Grief

Today I had a little breakthrough.

It's obvious to anyone who has followed this blournal (and even more obvious if you follow my private family blog) that in April of this year I kind of shut down.  I stopped writing, I stopped reaching out to people, and I stopped a lot of other things.  I knew this, I could feel this, and yet, I was perplexed as to why it had and was continuing to happen.  It hasn't made me happy or even made my life less stressful; quite the opposite really.

Side Confession: I see a counselor once a week.  She's a really cool woman whose prior career was teaching a masters program for special education teachers, so that makes her perspective really unique for someone like me...a working mom turned SAHM with a traveling husband, special needs child, and boatload of shoulds.   Weekly I go to her office and we talk about whatever is on my mind.  Sometimes, oftentimes it's housework.  Sometimes it's about marriage or friendship.  Sometimes it's about special needs.

Today our conversation veered from dishes to blogging.  That turned into her asking the question I've never answered before.

What happened in April that made you stop allowing yourself all the things you love?

Oh, the answers that poured forth.  The truth is, there was a trigger in April, but I honestly don't remember what it was now.  All I recall is that in the middle of celebrating Little Bro's Family Day, Appa and I realized that we could not help our son anymore on our own.  It wasn't going to work.  He needed help.

We started medication.  This post pretty much sums up my state of mind.  Only what I realized today as I started telling my counselor about that month is that it was the time where for the first time ever, I truly realized that Little Bug might never live the life exactly like I had always envisioned for him, and by extension, our whole family.  I started looking ahead 5 years, 10 years, 20 years and accepting scenarios that we had previously refused to give thought to.  We weren't just medicating ADHD, but finally admitting that whatever Little Bug's needs are, they are bigger than us....and I finally started to feel the weight of our unknowns and complete and utter helplessness in controlling his ultimate future.

Grief.  That's what she called it when I took in a sob.  Grief.  And now, finally months later as things seem steady in this ebb of ours, I am starting to cycle out of it.  I sought help for myself.  I started making changes in our routine and home life.  I started drawing from faith again. It's slow going, but she told me....it's happening.  Acknowledge it.

"Go home and write about it," she said.  Give yourself the gift of writing the words out that you are sad and scared for your son and your family.  Holding it in only keeps the grief constricted.

Let.it.go.

So there it is.  No wonder I am paying her good money.  Just getting it out in words does make it feel lighter.  I'm sad my son has to struggle and hurt.  I'm sad my other son has to live in a home that is structured for the needs of someone else.  I'm sad I can't have a "normal" parenting life.  I'm scared for what the future could hold for Little Bug, for kindergarten and high school and college and love and success.  I'm scared for what that could mean for Appa and I, and later, for Little Bro and Little Moon. I have spent the summer grieving these things.  And slowly, but surely, I am accepting it and moving on.

Yesterday

Yesterday ended with me laying in the middle of my family room floor, exhausted and sad and scared.  At 7:45 pm, I could literally do nothing but give up the day.

Actually it ended with me laying in bed watching the Presidential "debate" and then streaming season 3 Downton episodes to scrub the ick from my mind and make the day end somewhere happy.  (No spoilers, but that certainly didn't work either.)

Anyway, yesterday was a hard day.  Little Bro is excelling at being 3, which means he has already figured out every button and boundary I have and spends his entire day trying to defy them.  That, I could handle. But my Little Bug had a bad day.  A BAD day.  And it was the kind of bad day that leaves me scared and unsure of how to move forward.

Some things are happening in his body.  Things we don't quite understand how or why, but things that are increasingly not looking like quirks.  Things that keep me up at night but are pushed away in the morning as anxious worrying are now topics his teachers call us about during emergency phone calls from the classroom.  Are they side effects of medication? Of sensory needs? Of brain functions? Of seizures?

I had my first full blown panic attack (in years) a week and a half ago and have been on edge ever since.

And yesterday it all was on full display, along with some insane emotional and social stuff that left me actively restraining him for his and his brother's comfort.  None of my restart tricks worked.  Nothing.  It was scary and sad, for all three of us.

Yesterday I felt so hopelessly alone in life.  It's a dark place to be.

This morning has been better.  He's still acting off, but he's happy and trying and seems comfortable.  I'll run with that.

