Panic

Note from me: If you are a waiting mama who is having a rough time with the wait right now, please don’t read this. I want to be sensitive to everyone who is still waiting, but also need to document my own feelings to stay true to the ultimate purpose of this blog. I worry this might be construed by some as complaining about having my baby come home soon, and I know that could cause a lot of pain to people whose babies are not.

With Little Bro’s paperwork actually moving, with a time frame actually happening, I’ve experienced something unexpected in the last few days.

Panic. Sheer, consuming, anxiety-attack producing panic.

It started hours after we got our EP submittal call. I was walking into the big box store to buy some celebratory champagne and happened to see one of those double child shopping carts. It was big and bulky and looked like a pain in the butt to navigate. It was also front facing.

And I started having trouble breathing.

In 8 weeks I will have two kids and need to use that very shopping cart. Two little kids. Suddenly all around the real life adjustments started staring me in the face. Two is not just one more than one. Two is TWICE as much as one. That can’t be easy.

Appa and I sat down Friday night and made a list of things we needed to do and buy. We’ve spent so long thinking Little Bro was so far away that we’ve never actually physically prepared for him to come. Sure, we have a double bike trailer and stroller and matching Jamaica shirts, but is that really what’s going to be our basic survival needs in our first days and weeks as a family of four? Probably not.

Instead, we dropped serious dough we probably should have been spacing out over these last 10 months on another baby carrier, another table booster, and two new car seats. We also realized that the bathroom gutting/remodel that needs to happen sooner rather than later (think cracking, molding tub) should probably happen before we cocoon our family in Little Bro’s transition period. Switching Little Bug into his new room? That went on our list, too. As did actually painting and converting our guest room/office into his new room. Oy.

And my whole “prepare for the long end of the wait” plan has sort of put a cramp in my project schedules at work. It looks like they are going to need to hire a temp to cover my editing. Not totally my fault, but it’s stressful to rework our plans and for me to turn over projects I had been planning on starting.

And then there is just the panic of a new mother facing an unknown. Appa travels…..a lot. We’ll have 2 weeks to move our nights to some semblance of survival mode before I have to go it alone. Although I won’t be alone. I’ll have two kids who won’t want to go to bed. Our sleep training for Little Bug just took a new and less desirable twist. During the day Little Bug’s life will continue to be normal. He’ll have his school and friends and teachers to give him some semblance of normalcy while Little Bro and I try to get to know each other, and for that I am grateful.

And Little Bug. My little one who I see as half gentle giant and half baby. Being a big brother is going to change something inside of him. He’ll grow and develop so much once his little brother is home. All good changes, I am sure, but it makes my heart hurt a bit to know that soon he’ll never be the only apple of my eye, my only little love. He’s going to have to grow up a little bit, and as much as I want that and as much as he needs that…..being the big brother means he’s not the baby. That’s exciting and sad.

And our extended family, who are all so supportive. I’m starting to write the letters I’ve been putting off, because things will be different this transition. Not in a popular different way, I think. I dread having to spell out some of the things that we feel are necessary for this transition (a 22 month old versus a 10 month old), especially because our family simply wants to cloak the four of us in love. It’s stressful to have to ask your wonderful family to please phone that cloaking love in…for a while.

All these things don’t even have to do really with Little Bro, who is the BIGGEST and most important part of this transition time. At 2, he’s going to come to us with a personality we didn’t have a chance to help mold. What if he’s the natural alpha? What if he is mean to Little Bug? What if he and Little Bug don’t get along? What if he’s a bully or thinks Little Bug is boring? What if Little Bug is mean to him? Little Bro has been the only and oldest child for the last 20 months of his life….transitioning into the little brother might not be something he is really keen on doing. I know that most of these things will work themselves out, and I do truly think Little Bug and Bro will end up being very chummy. Little Bro seems like an outgoing and friendly child, and even if he is the alpha, if that’s what works for them, that’s fine with me. But part of me, as an oldest child myself who doesn’t totally understand what it’s like to live further down on the sibling chain, it feels a bit like I’m cheating Little Bro out of the chance to have my every thought and action focused on only him, like it was on his brother. What if he needs more than I can give?

A million dollar motherhood question that has nothing to do with adoption, I am sure.

So basically, I’m freaking out. But as sweaty as my palms are, I am still insanely grateful for this chance. I never thought that we would have Little Bro home in April, and the feeling that rises above all this panic when I think about it is one of total joy. In 8 weeks, for better or for worse (but I’m betting for better), my family is going to get the supreme honor of having this amazing little child join our family. If that means late nights and stressful conversations and crazy remodels and big expenses…bring it on. Little Bro is so, so, so worth it.

