MY THANKSGIVING
By Justice Reisman, Age 7
November 22, 2012
My mom and dad help me cook turkey with stuffing inside the turkey. I am inviting people and friends to help us set the table to eat. We all talk about what we did that day. On Thanksgiving, we pass the turkey around the table for everybody to get. My cousins are sitting by me to eat. After dinner, we get to play a game outside. We play on the swing set. My grandma and grandpa are sitting by me to eat dinner. We have a feast around the table. On Thanksgiving, we find the wish bone to have what we want to have. My friends are sitting by me and my brother too.
Dear Justice,
A singer named Cindy Lauper, who's only a heartbeat away in the grand scheme of my history, but is so ancient in your eyes, you've probably never heard of her, sang a song once that started "Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you. Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new..."
I think about you a lot before I go to sleep at night, little girl. In many ways, you're adapting so well to this strange new world that was thrust upon you. More often than not now, our bedtime is a comforting ritual of stories and squirming, trying to keep your brother's feet off you as you listen to me read "No Matter What" or "In the Night Kitchen," two books that seem particularly spellbinding to you right now.
After we brush our teeth, you and your brother get ice water in a sippy cup, three Ritz crackers in case you get hungry in the night, and a repetitive round of tickling and giggles when the lights go out.
"Is your tickle tank full?" we ask you both, before we go downstairs.
It never is, so we fill it back up again. You like yours in a very precise order. Chin, armpits, collar bone, ribs, tummy, feetsies, and the inside of your knees (your ultimate weakness).
"Why do you call them feetsies?" you asked me last night.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "Because it's a funny word, I guess. It makes me smile like you make me smile."
"Oh," you said, taking that in. "Okay."
I think you like me now. Or at least you're on your way. Gone are the dismal days where your uprooted rage was raw. Now it's replaced by new things. Wishes and grief. Fantasies and mourning. This is the period of our attachment where you express what you wanted in your heart but never got. Like the mom in your Thanksgiving story who's not really there, you cry the most for what you've lost.
"When children are moved, grief is a natural result, regardless of the quality of care given by the parent figure. Children do not grieve with strangers. They grieve with people who are known to them, sensitive to them, and consistently available to them. Typically, children are drawn into attachment, move into grief work, and then rebound in both joy and attachment." - Attaching in Adoption, Deborah D. Gray.
I'm glad you're moving into your grief work now, beautiful girl. I'm glad you trust us enough to feel safe enough to do it here now.
I totally get it.
I understand why when your brother takes the remote from you, it's now causing ten minutes of the saddest, loneliest, most heart-wrenching sobs I've ever heard from you. Or when you can't have cookies before dinner, you curl up into a ball on the floor and cry out in broken, lost anguish. It's not about cookies and remote controls and what's on the Tivo. It's about the hurt in your heart and a lifetime of loss an adult can barely articulate, much less a seven-year-old girl.
May your beautiful grieving continue, and may you rebound soon in joy and comfort and belonging.
It's completely normal, your therapist tells us, for you to create a fantasy world where a mom still exists for you. When your school work comes home, and you write about your mom and dad in your Thanksgiving essay, we're working hard to be neither hurt or alarmed. Kids your age like to fit the standard mold, she tells us. And if all the other kids are writing about Mom and Dad on Thanksgiving, so will you. And that's likely to continue for a while. And just between the three of us - Dad, Daddy and Justice - no offense taken.
Yesterday, we started filling out the paperwork with your case worker to become your legal parents forever. Our six months as your "foster-to-adopt home" or your "adoptive resource home" or however else they classify our half-year, pre-game limbo, are about to end. In a few more weeks, we can "file," which is such a clinically clerical word for such an important act of love on our part and trust on yours.
So, while it's gearing up to be an incredibly exciting time for Daddy and I, and in the months ahead, we'll be picking up speed, gaining momentum and finally, in our eyes, making progress toward that magical dream of waking up, like Pinocchio, and finally being a real boy, a real girl and a real family, we have to remember not to get ahead of ourselves...because you're still grieving, you're still adapting, and you still come first, in our hearts and our heads and our home.
In our rush to love you, we hope you know you'll always have our permission to take your time in loving us back. Find us in your own way, in your own time. We're not going anywhere.
Sometimes you picture me, I'm walking too far ahead.
You're calling to me, I can't hear what you've said.
You say, "go slow." I fall behind.
The second hand unwinds.
If you're lost, you can look and you will find me,
Time after time.
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting,
Time after time.
"On Thanksgiving, we find the wish bone to have what we want to have. My friends are sitting by me and my brother too."
In the story you'll write someday in an easier year, Dad and Daddy will be sitting at that picture- perfect table in your mind's eye, too. It will be worth the wait, and we'll be delighted when you finally put us there. Until then, we won't be sad if your stories don't include us yet.
If you fall, we will catch you. We will be waiting.
You're worth it to us, always, and we'll give you our love.
Time after time.
