort to give him special time.
This matters. I can see it in his smile and his eyes and his off-handed or deliberate kisses and hugs. Having me matters to him. Even just the five minutes a night where we play a puzzle or take silly pictures on my phone make a difference to him and make him happy.
Sometimes I forget that I am the most important person in my kids' lives. It seems sort of pompous to go around thinking that you mean more to them than anyone else in the world, but really, it's true. My five minutes are worth hours of other peoples' time to my sons, and I need to start valuing my time the way they do. Intentionally.
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.
Monday, October 31, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, September 2, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Some Days
Some days, usually for no real reason, I mourn the fact I am not at home with my baby all day, every day. As much as I love the choice I made to keep my job and the balance and fulfillment it brings me and the growth and development Little Bug gains from his time in school, some days I simply want to throw it all away and cuddle down into my own home with my own baby and just be.
I'm confident that the choices we've made are right for our family right now, but that doesn't mean those choices come without sacrifice and regret.
Like today, when, pure and simple, I miss my child.
I'm confident that the choices we've made are right for our family right now, but that doesn't mean those choices come without sacrifice and regret.
Like today, when, pure and simple, I miss my child.
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
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Bye Bye, Anne
A little over two years ago Anne came into our lives. I'll never forget the day I welcomed her into our home, just a couple days before I was set to go back to work after a 6 week maternity leave.
My precious 11 month old was sitting in his highchair, strapped in by a 4-point harness because his back couldn't support his weight enough to sit. His hands lay limp under the tray littered with Cheerios broken in half that I occasionally put on his tongue because he couldn't pick them up to put them in his mouth, nor could he handle an entire cheerio without choking.
Unlike the rest of the parade of therapists that had come through our home in the past weeks, Anne was immediately different. Polite and brash all at once, she got straight to business and within that first hour had determined my son's hypotonia extended to all the muscles in his mouth, including his tongue. I thought a speech therapist was supposed to teach your kid some words and signs, instead she opened up a world that interconnected speaking and eating and drooling and moving. She didn't just teach him; she taught me.
For the last 2 years she has seen my son every week. She's seen him since before he could creep on his tummy through everything up to his wobbly running. She's heard the "ommmmmma" and she's heard him say sentences with verbs. She is on his short list of people he talks about when I ask him about his day.
She's sat on the phone with me as I've cried tears of frustration and joy. She advocated for us when we had problems with our occupational therapists, even picking up the slack and incorporating more OT into her own sessions to make sure Little Bug's needs were being met.
Last Friday I sat in a room during an IEP meeting with seven women who professionally but clinically broke down every nuance of my child, using the word "significantly delayed" over and over. Although the tears were close to coming most of the time, the only time I truly let a tear fall was during Anne's comments, who had completely rearranged her schedule to come at our special request as an advocate for our family.
Because as this therapist spoke about my son and his amazing progress, her eyes welled with tears of pride.
If you love my child, I will love you.
Today was Anne's last day. Her position was as an early intervention resource, and Little Bug ages out of that program next Monday. Even though Little Bug will continue to get the services he needs with his new program, my heart is broken at having to say good bye to Anne.
Anne taught my son how to talk, how to sign, and how to dare to communicate, but Anne taught me how to advocate for my son so he can continue to do those things.
And she will be truly missed and not forgotten.
My precious 11 month old was sitting in his highchair, strapped in by a 4-point harness because his back couldn't support his weight enough to sit. His hands lay limp under the tray littered with Cheerios broken in half that I occasionally put on his tongue because he couldn't pick them up to put them in his mouth, nor could he handle an entire cheerio without choking.
Unlike the rest of the parade of therapists that had come through our home in the past weeks, Anne was immediately different. Polite and brash all at once, she got straight to business and within that first hour had determined my son's hypotonia extended to all the muscles in his mouth, including his tongue. I thought a speech therapist was supposed to teach your kid some words and signs, instead she opened up a world that interconnected speaking and eating and drooling and moving. She didn't just teach him; she taught me.