But the future holds increasingly more yesterdays for us.  More confusion, more fear, and more hard choices.  Yesterday convinced me fully that our tomorrows need to hold some new appointments, new avenues to explore, and more people on Team Little Bug.

There was no fix for yesterday.  But there is hope for today and tomorrow. 

Why Three Boys?

Never fail, every single person from my mom to the blind date babysitter we hired yesterday have asked me the exact same question since we announced our Little Moon.

"Why three boys?"

I get why many of our family members asked; we've been crowing about a girl for years now.  But even strangers and acquaintances head straight for the burning question.

"Why three boys?"

Unfortunately, I don't have a great answer for them.  I don't actually have three boys right now, so any poetic waxing I can do on the stereotypical answers is just conjecture. It hasn't been a life dream of ours, and neither Appa nor I even know many 3+ families with all one gender.  It "seems like it would be kind of fun" is sort of a lame answer. And when I am following that up with the fact that my boys will be 5, 4, and 3 when our last one comes home makes the "kinda fun" answer sound like I am delusional.

I've been told by others that boys are easier to raise, boys love their mothers, and boys are more fun.  As a card-carrying member of Team Female, I'm not putting too much stock into those answers.  I think I was probably a dream child to raise.

Wait, what?

But universally, what I have been told by all boy families is that they love it.  That they wouldn't trade it for all the girls in the world.  Granted, they're clearly biased and would likely sing a different tune should their families have included a shot of pink.

But that is the real answer.  The one I can't articulate to the babysitter or therapist or anyone who doesn't have 10 minutes to listen to me ramble about MY three boys. It's not a matter of wanting three boys, it's a matter of wanting the family that you were meant to have.  For many people, that means loving and wanting the children you bear, regardless of their gender.  For me, means Little Bug, Little Bro, and Little Moon.  Sure, we could have waited it out and hoped for a girl, but once I felt it for Little Moon, nothing else mattered.  The fact that he isn't a girl is nothing compared to the fact that he is this amazing little soul that I am so very lucky to be able to one day raise.

"Why three boys?"

Because the three children I love above all other children in the world just happen to be boys.

To My Little Moon

Written on Sept. 21, 2012

To my Little Moon,

I didn't expect to be writing this to you...ever really.  I really thought this letter would start out "Dear Little Miss," but it isn't and I find myself grinning widely at the thought.

Just like your brothers before you, your appearance in my life was sudden, unexpected, and filled with a deep sense of peace.  And just like your big brother Little Bro, I have to apologize for the months I have spent pouring over your bio on the waiting child list, praying for a family to find you.  I kept coming back to you, daily; I even started showing you to Appa regularly with a tut tut why can't a family see what an amazing child this is?

Why indeed could I not see, could I not listen to my heart that kept drawing me to you?

Unlike your brother, I didn't wake up one morning with the conviction of a mother than you were mine. Honestly, I didn't even ask for your file.  But life/fate/divinity/karma helped push a bit and a week ago today your file was in my inbox.  I gasped at your cuteness (oh the cuteness!) and tried to imagine life with three boys close in age.  And although I didn't get a "no," I didn't get a "YES" either.

But I knew you were special, and so Appa and I were careful.  We were careful to make sure we could be the family you deserved.  Careful to make sure we could still be the parents Little Bug and Little Bro deserved.  Careful to make sure the dream of Little Miss was one we could let go of.

When I realized I could let go of that dream easily and with finality, that's when I started to believe I could really be so lucky as to be your mama.

And in the last 36 hours I have felt my heart expand.  You went from a sweet little boy to my sweet little boy. I started missing you.

I woke up this morning and I knew.  I knew you were going to be my son.  And so when Appa agreed this evening, I knew this wasn't just a "next step" step but the pivotal step towards you.  We're still months away from sending an acceptance to Korea, and yet tonight I feel like I just did.

From this moment on, no matter the status of our paperwork, I have three sons in my heart.  And I know that someday I'll look back on this night and find it hard to imagine a life without my Little Moon.

Rainbows and Race Cars

One of my fondest dreams is to prance through the girl's section at T@rget filling my cart full of leggings and skirts and Easter dresses with big bows.  I imagine clutching "Snow White"'s hand as we take her to the Magic Kingdom for the first time.  Ribbons, lace, princesses, sparkles, pink.....I have always wanted a daughter.

Except for last week, when I realized I really didn't.