"Time After Time" ©1984 Cyndi Lauper, from the Epic album "She's so Unusual"
Friday, November 30, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Vowel Movement
My daddy left home when I was three.
He didn't leave much to ma and me.
'Cept this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid,
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me Sue.
- Johnny Cash, "A Boy Named Sue," by Shel Silverstein
Justuce's birth mom, before she "departed the pattern" as my friend Miz Chappell would say, saddled our little girl with a hell of an interesting name. "Justuce," with a second "u" was given to her, theortetically I'm told, so she'd always remember how unique she was.
And if that wasn't enough to seal the deal -- and believe me, it was -- she also made her middle name Unique. And by that, I don't mean "her middle name is a bit rare." I mean it's Unique. As in the actual word.
Oy vey. Put that in your baby naming book and smoke it, huh?
I appreciate the sentiment, but I have to tell you, that's a hell of a personalized moniker to stamp on a little girl before you shuffle off to Buffalo. As far as "Who in the Class Has the Goofiest Name?" it's a guaranteed pass to the front of the line.
The following conversation actually took place between my mom and my cousin Danny.
Mom: Justuce's middle name is Unique.
Dan: Really? What is it?
Mom: It's Unique.
Dan: I know, but what is it?
Mom: It's Unique.
This Abbott and Costello flashback would have gone on ad infinitum, if it weren't for the fact that the clouds eventually cleared and Danny, God bless his healthy frontal lobe, figured out Who's on First.
This is all prelude to the fact that we've been very respectful of keeping J1's name intact. There is great debate within the adoption literature. Some camps insist that a child's first and middle names should remain firmly untouched to honor their important sense of self-worth, history and identity, while some say a changed first or middle name can be an important rite of passage, and help the child move into a smooth transition and a more confident, self-assured place in their new and changing world. Six of one, half dozen of the other. Psychiatrists, you should really get together and have a meeting on this someday.
We decided to play it safe and let J1 take the lead. Because honestly, our initial reaction before we met her, when we first saw her name in print, was "holy smokes, that name has got to go," upon which we were thoroughly and deservedly chastised by Adam's sister Jodi, who reminded us you just can't take the white-out to a little girl because you think her name is wonky. Too bad, dad. That's who she's been for seven years of her life, and by God, that's who she gets to be until she tells you otherwise. Thank you, Jodi. Slap deserved.
It became a moot point anyway, because as soon as we met Justuce, we were so instantly enamored with the unmatched individualtity of who she actually was, this beautiful defiant sandstorm, this hurricane, this little force of nature, the fact that she had a first and middle name that took a walk on the wild side seemed utterly appropriate and only so much icing on the cake. The girl's spirit is peerless, and her name, odd to us at first, seemed to fit her like a glove.
But here's what happens when names play out in the real world. A little girl who's seven years old only wants to be unique for so long. At seven, it's about being normal. It's about fitting in. When the uninvited albatross of adoption hangs heavily over your head and you have the added brand-oddity of two dads instead of a dad and a mom, it's also about dignity, and a little bit of self-control in your spiralling-crazy world. In short, it's about not having to feel weirder in any other way, or having to tell your friends why your name is spelled funny or correcting grown-ups over and over again. It's about just being regular for once. Unspectacularly, blessedly normal, with no conversations, no explanations, no red flags every time you write your name on a paper.
Justuce came home from school one day last week and let us know from now on she was going to be Justice, with an "i." She'd already started writing it the "new" standard way on her school papers and told her teacher she was going to change it. A quick communication with the school sealed the deal.
While she was at it, J1 also informed us she was ready to dump Unique. She'd been considering it for quite some time -- since she moved in with us, actually. All four of her foster sisters, when they were adopted, chose new middle names with their parents' help, and to Justice, this "right to pick a new name" was an important, normal step of being adopted. From the earliest days, we knew Unique's days were numbered, we just didn't know what it's replacement would be.
She tried on many hats. She rolled them around on her tongue, savoring, testing and tasting. For a while, it looked like we were leaning toward "Ashlen," one of her sisters in foster care. "Kaelen," "Jaeden," and "Madisen" were also in the mix. They were her other three foster sisters. It made me smile sweetly to think she was looking for a way to bring them with her into her new world and keep them with her for the rest of her days.
But in the end, she decided to go in a direction we didn't predict. She decided she liked "Rachel," which is her Hebrew name, given by her grandmother, and one she's had since birth. Her brother had no middle name when he came to us, so we gave him "Benjamin." Its Hebrew form, "Binyamin," will be his Jewish name. Justice decided, by making hers "Rachel," the set would be complete.
So, there you go folks.
Justin Benjamin Reisman.
Justice Rachel Reisman.
Both names will be legal and coming soon to an adoption finalization hearing near you. We're just starting to fill out our hearing paperwork with the case worker now. ETA, just a few more months to go.
So, now we're busy changing a bunch of pre-existing "U's" to some new-and-improved "I's." You'd be surprised how much there is to do.