For the last 2 years she has seen my son every week. She's seen him since before he could creep on his tummy through everything up to his wobbly running. She's heard the "ommmmmma" and she's heard him say sentences with verbs. She is on his short list of people he talks about when I ask him about his day.
She's sat on the phone with me as I've cried tears of frustration and joy. She advocated for us when we had problems with our occupational therapists, even picking up the slack and incorporating more OT into her own sessions to make sure Little Bug's needs were being met.
Last Friday I sat in a room during an IEP meeting with seven women who professionally but clinically broke down every nuance of my child, using the word "significantly delayed" over and over. Although the tears were close to coming most of the time, the only time I truly let a tear fall was during Anne's comments, who had completely rearranged her schedule to come at our special request as an advocate for our family.
Because as this therapist spoke about my son and his amazing progress, her eyes welled with tears of pride.
If you love my child, I will love you.
Today was Anne's last day. Her position was as an early intervention resource, and Little Bug ages out of that program next Monday. Even though Little Bug will continue to get the services he needs with his new program, my heart is broken at having to say good bye to Anne.
Anne taught my son how to talk, how to sign, and how to dare to communicate, but Anne taught me how to advocate for my son so he can continue to do those things.
And she will be truly missed and not forgotten.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Reality and My Reality
This topic makes me cringe. I'm hoping by writing some of it down I can get it to stop rattling around in my head.
Lately I've been doing a lot of reading on adoption issues, specifically the idea that adoption is morally reprehensible because women are trapped in low economic or social situations with no way out except to relinquish their children to people of higher economic or social situations.
This situation isn't an opinion. This is a fact. I look to the women in Korea, women who are stigmatized and shunned for having a child. I would venture that many, many, many of these women want desperately to be able to parent their babes, and yet, their societies offers them no support. Their children are practically forced out of their hands.
That is a fact.
It's like that in countries all over the world. The majority of children who are available to be adopted around the world are victims of economic and social problems, not a lack of love or caring arms.
To a slightly different extent, it is that way in this country, too.
I don't like reading about it, to be honest, but I am compelled to. I've been lurking on some first mother sites and some adoptee sites. I've read in depth some of the advocates who consider adoptive parents to be akin to kidnappers, and I've read some pretty close minded stuff from advocates who think adoptive parents are the heroes of the world. Both leave my stomach turning.
Then I sit in the middle ground and look up at the nursery door and wonder if I'm part of the problem or the solution. Or either.
Both my children were not able to live with their birth family for reasons FAR from a lack of love. Both my children have mothers in Korea who expressed sadness at not being able to keep them.
That is how my children came to my waiting arms. Not because I could love them more or better, but because I am randomly luckier than their birth mothers in my circumstances.
And that makes me uncomfortable.
But where does that leave me? Where does that leave my children? How can I fix a problem so global?
The reality is that both my children were relinquished and needed homes. They were unable to have a home found for them in Korea. I'm the 3rd best option, and I understand that. But some would argue by being an option at all, I'm still perpetrating the problem.
This is where I struggle. By adopting my sons, I am participating in a cycle that is clearly destructive to mothers and children. But then again, these two children are not hypothetical spokes in this cycle, they are living, breathing children who need and deserve a family....and there was no family in Korea for them at the time when they needed one. I don't believe they would have been better off in an orphanage. I want to think by raising them with as much exposure to their Korean culture and an openness for any type of communication with their birth families that the might possibly have, coupled with a loving home, will be enough to make this 3rd best option better than an orphanage. My sons might some day feel differently...I hope not, though.
But how do I become part of the solution for these yet-to-be-born babies and their mothers? It seems from my research that no one is exactly sure of that. Extremes seem so....extreme, and yet, it stands to reason that only an extreme will force any sort of change.
This isn't about me. Of that, I am sure. I don't have a right to be a mother. I can't give birth to a child, but that does not give me a right to parent someone elses.
But at some point, children will suffer from lack of families if adoption is ended. There will be a gap between the problem and the solution, and children will be caught in the middle. How do we determine which children get the be the martyrs for the future?