I realized I wanted a daughter like I wanted a fire place or a master bathroom. A fun and delightful dream, but definitely something I could live happily without. As cruel as that sounds, when faced with the ultimate decision, my desire for a daughter was superficial to my real desire.

A third child.

And when it became clear to me that I wanted my two sons to have a third sibling closer in age to them no matter what section of T@arget I needed to shop in, the world opened up a most wonderful not-surprise surprise.

A son.

I have a 2 year old son half a world away.  He's just 14 months younger than Little Bro.  He'll be 3 by the time I can kiss his sweet heart-shaped lips and hear the laughter that accompanies his most killer grin.

He's perfection, and my heart is bursting with joy.

My dreams are now filled with color coordinated holiday sweaters, fire truck tennis shoes, and World Series champion baseball caps (okay, that last one might really be a dream).  I imagine my sons always having someone on their side, always having someone to play with, always having someone to protect and be protected by.  The more I imagine having three boys, the more I am surprised at how I never realized before how much I would love that.  Because this is it for us.  A 4:1 ratio.  I'm so so so looking forward to it.

I might not have gotten pink glitter, but I got my rainbows.

Dreams and Expectations

Over and over in my life, I find myself at a point where I realize that the dreams and expectations I assumed were one and the same were actually two very different things.  It's rarely, if ever, a bad thing, but I once wrote that "failed expectations do not automatically mean bad outcomes."

And that is true.  I believe it with all my heart.

But it's scary and feels big to have to separate a dear dream from mature expectations.  I can't expect all my dreams to come true. But if my expectations are realistic, I can dream to fulfill those for a fuller, more wonderful life.  And that dream can come true.  Will come true, even, if I am brave enough to readjust those expectations and dreams when needed.

To my Big Star on his Big Day

Dear Baby Big Star,

You might only still be wearing 18-24 month shorts (2T if it's a bad laundry week), but you are every second of your 3 years old today.  Today was your first day of preschool.  That "in Seb-teb-er" day finally arrived.  We've talked about it so much and teased you with a year's worth of Little Bug school pick ups that I don't really think you believed this day would come until I pulled out the Elmo backpack and strapped it on you.  You dutifully stood there while I took pictures, but I could tell you were still wondering if this was all pretend.

I snuck some looks at you in your seat as you and I drove alone to school this morning.  You had this tiny grin glued on your face as you watched the familiar route with rapt attention.  This.was.happening.

OMG, this was happening.  My baby was going to school. I'm sorry, but wasn't it just like last month that I cuddled you in my arms and played "ko ko ko epp" while you drank one of your five daily bottles? I've been totally okay with you going to preschool up until this morning when I had a mini panic attack thinking through the fact that I was going to take you to school where you would function independent of us.  Like, what kind of madness is that?  You are my baby.

But you stood in front of your new preschool like a kid before a Christmas tree as I snapped a few more shots.  Every shot you inched farther out of frame as your entire body was literally buzzing from suppressed excitement.

And then, with no preamble from either of us, I let you go.

You actually ran into that school shouting "Big Star's preschool!  Big Star's preschool!"  All that was missing was the fist pump or the flag you planned to stake down.  There was no hesitation, no fear.  You hung your backpack in your room, gave your teacher (Little Bug's beloved old teacher) a good morning hug, and ran off to get your hands on the freaking dump truck you have been eying for the better part of 6 months.  By the time I realized what had happened, you were across the room hunched down playing with two other friends, and I didn't have the heart to drag you back for a goodbye or hug.

For the record, I didn't cry, although thinking about not getting a hug makes me want to now.

No surprise, you were a big star today.  Your teachers were busted up over the stories you told them about Idaho and grandma and tractors.  They marveled at your fabulous eating habits (salad...seriously kid, you even ate salad for them?), sharing nature (umm, what?), and great listening skills (thank goodness).  And I am so freaking proud of you for diving right into "real life" and thriving.  It's not a surprise, but it's still a joy to see.

You were so happy today to tell us all about your day. You had the time of your life and knowing that I am going to see that twice a week for the next year is fun to think about. 

It was time to let you go a bit, my baby Big Star.  You and I both needed to let you grow up a bit, since you certainly can handle it.  I'm proud of you for rocking preschool like a champion.  Just one tiny step toward what will undoubtedly be the life of a star.

I love you, Big Star.  Happy first day of (BIG STAR'S!) preschool.