For starters, I had to go to Michael's Crafts and Gifts and buy a big wooden "I" and paint it pink, to replace the big wooden "U" in the craft letters hanging on her bedroom wall.
Incidentally, there's something you will never hear a straight dad say, ever. "I had to go to Michael's Crafts and Gifts and buy a big wooden "I" and paint it pink." Just pointing that out.
I have to change her to "Justice" with family and friends, on family address labels, on her homework folder, on her little bench under the desk in her room, on her backpack strap, on her Wii character. God help me if I forget to change her Wii character.
It's kind of fun, this vowel movement. But it's even more gratifying that she's picked her identity. She's evolving into her new family by honoring her past, but telling all of us quite clearly, she won't be branded. She'll be in charge of who she is, thank you very much. And I like that.
He said: "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
So I give you that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong.
He said, "Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But you ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in your guts and the spit in your eye
Cause I'm the (bleep) that named you "Sue."
Thank you, birth mom, but she'll take it from here.
She doesn't need the word "unique" in her name anymore to know that she is.
Justice Rachel Reisman will be just fine.
He didn't leave much to ma and me.
'Cept this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid,
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me Sue.
- Johnny Cash, "A Boy Named Sue," by Shel Silverstein
Justuce's birth mom, before she "departed the pattern" as my friend Miz Chappell would say, saddled our little girl with a hell of an interesting name. "Justuce," with a second "u" was given to her, theortetically I'm told, so she'd always remember how unique she was.
And if that wasn't enough to seal the deal -- and believe me, it was -- she also made her middle name Unique. And by that, I don't mean "her middle name is a bit rare." I mean it's Unique. As in the actual word.
Oy vey. Put that in your baby naming book and smoke it, huh?
I appreciate the sentiment, but I have to tell you, that's a hell of a personalized moniker to stamp on a little girl before you shuffle off to Buffalo. As far as "Who in the Class Has the Goofiest Name?" it's a guaranteed pass to the front of the line.
The following conversation actually took place between my mom and my cousin Danny.
Mom: Justuce's middle name is Unique.
Dan: Really? What is it?
Mom: It's Unique.
Dan: I know, but what is it?
Mom: It's Unique.
This Abbott and Costello flashback would have gone on ad infinitum, if it weren't for the fact that the clouds eventually cleared and Danny, God bless his healthy frontal lobe, figured out Who's on First.
This is all prelude to the fact that we've been very respectful of keeping J1's name intact. There is great debate within the adoption literature. Some camps insist that a child's first and middle names should remain firmly untouched to honor their important sense of self-worth, history and identity, while some say a changed first or middle name can be an important rite of passage, and help the child move into a smooth transition and a more confident, self-assured place in their new and changing world. Six of one, half dozen of the other. Psychiatrists, you should really get together and have a meeting on this someday.
We decided to play it safe and let J1 take the lead. Because honestly, our initial reaction before we met her, when we first saw her name in print, was "holy smokes, that name has got to go," upon which we were thoroughly and deservedly chastised by Adam's sister Jodi, who reminded us you just can't take the white-out to a little girl because you think her name is wonky. Too bad, dad. That's who she's been for seven years of her life, and by God, that's who she gets to be until she tells you otherwise. Thank you, Jodi. Slap deserved.
It became a moot point anyway, because as soon as we met Justuce, we were so instantly enamored with the unmatched individualtity of who she actually was, this beautiful defiant sandstorm, this hurricane, this little force of nature, the fact that she had a first and middle name that took a walk on the wild side seemed utterly appropriate and only so much icing on the cake. The girl's spirit is peerless, and her name, odd to us at first, seemed to fit her like a glove.
But here's what happens when names play out in the real world. A little girl who's seven years old only wants to be unique for so long. At seven, it's about being normal. It's about fitting in. When the uninvited albatross of adoption hangs heavily over your head and you have the added brand-oddity of two dads instead of a dad and a mom, it's also about dignity, and a little bit of self-control in your spiralling-crazy world. In short, it's about not having to feel weirder in any other way, or having to tell your friends why your name is spelled funny or correcting grown-ups over and over again. It's about just being regular for once. Unspectacularly, blessedly normal, with no conversations, no explanations, no red flags every time you write your name on a paper.
Justuce came home from school one day last week and let us know from now on she was going to be Justice, with an "i." She'd already started writing it the "new" standard way on her school papers and told her teacher she was going to change it. A quick communication with the school sealed the deal.
While she was at it, J1 also informed us she was ready to dump Unique. She'd been considering it for quite some time -- since she moved in with us, actually. All four of her foster sisters, when they were adopted, chose new middle names with their parents' help, and to Justice, this "right to pick a new name" was an important, normal step of being adopted. From the earliest days, we knew Unique's days were numbered, we just didn't know what it's replacement would be.