And Then There Are These Days

When I can barely type from shaking with shock and joy.

When everything seems so close and real all of the sudden.

When 10 months and 14 days means nothing when compared to 8-9 weeks.

When the light at the end of the adoption tunnel finally starts to glimmer.

When I tell my social worker to "shut up" because I can't believe she is calling me.

When I hit one of those HIGH highs.

When Little Bro is so close.

Sometimes I Forget

Sometimes, especially when my little boy is throwing himself on the icy driveway in a fit of despair because he saw a summer bubble maker in our garage that he had.to.have.right.then., I forget just how far he has come.  Actually, I usually forget nowadays.  There's not really a reason for me to view everything he does through the filter of what he couldn't do in the past.

But sometimes, it's nice to remember.  And he deserves the props.

This morning a random memory popped into my head.  Little Bug had been home for a couple weeks and was just shy of 11 months old.  I took him to our local children's hospital for a PT evaluation.   I didn't like the PT, so I am sure that doesn't help paint the memory kindly, but I vividly recall watching my little darling baby lying on his back on a play mat while the therapist tried to get him to raise his arms or legs for a toy.  He couldn't.  He simply was not strong enough to raise his appendages up in the air.  He just laid there in his diaper on the cold mat, whimpering pathetically while my new-mama heart broke and raged against this person, the first person I had encountered who was not on "Team Little Bug."

I knew how far behind he was before I went that day, but I never really broke it down to skills so basic, and yet, so far out of his "reach."  It was a reality check.  A big one.

The young PT rocked back on her heels after a couple minutes, looked me in the eye, and gave me what I can only assume she thought was a "tough love" speech about my expectations for my son.  My 11-month-old son who she was evaluating (fairly, I will grant) to be at a 2-4 month level physically.  And although I recall the pain of that moment, I also recall thinking three things:

1. We're never coming back to this room.
2. If you don't believe in my son, you're out of our lives.  Just like that.
3. We're going to prove her wrong.

I'm not saying that she said he would never progress, but her prognosis that day was a far cry from the 3-year-old who tries valiantly to do the "balance beam" mat at school, who shakes his booty something crazy to Bob Marley, and who is currently perfecting the swan dive as a means of showing displeasure.

A little boy who sings "It's a Small World" in his car seat while vigorously kicking his legs as we drive past that very hospital and I clearly see the window where the therapy balls and mats still sit.

So no, I don't often compare everything my little bug does against the things that used to be hard for him, but sometimes the memories come flooding back unbidden, and when they do, I like to take a second and revel in just how far he has come, how hard he has worked, how amazing he was then, and how amazing he is now.

Even and especially when those kicking legs are driving me nuts.

Sleep Training

You know sleep training isn't going well when you child comes trotting out of his room at 11:45 pm with his stuffed Donald Duck and a book declaring "All done, nap!"

My exact reply: "Oh, hell no."

The Pain

I've been lucky in motherhood so far.  I've never had to endure the pain and trauma that you hear other mothers lament about.  I've experienced disappointment, sure, but never the despair of such a final act.


I'm talk, of course, about a bad hair cut on my baby.

This blow is particularly hard because I have been waiting for months past his usual hair cut time to grow it long.  I wanted the long Korean sideburns and the sweeping hair.  I pushed past the annoying frizz phase and have been basking in the glow of Asian hipster hair for a while now.  I loved my kid's hair.  And when a little boy is 3, what his mama thinks about his hair is the only thing that really matters.

I only wanted a touch off the back to reduce the mullet look and a little clean up.  He was so close to having perfectly coiffed K-Drama hair.  The stylists assured me that she understood, and I hovered over her, just in case.

But in the moment it took me to grab my kid a sucker, the damage was done.  "Fixing it" only made it worse, and I was one of those passive mothers who decided to just smile and thank her to avoid her continuing to "fix it" rather than throw myself on the floor and wailing (which is what I wanted to do).

And now I am faced with my beautiful, adorable son who looks like he could be cast as the child version of a character from "Dumb and Dumber."  My new goal is simply to have it looking decent by the time we go to Korea.  It looks like extra vitamins are in order for him and a chill pill for me.

Oh, the pain.

7 Minutes of Mama

A blog friend recently tagged me for a blog game/award.  I don't usually do those sorts of things, especially on this blog, because I fancy this blog one day being the "journal" my children will pour through to get a sense of who their mother was now....then.  So, in that spirit, I'll offer up seven things my sons and others might not know about me.