That's what I can't riddle out. How can we solve a problem by hurting the very people we are trying to save? But how can we continue to happily pretend that women all over the world have babies and choose to give them up for completely personal reasons and are happier for their choices? How can we pretend that the competent, loving (albeit perhaps poor and young) birth mother and the child's lives are best served by allowing or even encouraging a separation?
I don't know.
I don't know if this even makes sense. I doubt it does. I lay in bed at night and my head does circles as I think about my children and their mothers and myself and how we all fit together.
Ultimately, this is where I am at.
I can't change the past. I can't and won't contact my Little Bug's birth mother and apologize and offer to let her parent Little Bug while I pay her the money I would have spent parenting him myself (which isn't a legal option anyway, no matter what some advocates suggest). It is selfish, but I love my sons and I am glad to be their mother. That's a reality, too.
And until something happens on a larger scale, there will still be children, especially children with special needs, that will need a home. Our wished for Little Sis will, mark my words, be one of those little children. I don't believe us choosing not to adopt again would make any different in the current climate, except to deny a child who legitimately needs a home a family. Individual boycotts are not nearly as effective as other methods of change.
I can't change a global climate. I can't change the way a country supports unwed mothers or their children. I can help by supporting causes and organizations that are working on a bigger scale to make change. One of our new annual donations this year is to an organization that supports unwed mother's rights in Korea. We make our donation in honor of Little Bug's mother.
I can help by continuing to be aware of issues and talking about them. I can help by not putting on my rose colored glasses and reading books about how baby, we were meant for each other, as if everything and everyone beforehand was only a means to our end.
I love my sons. I love my family. I love the way our family bonds are created. I don't love the reason for adoption to be necessary. I don't love the hurt of two families that has resulted from it. I don't love the gaping hole in my sons' hearts that I will never be able to fill.
But even after it all, I come back to the thought that I am grateful for my children. I am grateful for my reality. God, I love Little Bug so painfully much. I know I will feel the same about Little Bro.
I owe it to everyone involved to try to make our blessings count, to pay it forward. I think that starts with having some hard conversations with myself and using my lucky circumstances to advocate for those who have less resources.
Lately I've been doing a lot of reading on adoption issues, specifically the idea that adoption is morally reprehensible because women are trapped in low economic or social situations with no way out except to relinquish their children to people of higher economic or social situations.
This situation isn't an opinion. This is a fact. I look to the women in Korea, women who are stigmatized and shunned for having a child. I would venture that many, many, many of these women want desperately to be able to parent their babes, and yet, their societies offers them no support. Their children are practically forced out of their hands.
That is a fact.
It's like that in countries all over the world. The majority of children who are available to be adopted around the world are victims of economic and social problems, not a lack of love or caring arms.
To a slightly different extent, it is that way in this country, too.
I don't like reading about it, to be honest, but I am compelled to. I've been lurking on some first mother sites and some adoptee sites. I've read in depth some of the advocates who consider adoptive parents to be akin to kidnappers, and I've read some pretty close minded stuff from advocates who think adoptive parents are the heroes of the world. Both leave my stomach turning.
Then I sit in the middle ground and look up at the nursery door and wonder if I'm part of the problem or the solution. Or either.
Both my children were not able to live with their birth family for reasons FAR from a lack of love. Both my children have mothers in Korea who expressed sadness at not being able to keep them.
That is how my children came to my waiting arms. Not because I could love them more or better, but because I am randomly luckier than their birth mothers in my circumstances.
And that makes me uncomfortable.
But where does that leave me? Where does that leave my children? How can I fix a problem so global?
The reality is that both my children were relinquished and needed homes. They were unable to have a home found for them in Korea. I'm the 3rd best option, and I understand that. But some would argue by being an option at all, I'm still perpetrating the problem.
This is where I struggle. By adopting my sons, I am participating in a cycle that is clearly destructive to mothers and children. But then again, these two children are not hypothetical spokes in this cycle, they are living, breathing children who need and deserve a family....and there was no family in Korea for them at the time when they needed one. I don't believe they would have been better off in an orphanage. I want to think by raising them with as much exposure to their Korean culture and an openness for any type of communication with their birth families that the might possibly have, coupled with a loving home, will be enough to make this 3rd best option better than an orphanage. My sons might some day feel differently...I hope not, though.