She tried on many hats. She rolled them around on her tongue, savoring, testing and tasting. For a while, it looked like we were leaning toward "Ashlen," one of her sisters in foster care. "Kaelen," "Jaeden," and "Madisen" were also in the mix. They were her other three foster sisters. It made me smile sweetly to think she was looking for a way to bring them with her into her new world and keep them with her for the rest of her days.
But in the end, she decided to go in a direction we didn't predict. She decided she liked "Rachel," which is her Hebrew name, given by her grandmother, and one she's had since birth. Her brother had no middle name when he came to us, so we gave him "Benjamin." Its Hebrew form, "Binyamin," will be his Jewish name. Justice decided, by making hers "Rachel," the set would be complete.
So, there you go folks.
Justin Benjamin Reisman.
Justice Rachel Reisman.
Both names will be legal and coming soon to an adoption finalization hearing near you. We're just starting to fill out our hearing paperwork with the case worker now. ETA, just a few more months to go.
So, now we're busy changing a bunch of pre-existing "U's" to some new-and-improved "I's." You'd be surprised how much there is to do.
For starters, I had to go to Michael's Crafts and Gifts and buy a big wooden "I" and paint it pink, to replace the big wooden "U" in the craft letters hanging on her bedroom wall.
Incidentally, there's something you will never hear a straight dad say, ever. "I had to go to Michael's Crafts and Gifts and buy a big wooden "I" and paint it pink." Just pointing that out.
I have to change her to "Justice" with family and friends, on family address labels, on her homework folder, on her little bench under the desk in her room, on her backpack strap, on her Wii character. God help me if I forget to change her Wii character.
It's kind of fun, this vowel movement. But it's even more gratifying that she's picked her identity. She's evolving into her new family by honoring her past, but telling all of us quite clearly, she won't be branded. She'll be in charge of who she is, thank you very much. And I like that.
He said: "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
So I give you that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong.
He said, "Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But you ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in your guts and the spit in your eye
Cause I'm the (bleep) that named you "Sue."
Thank you, birth mom, but she'll take it from here.
She doesn't need the word "unique" in her name anymore to know that she is.
Justice Rachel Reisman will be just fine.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
I Rollercoaster for You
The World's 5 Fastest Rollercoasters
5. (tie) Superman, 100 mph, Six Flags Magic Mountain, Valencia, California
5. (tie) Tower of Terror, 100 mph, Dreamworld, Queensland, Australia
4. Dodonpa, 107 mph, Fuji-Q Highland, Yamanashi, Japan
3. Top Thrill Dragster, 120 mph, Cedar Point, Sandusky, Ohio
2. Kingda Ka, 128 mph, Six Flags Great Adventure, Jackson, New Jersey
1. Formula Rossa, 149 mph, Ferrari World, Yas Island, Abu Dhabi, UAE
The days go by so fast, a lot of this feels like a dream. Or a race. Or too many cups of coffee (even though I gave up the caffeine years ago).
I haven't written here since October 21st. If John Lennon is to be believed, and hey, he always was, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
Let's see. What's in the daytimer since you and I last met?
October 21 - Brinkley's birthday party, Madeleine's tea party and cheerleading pep rehearsal in the school theatre.
October 23 - Both kids to Dr. Weber for flu shots. Justuce opted for the nasal mist, Justin got brave and went for the needle. The doctor is concerned ADHD and ODD meds she prescribed on October 3 are still being withheld due to DFS and legal red tape.
October 24 - The kids met their great-grandfather and he gave them roller skates. Plenty of bruised tailbones and tushies ensued on days 1-4, but boy you should see them go now.
October 25 - Kids need navy blue skirt or shorts today. Pep rally in the school theatre. J2 occupational therapy.
October 26 - No school for Nevada Day. K-1 playdate in Paseos Park. Later in the day, Emmy's birthday party at Susan and Joel's. Wear a costume.
October 27 - 12 noon playdate with We Are Family. 4pm occupational therapy. 5pm Gala for Temple Sinai.
October 28 - Playdate with Lily and Lucas and Aunt Ingrid.
October 29 - Swim unit starts at school. J1 swimsuit in backpack. J2 swimsuit in backpack. 5 pm chili dinner with some of the We Are Family moms and dads and kids.
October 30 - Justin needs jeans. Pick up Justuce at Staci Green's. 4 pm physical therapy.
October 31 - Pick up Aunt Erin's keys at the apartment office. Kitchen lights fixed 12-2, Mr. Electric. Justuce swimsuit. Adam Yiddish class (missed again, most likely). Trick-or-treating with Shayna, Howard, Jahslyn and Susie. Pounds of candy collected. Frightening.
November 1 - Adam pickup CPAP machine. Sleep, finally! Family therapy with Miss Hannah for the first time. J2 occupational therapy. Justin home sick from school. Coughing.
November 2 - Adam, Dr. Handler. Ryan, Adoption Exchange fundraiser, volunteer photography. Car accident on the way home. Someone heading the other way pulled a U-turn right in front of me. No luck getting the kids into Dr. Kithas, the psychiatrist who can "re-prescribe" ADHD meds since the pediatrician's are being withheld. He is not taking new patients.