1. I listen to a single song on repeat for comfort.  Rarely do I listen to an album all the way through or shuffle my iTunes.  I pick one song, set it on repeat, and let it go for hours.
2. I watch videos and look at pictures of Little Bug and Little Bro daily, almost hourly.  I use it as a mental break/grounding technique when my brain is fried.
3. I was a darn good policy debater in high school.  My partner (who is now my best friend's husband) and I won more tournaments that I can count or remember.  We were ranked #2 in the state at one point and in the top 5 for our entire senior year.  We also made national waves when we were the dark horses from little 'ol Idaho who won the JV division at the Stanford National Tournament in California.  We were robbed of going to Nationals, not that I'm still bitter about it.  I also placed in the State speech tournaments my junior and senior year.  I've still got the state medals and the giant trophy from Stanford.  I gave up college debate opportunities to go to the same school as Appa.  I don't regret that choice.
4. If I hadn't have started teaching in the rural school that I did, I think there is a good chance I would be a teacher still today.  I couldn't relate to the students in the school I was at, and after seeing the way some parents treated their kids and the way those students reacted in turn (although that isn't just an issue in rural districts), I just grew to hate interacting with the students and left the field cold turkey.  It was probably a little cowardly, but I am happier now in my desk job with my books to keep me company at night.  Sometimes I miss it, but not often.
5. I will always regret not studying abroad.  Appa would have supported it, but I was so focused on getting through school and getting married that I lost out on a lot of things.  That was all my doing, not his.  One of the curses of a high school romance that lasts, I suppose.
6. I have to touch the outside on an airplane before I get on it, right at the spot where the door is.  It's a nervous habit that has turned into a swift moment where I "commune" with the airplane not to crash.  Nervous habit or obsessive compulsive tendency....I've never missed doing it for as long as I can remember.  I actually take Little Bug's hand and make him do it too.  Probably not a great idea to pass obsessive tendencies on to your children...sorry, baby boy.
7. I can't write in cursive.  I truly don't know how to correctly write the majority of the letters in cursive.  Sometimes, if I have to, I write in print with connected edges, but it's not anything like cursive.  When I was in 3rd grade, I moved from a state that taught cursive in 4th grade to a state that taught cursive in 2nd grade.  I truly slipped through the cracks and never mastered cursive.  Bummer.

And one to grow on.  Although after leaving a part of my heart forever in Wisconsin after 5 really awesome years there, I won't be wearing the cheese head we own this weekend.    Any other time, but this year, the wound is too fresh.  I'm a little sad about how bitter I am towards the green and gold.

Nature Versus Nurture

Adoption really brings the nature versus nurture debate to the forefront of your life. People always comment on how adorable Little Bug is, which I can take no credit for. But when it comes to things like his personality, some of that has to be a result of how we are raising him (ahem, spoiled) as well as a result of his innate personality, which I can again take no credit for.

Before I became a mom, I had lots of plans for my son, how he would act, what he would like, etc. Of course, children do and like whatever they want, so I learned quickly that my plans for my child were going to be less me and way more him.

Take, for example, books.

I love to read. I read and read and read. I love to talk about books. I love to think about books. The discipline on my degree actually say "Literature," and let me tell you, I thought I was pulling one over on everyone by getting a degree in reading Shakespeare. I've made a career out of reading (although, sadly, not reading Shakespeare). I assumed that my son would be a voracious reader.

And he wasn't. In fact, for the first couple years of his life, books that didn't pop up and sing the Wonder Pets song were of little to no use to him. It broke my heart, but I persisted. Each night we "read" a couple books. He wasn't interested.

Then one night a few months ago, he sat still through a book. Then another, and another, and another. Since that night, we read four books a night and tons throughout the day. My kid loves them. He has favorites. He requests "Night Night, Train" and "Moon" daily. He delights when he finds "Pop Hop Hop" or "Bee Bim Bop." The kid loves his books, and he loves the time we spend together reading them.

And seriously, so do I.

Yesterday after his nap, Little Bug didn't come out of his room. A rare occurrence for him. When we checked on him, we found him amongst a huge pile of books, happily thumbing through them.

I'm beginning to think I might have a book worm after all.

So was it always in his nature to like books, or have we nurtured it enough to help him develop a love? Or is it both? Like most debates, I don't have an answer. But who really needs an answer when there's "Good Night, Moon" to read three more times?