But how do I become part of the solution for these yet-to-be-born babies and their mothers? It seems from my research that no one is exactly sure of that. Extremes seem so....extreme, and yet, it stands to reason that only an extreme will force any sort of change.
This isn't about me. Of that, I am sure. I don't have a right to be a mother. I can't give birth to a child, but that does not give me a right to parent someone elses.
But at some point, children will suffer from lack of families if adoption is ended. There will be a gap between the problem and the solution, and children will be caught in the middle. How do we determine which children get the be the martyrs for the future?
That's what I can't riddle out. How can we solve a problem by hurting the very people we are trying to save? But how can we continue to happily pretend that women all over the world have babies and choose to give them up for completely personal reasons and are happier for their choices? How can we pretend that the competent, loving (albeit perhaps poor and young) birth mother and the child's lives are best served by allowing or even encouraging a separation?
I don't know.
I don't know if this even makes sense. I doubt it does. I lay in bed at night and my head does circles as I think about my children and their mothers and myself and how we all fit together.
Ultimately, this is where I am at.
I can't change the past. I can't and won't contact my Little Bug's birth mother and apologize and offer to let her parent Little Bug while I pay her the money I would have spent parenting him myself (which isn't a legal option anyway, no matter what some advocates suggest). It is selfish, but I love my sons and I am glad to be their mother. That's a reality, too.
And until something happens on a larger scale, there will still be children, especially children with special needs, that will need a home. Our wished for Little Sis will, mark my words, be one of those little children. I don't believe us choosing not to adopt again would make any different in the current climate, except to deny a child who legitimately needs a home a family. Individual boycotts are not nearly as effective as other methods of change.
I can't change a global climate. I can't change the way a country supports unwed mothers or their children. I can help by supporting causes and organizations that are working on a bigger scale to make change. One of our new annual donations this year is to an organization that supports unwed mother's rights in Korea. We make our donation in honor of Little Bug's mother.
I can help by continuing to be aware of issues and talking about them. I can help by not putting on my rose colored glasses and reading books about how baby, we were meant for each other, as if everything and everyone beforehand was only a means to our end.
I love my sons. I love my family. I love the way our family bonds are created. I don't love the reason for adoption to be necessary. I don't love the hurt of two families that has resulted from it. I don't love the gaping hole in my sons' hearts that I will never be able to fill.
But even after it all, I come back to the thought that I am grateful for my children. I am grateful for my reality. God, I love Little Bug so painfully much. I know I will feel the same about Little Bro.
I owe it to everyone involved to try to make our blessings count, to pay it forward. I think that starts with having some hard conversations with myself and using my lucky circumstances to advocate for those who have less resources.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Real World Sucks
This morning when I dropped Little Bug off at school, a small group of boys noticed he was heading over to play with them.
En mass, they all started chanting, "No, Little Bug, No" and hiding all the toys from him.
Little Bug stood there at the edge of the "friendship carpet" with a sad look on his face while these four boys chanted their cruel taunt. I know he probably doesn't get the full social implications of what they were saying (nor do these other little 2 years olds who are chanting it), but he gets "No, Little Bug, No" and he gets when kids don't want to share with him.
And it makes him sad.
I started to bend down to the little boys and nicely tell them we play with all our friends when the teacher swooped in to set them right.
Just in time because I was near tears. My heart was hurting so badly for my baby in that moment.
I gave Little Bug a light kiss and blew out of there, desperate to keep the tears from falling until I reached the car. The cool Fall air was the only thing that saved me. The minute I got in the car, I began to cry.
How will I ever be able to do this?
How can I spend the rest of my life waking up and letting my children leave my side when I know they might face teasing or taunting or bullying or hurt feelings. How can I bear knowing they might be sad or feel bad about themselves?
The plight of a parent, I suppose.
I know I can't protect my kids from this childhood reality. Every child will encounter it in some form. Every child will probably be the perpetrator at some point, too. Even mine.
All I can do it give Little Bug the best self esteem possible and hopefully teach him how to push past these incidents in a positive manner. How I will do that....I'm not sure.