November 3 - Double b'nai mitzvahs, Altman and Bloom. Still moonlighting photography on the weekends. Still trying to make ends meet. J2 occupational therapy.
November 4 - Clocks back. Erin and Jaime leave Waupaca.
November 5 - Justuce, swim unit. Justin, Dr. Camp, orthopedist. Femoral anteversion diagnosed. He says no on corrective foot orthotics. His physical therapist strongly disagrees and wants us to go behind his back and make Justin wear straps. More battling medical headaches. No answer from DFS. Family and individual therapy with Miss Hannah.
November 6 - Justin sent home from school again. Still coughing. Emergency visit to the pediatrician. Double ear infection and allergic sinitus. Antibiotics, seasonal allergy medication and bronchospasm nebulizer prescribed. J2 physical therapy.
November 7 - Ryan to Dr. Wolfson, follow-up on persistent migraines since the children arrived. MRI brain scan next step to rule out anything other than severe stress. Aunt Erin and Aunt Jaime arrive. Hallelujah. Unload moving truck. 30 minute time limit. Move furniture inside. File insurance claim with Sentry. Call appraiser.
November 8 - Insurance appraisal. J1 to grandmas. J2 to occupational therapy. Call Stephanie at Viking Insurance. Work out accompanyist problem for wedding.
November 9 - Parent teacher conferences. She is a model student. He "has a heart of gold but can't sit still." Early dismissal from school.
November 10 - Occupational therapy. The kids have now been diagnosed, between them, with nine medical or psychological conditions since we got them on June 8th. This is not counting coughs and ear infections and "normal" stuff like that.
November 12 - Adam, colonoscopy to follow-up on significant weight loss and loss of appetite since children arrived, to rule out anything other than severe stress. Early school dismissal. Veterans day. Children wear red white blue to school. Robden from insurance company; car will be totaled. $2,300 if they take it, $2,000 if we keep it. Have to keep it, dents and all. Need it for therapy appointments. Family therapy with Miss Hannah.
November 13 - Physical therapy.
November 14 - J2 follow-up with Dr. Weber. Coughing better. She is still extremely concerned we are having issues with DFS and the courts not authorizing ADHD and ODD meds. She says the delay is doing the children a "disservice." Our repeated contacts to DFS to secure court approval all month for their medication draw nothing but "we're working on it, please be patient." 42 days of withheld medication now. How much "patience" is reasonable before this is just vast irresponsibility on someone's part?
November 15 - Adam, Dr. Becker. Me, up at midnight, writing Family Services again, wondering why after 42 days and repeated requests for resolution, we can't get this medication issue straigtened out. Then switching gears to my own ongoing headaches (literally), I pre-certify my MRI with Aetna, call Steinberg lab to get it scheduled for November 23, two days after the wedding. As annoying as five months of constant migraines have been, I still giggle at this, because now when people say "where are you guys honeymooning," I can tell them, "Steinberg Diagnostic," and it has a certain ring to it.
And that, folks, in a nutshell, is why I haven't been writing for three weeks. Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
And the kids are beautiful. Still complicated as ever. Still challenging as ever. Still frustratingly untreated as ever. They have taken to Aunt Erin and Aunt Jaime like moths to a flame, peppering them with hugs and kisses, smothering them with love, while we stand on the sidelines, so remarkably glad they get this. So remarkable sad it doesn't come to us.
After watching Justin wrap himself in Aunt Jaime's arms the first two days, I cried in the car a little - I didn't expect to, but it came out of nowhere - and I said to Adam, "I just have to keep reminding myself this is so good for him, because it hurts so much (in a beautiful way) to watch it from my usual place, arm's length, sidelines, still.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.
I wish you out of the woods and into a picture with me.
I wish you over the moon. Come out of the question and be.
I rollercoaster for you. Time out of mind must be heavenly.
It's all enchanted and wild. It's just like my heart said it was gonna be.
- Nickel Creek, "Out of the Woods"
We carry on, dear friends. We carry on.
5. (tie) Superman, 100 mph, Six Flags Magic Mountain, Valencia, California
5. (tie) Tower of Terror, 100 mph, Dreamworld, Queensland, Australia
4. Dodonpa, 107 mph, Fuji-Q Highland, Yamanashi, Japan
3. Top Thrill Dragster, 120 mph, Cedar Point, Sandusky, Ohio
2. Kingda Ka, 128 mph, Six Flags Great Adventure, Jackson, New Jersey
1. Formula Rossa, 149 mph, Ferrari World, Yas Island, Abu Dhabi, UAE
The days go by so fast, a lot of this feels like a dream. Or a race. Or too many cups of coffee (even though I gave up the caffeine years ago).
I haven't written here since October 21st. If John Lennon is to be believed, and hey, he always was, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
Let's see. What's in the daytimer since you and I last met?
October 21 - Brinkley's birthday party, Madeleine's tea party and cheerleading pep rehearsal in the school theatre.
October 23 - Both kids to Dr. Weber for flu shots. Justuce opted for the nasal mist, Justin got brave and went for the needle. The doctor is concerned ADHD and ODD meds she prescribed on October 3 are still being withheld due to DFS and legal red tape.
October 24 - The kids met their great-grandfather and he gave them roller skates. Plenty of bruised tailbones and tushies ensued on days 1-4, but boy you should see them go now.
October 25 - Kids need navy blue skirt or shorts today. Pep rally in the school theatre. J2 occupational therapy.
October 26 - No school for Nevada Day. K-1 playdate in Paseos Park. Later in the day, Emmy's birthday party at Susan and Joel's. Wear a costume.
October 27 - 12 noon playdate with We Are Family. 4pm occupational therapy. 5pm Gala for Temple Sinai.
October 28 - Playdate with Lily and Lucas and Aunt Ingrid.
October 29 - Swim unit starts at school. J1 swimsuit in backpack. J2 swimsuit in backpack. 5 pm chili dinner with some of the We Are Family moms and dads and kids.
October 30 - Justin needs jeans. Pick up Justuce at Staci Green's. 4 pm physical therapy.
October 31 - Pick up Aunt Erin's keys at the apartment office. Kitchen lights fixed 12-2, Mr. Electric. Justuce swimsuit. Adam Yiddish class (missed again, most likely). Trick-or-treating with Shayna, Howard, Jahslyn and Susie. Pounds of candy collected. Frightening.
November 1 - Adam pickup CPAP machine. Sleep, finally! Family therapy with Miss Hannah for the first time. J2 occupational therapy. Justin home sick from school. Coughing.
November 2 - Adam, Dr. Handler. Ryan, Adoption Exchange fundraiser, volunteer photography. Car accident on the way home. Someone heading the other way pulled a U-turn right in front of me. No luck getting the kids into Dr. Kithas, the psychiatrist who can "re-prescribe" ADHD meds since the pediatrician's are being withheld. He is not taking new patients.
November 3 - Double b'nai mitzvahs, Altman and Bloom. Still moonlighting photography on the weekends. Still trying to make ends meet. J2 occupational therapy.
November 4 - Clocks back. Erin and Jaime leave Waupaca.
November 5 - Justuce, swim unit. Justin, Dr. Camp, orthopedist. Femoral anteversion diagnosed. He says no on corrective foot orthotics. His physical therapist strongly disagrees and wants us to go behind his back and make Justin wear straps. More battling medical headaches. No answer from DFS. Family and individual therapy with Miss Hannah.
November 6 - Justin sent home from school again. Still coughing. Emergency visit to the pediatrician. Double ear infection and allergic sinitus. Antibiotics, seasonal allergy medication and bronchospasm nebulizer prescribed. J2 physical therapy.
November 7 - Ryan to Dr. Wolfson, follow-up on persistent migraines since the children arrived. MRI brain scan next step to rule out anything other than severe stress. Aunt Erin and Aunt Jaime arrive. Hallelujah. Unload moving truck. 30 minute time limit. Move furniture inside. File insurance claim with Sentry. Call appraiser.
November 8 - Insurance appraisal. J1 to grandmas. J2 to occupational therapy. Call Stephanie at Viking Insurance. Work out accompanyist problem for wedding.
November 9 - Parent teacher conferences. She is a model student. He "has a heart of gold but can't sit still." Early dismissal from school.
November 10 - Occupational therapy. The kids have now been diagnosed, between them, with nine medical or psychological conditions since we got them on June 8th. This is not counting coughs and ear infections and "normal" stuff like that.
November 12 - Adam, colonoscopy to follow-up on significant weight loss and loss of appetite since children arrived, to rule out anything other than severe stress. Early school dismissal. Veterans day. Children wear red white blue to school. Robden from insurance company; car will be totaled. $2,300 if they take it, $2,000 if we keep it. Have to keep it, dents and all. Need it for therapy appointments. Family therapy with Miss Hannah.
November 13 - Physical therapy.
November 14 - J2 follow-up with Dr. Weber. Coughing better. She is still extremely concerned we are having issues with DFS and the courts not authorizing ADHD and ODD meds. She says the delay is doing the children a "disservice." Our repeated contacts to DFS to secure court approval all month for their medication draw nothing but "we're working on it, please be patient." 42 days of withheld medication now. How much "patience" is reasonable before this is just vast irresponsibility on someone's part?
November 15 - Adam, Dr. Becker. Me, up at midnight, writing Family Services again, wondering why after 42 days and repeated requests for resolution, we can't get this medication issue straigtened out. Then switching gears to my own ongoing headaches (literally), I pre-certify my MRI with Aetna, call Steinberg lab to get it scheduled for November 23, two days after the wedding. As annoying as five months of constant migraines have been, I still giggle at this, because now when people say "where are you guys honeymooning," I can tell them, "Steinberg Diagnostic," and it has a certain ring to it.