I do know that me crying won't help.
So I've gotten it out of my system. I'm truly aware now that no matter how nice of a school or how experienced a teacher or how cushy the room, Little Bug is going to experience times where he is the odd one out. That's the nature of childhood.
I cannot protect him from the real world.
And the real world is going to suck at times for him.
But OH how it hurts my heart to think of it.
En mass, they all started chanting, "No, Little Bug, No" and hiding all the toys from him.
Little Bug stood there at the edge of the "friendship carpet" with a sad look on his face while these four boys chanted their cruel taunt. I know he probably doesn't get the full social implications of what they were saying (nor do these other little 2 years olds who are chanting it), but he gets "No, Little Bug, No" and he gets when kids don't want to share with him.
And it makes him sad.
I started to bend down to the little boys and nicely tell them we play with all our friends when the teacher swooped in to set them right.
Just in time because I was near tears. My heart was hurting so badly for my baby in that moment.
I gave Little Bug a light kiss and blew out of there, desperate to keep the tears from falling until I reached the car. The cool Fall air was the only thing that saved me. The minute I got in the car, I began to cry.
How will I ever be able to do this?
How can I spend the rest of my life waking up and letting my children leave my side when I know they might face teasing or taunting or bullying or hurt feelings. How can I bear knowing they might be sad or feel bad about themselves?
The plight of a parent, I suppose.
I know I can't protect my kids from this childhood reality. Every child will encounter it in some form. Every child will probably be the perpetrator at some point, too. Even mine.
All I can do it give Little Bug the best self esteem possible and hopefully teach him how to push past these incidents in a positive manner. How I will do that....I'm not sure.
I do know that me crying won't help.
So I've gotten it out of my system. I'm truly aware now that no matter how nice of a school or how experienced a teacher or how cushy the room, Little Bug is going to experience times where he is the odd one out. That's the nature of childhood.
I cannot protect him from the real world.
And the real world is going to suck at times for him.
But OH how it hurts my heart to think of it.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Loved by Many
One of the phrases we always use for our letters to Little Bug is "Never doubt that you are loved by many." I'm positive it will go in every letter or card I ever write to him, and I will probably whisper it in his ear on his graduation day, his wedding day, and all the other wonderful days in his future.
It's become our subtle way of including his other families into our special moments and parental love, the reminder that his birth family and foster family are still in the world, actively loving him specifically. There is so much loss wrapped into our triad of families, but at the very root of it all, the reality is that our son has more people loving him with a passion only a father or mother could know than most people do.
And that's beautiful.
Right now, our family has a lot of contact with Little Bug's foster family. They are excellent people who love our son intensely. We bonded with them not only through our mutual love of Little Bug, but through a mutual fear of his special needs. In Korea, our social worker told us they were terribly nervous that we would be disappointed in Little Bug or not love him as much because he was so far delayed. When we started communicating after we returned from Korea, they told us the way we looked at him with such love despite his obvious delays gave them the comfort to let him go.
Since then, they've been they've been our partners in parental joy. They leave comments on our blog and send us e-mails cheering on his little victories and sending reminders of their love. They truly are members of our extended family forever.
Recently they left us a beautiful comment on one of our posts. It's been rolling around in my heart ever since, this beautiful other family who loves my son as a son. I know that somewhere my son's birth mother is loving him with a mother's love as well.
I'm not narrow minded enough to think Little Bug's adoption is just rainbows and pink hearts, because for each of these families to experience falling in love with Little Bug as a son, they also had to experience losing him. Little Bug, although the recipient of so much love, is also the victim twice over. I know that.
But it doesn't take away the fact that love is beautiful, and that being loved by as many as love Little Bug is a unique and special thing.
It's become our subtle way of including his other families into our special moments and parental love, the reminder that his birth family and foster family are still in the world, actively loving him specifically. There is so much loss wrapped into our triad of families, but at the very root of it all, the reality is that our son has more people loving him with a passion only a father or mother could know than most people do.
And that's beautiful.