And that, folks, in a nutshell, is why I haven't been writing for three weeks. Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.
And the kids are beautiful. Still complicated as ever. Still challenging as ever. Still frustratingly untreated as ever. They have taken to Aunt Erin and Aunt Jaime like moths to a flame, peppering them with hugs and kisses, smothering them with love, while we stand on the sidelines, so remarkably glad they get this. So remarkable sad it doesn't come to us.
After watching Justin wrap himself in Aunt Jaime's arms the first two days, I cried in the car a little - I didn't expect to, but it came out of nowhere - and I said to Adam, "I just have to keep reminding myself this is so good for him, because it hurts so much (in a beautiful way) to watch it from my usual place, arm's length, sidelines, still.
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.
I wish you out of the woods and into a picture with me.
I wish you over the moon. Come out of the question and be.
I rollercoaster for you. Time out of mind must be heavenly.
It's all enchanted and wild. It's just like my heart said it was gonna be.
- Nickel Creek, "Out of the Woods"
We carry on, dear friends. We carry on.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
D&D
From "The Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Dungeon Master's Guide" by Gary Gygax:
THE EFFECT OF WISHES ON CHARACTER ABILITY SCORES
"It is quite usual for players to use wishes to increase their ability scores in desired areas, whatever the areas might be. It is strongly suggested that you place no restrictions on such use of wishes. However, at some point it must be made more difficult to go up in ability, or else many characters will eventually be running around with [the maximum ability to do everything]."
The elephant in the room, of course, is the fact that both of our kids will grow up and not have a mom.
This was a difficult thing for me. Not nearly as difficult as it will be for them, but nonetheless, a painful, philosophic hurdle that kept us from adopting for many years. I don't know how other gay parents handle the personal responsibility of denying a child one-half of a "conventional" nuclear family, but in our home, the discussion was not sidestepped by any means. It was agonized over.
I love my mom. She was in my childhood, and remains in my adulthood, the single most important and formative part of my life and my character. And the thought of denying a child the equivalent of that, quite frankly, took adoption off the table for Adam and I for many, many years. Call me old-fashioned. Call me politically incorrect or stubborn, but I believe that a child needs a mom, and loving as I am, I didn't want to be the person who removed that vital component from the equation by the nature of my very existence. Sue me, HRC. Revoke my membership. That's the kind of stuff I worry about.
Adam and I were discussing a curious realization the other day.
The fact that we're gay dads enters our minds...oh...about...zero times on a daily basis.
Seriously. Zero.
New dads, yes. Dads who are busy, struggling, and often essentially clueless, most definitely. Dads who are learning, dads who are staggering under the bulk of a crazy, frustrating County DFS system, sure, every day. Dads who are raising two special needs children and doing our best to navigate the minefield of textbooks, catch-up, and personal experience? Oh, yes...endlessly. Amen, and pass the ammunition.
But does the fact that we're two gay dads ever manifest itself as any cognizant, mindful priority? Do we wrap ourselves in a rainbow flag and see it even remotely as an important aspect of our children's upbringing? Ever?
God, no. We're just too damn busy being dads to worry for a second that we're gay ones.
Aside from some play dates with a very important Las Vegas group called "We Are Family," a network of moms/moms and dads/dads we occasionally foray with so our kids can see that other kids with same-sex parents are just as normal, fun, and splashy at a waterpark as they are, the whole "gay parenting issue" (whatever that might be), never really enters the picture at all. There's really no time for it. There are too many other adventures going on.
When I was a teenager, I played a game called D&D. That's Dungeons & Dragons, for those of you who weren't geeks. Adam played too. The game, was essentially, role playing story time. Adventures acted out. You and your merry band of friends, sitting around the comfort of the dorm room or the kitchen table, went "adventuring" in the form of a guided, interactive, storytelling journey that went on ad infinitum.
One of your friends was the "Dungeon Master." (Today, I have to put the title in "isn't that funny" quotation marks to distance my dignity from all the years when Dungeon Master, capital D, capital M, was an authentic force to be reckoned with). Your DM led you through caverns, forests, castles, dungeons. There were monsters, trolls, battles, and treasure. Potions, gold pieces, and yes, there be dragons.
You were an elf maybe. Or a halfling, or a human. You were a ranger, a fighter, a magic-user, or a druid. With a roll of the dice and a little bit of luck, you could be anyone, and as the narrative of the game progressed, so did your character. So did your skill.
But life, I've discovered of late, is not just a lucky roll of the twenty-sided die. (Yes, there actually was such a thing and I still have mine, may my eternal geekiness never again be questioned). In dungeons deep or happy forests, we may be a merry band of adventurers - me, Adam, J1 and J2 - but the narrative's not always as straight-forward and laid out on a neat map of graph paper like the game I nostalgically remember from my youth.