Right now, our family has a lot of contact with Little Bug's foster family. They are excellent people who love our son intensely. We bonded with them not only through our mutual love of Little Bug, but through a mutual fear of his special needs. In Korea, our social worker told us they were terribly nervous that we would be disappointed in Little Bug or not love him as much because he was so far delayed. When we started communicating after we returned from Korea, they told us the way we looked at him with such love despite his obvious delays gave them the comfort to let him go.
Since then, they've been they've been our partners in parental joy. They leave comments on our blog and send us e-mails cheering on his little victories and sending reminders of their love. They truly are members of our extended family forever.
Recently they left us a beautiful comment on one of our posts. It's been rolling around in my heart ever since, this beautiful other family who loves my son as a son. I know that somewhere my son's birth mother is loving him with a mother's love as well.
I'm not narrow minded enough to think Little Bug's adoption is just rainbows and pink hearts, because for each of these families to experience falling in love with Little Bug as a son, they also had to experience losing him. Little Bug, although the recipient of so much love, is also the victim twice over. I know that.
But it doesn't take away the fact that love is beautiful, and that being loved by as many as love Little Bug is a unique and special thing.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Shut Up
Little Bug has taken a liking to the front seat of our car and the keys. Last weekend Appa let him play "pretend driver" in our car, and although this was not the first time he has played this game, Little Bug acted like he was some possessed kid on crack. It was so funny and so very odd after a solid 10 minutes of mania.
Since then, Little Bug has M-E-L-T-E-D D-O-W-N every time we go out to the car and his horrible mama forces him into his car seat. The keys in the ignition are basically the cruelest taunt to him, and he wails and signs "please" for at least the first 2 minutes of each car ride.
It's awesome.
Last night, after an afternoon of everything being a little off, I drove the 8 minutes drive home from the big box store with Little Bug yelling (not crying) the whole time about the blasted keys. I even had to use my loud, forceful voice, which I have only ever used a handful of times with him....to no avail other than making me feel worse. When I parked in our driveway and tried to get him out of his car seat instead of giving him the keys (yelling doesn't equal getting privileges, which he knows), he got right in my face and started screaming in my ear...about the stupid keys.
I whipped my head around and formed the words.......
"SHUT UP."
Yes, I was actually going to tell my 2.5-year-old to shut up. Forcefully. Right in his chubby baby face. With the lips that I kiss him goodnight with.
Thankfully, as the first sound began to come out of my mouth, I bit my tongue and took a deep breath. Saying that wouldn't have been appropriate, kind, loving, or a good example....all things I should be as a mother.
Instead, I told him (again) that his behavior was not appropriate, took him inside, and let him wail it out on his own until some stickers caught his eye and the keys were forgotten until this morning.
Even though I didn't actually say it, I felt bad that it even almost happened. What kind of mama tells her child to shut up?
Since then, Little Bug has M-E-L-T-E-D D-O-W-N every time we go out to the car and his horrible mama forces him into his car seat. The keys in the ignition are basically the cruelest taunt to him, and he wails and signs "please" for at least the first 2 minutes of each car ride.
It's awesome.
Last night, after an afternoon of everything being a little off, I drove the 8 minutes drive home from the big box store with Little Bug yelling (not crying) the whole time about the blasted keys. I even had to use my loud, forceful voice, which I have only ever used a handful of times with him....to no avail other than making me feel worse. When I parked in our driveway and tried to get him out of his car seat instead of giving him the keys (yelling doesn't equal getting privileges, which he knows), he got right in my face and started screaming in my ear...about the stupid keys.
I whipped my head around and formed the words.......
"SHUT UP."
Yes, I was actually going to tell my 2.5-year-old to shut up. Forcefully. Right in his chubby baby face. With the lips that I kiss him goodnight with.
Thankfully, as the first sound began to come out of my mouth, I bit my tongue and took a deep breath. Saying that wouldn't have been appropriate, kind, loving, or a good example....all things I should be as a mother.
Instead, I told him (again) that his behavior was not appropriate, took him inside, and let him wail it out on his own until some stickers caught his eye and the keys were forgotten until this morning.
Even though I didn't actually say it, I felt bad that it even almost happened. What kind of mama tells her child to shut up?
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