What D&D most certainly never prepared me for, was the beautiful, tumultuous character class those letters eventually came to mean in my life. Who would have thought back in 1985, when I was a half-elf ranger named "Xl," D&D would eventually come to mean something more authentically adventurous and astoundingly perplexing. Dad & Daddy.
Confession time. Adam and I both wanted to be "Daddy." Something about the tender diminutive of the extra "D-Y" on the end brought to mind bonus love, extra cuddliness, extra warmth. Of course, that was back before we got the kids and assumed cuddles and warmth were still on the table, straight out of the box.
We tried all sorts of "who will we be?" variations. "Daddy and Papa?" No, "Papa" sounded too grandfatherly. "Daddy and Aba?" Our Jewish friends suggested "Aba," the Hebrew word for Daddy, but knowing our Jewish-born kids were fresh off the boat from a three-year stint in the Land of Mormon Foster Care, "Aba" to them would have no meaning as an endearing word at all. Might as well call us "Daddy and Blah-Blah." (Which sometimes they do).
So, we settled for Dad and Daddy. Daddy and Dad. Seemed to roll off the tongue. Pretty good fit. And after much jockying for position, both of us wanting "Daddy," Adam, prince among men, decided to give it to me, because, number one, I'm the big old mushy softie in the family, and number two, that's just the kind of nice guy he is.
So, before the kids arrived, I was going to be "Daddy," and Adam was going to be "Dad." Done, signed, the ink was dry.
But the best laid plans of mice and men.
The kids nixed that one lickity-split. I outweigh Adam by the weight of a small pony, and because I'm bigger, more "solid" (again, my dignity-saving quotation marks) and I certainly have the capacity to yell a hell of a lot louder, it turns out I got to be plain old grouchy "Dad," and Adam got to be softer, gentler "Daddy." Damn the bad luck.
But really, it turns out it was 100% okay, because the first time they called me "Dad" in their sweet little voices, I melted on the spot. Dad I was, and Dad I'll forever be. From the first time I heard it, its resonance in my heart was perfectly in tune. "Dad" is who I unquestionably should be.
So...D&D. Dad and Daddy. Which means, if you Dungeon Masters are still paying attention, we still don't have a D/M. A Dad/Mom combination to fill our little nippers' lives with dual-gendered support.
Those of you who vote a little more on the red side of the curtain than I, will be pleased to hear when they dole out adoptive kids to two gay dads, they're at least very cautious during the interviews and paperwork to ask, repeatedly, "who will provide female role-modelship for the children?" As if to say, "listen, we're glad you're two nice men, and good luck with the whole fatherhood-times-two thing, but seriously, you better have a chick up your sleeve."
And God bless our family and friends, we have ever-present women aplenty.
These are the good, strong, remarkable women you want your children to emulate. The soft, nurturing, mothering forces you've always admired. The women you hope will never stop wrapping your children in their arms. A mother's love we can't provide. And we are blessed, learning, and letting go, hoping the envy in our hearts becomes the quiet joy of watching our children flourish in female care, knowing those hugs, kisses and cuddles on the couch from their abundant substitute-moms are exactly what they need now, and may we never discourage them from seeking more.
Mom, Mommy, Heidi, Jodi, Ingrid, Jenn, thank you. Dawn, Julie, Susie, Wendy, Aimee, Danielle, Sarah, Mariana, Marla -- all the beautiful, strong women our kids have already cuddled on the couch with -- our hearts are already full of gratitude for the roll you play, and will continue to play in their grand D&D adventure.
And to my sister Erin and my niece Jaime, who live now in Wisconsin, but decided this summer to be the ultimate frosting on our motherless cake -- thank you, most of all. We can't wait to have you in our lives, and in the lives of J1 and J2, when you move here to live with us in Las Vegas, just a few houses down the street, to provide daily, warm, mothering energy to two kids who will need it as they grow up. That's cool. That's family. Our four hearts are overjoyed knowing we'll see you both on November 7th.
To my own mom, Judy, who had Erin in her town and in her life, right beside her, for 39 years, and her granddaughter Jaime, her heart's treasure, for 18, you're perhaps the bravest of us all, Mom.
You're 71 years old now, and at a time in your life when you probably thought it would just be nice, comforting and fitting to have all your kids and grandkids right next to you, somehow you managed to find the courage and grace, at great pain to yourself, to say a difficult, geographical, hometown goodbye to the two people in the universe you hold the very dearest as they come out here to live with us.
It's hurt you immeasurably, but I love you so much, and I thank you. You're lending us the two people we need the most to start our new family, and it doesn't escape my attention for a moment what a courageous, selfless sacrifice that was for you, too. Every day, our gain is something that came at your expense, unanticipated and sad, but oh, how your grandbabies will be blessed for it, I promise you.
So. That's where we are folks.
D&D. Dad and Daddy.
Plenty of strong women already here, and reinforcements on the way. Good women, smart women, the kind of women you know will give your kids a good life, even when they're being raised by two gay dads, who very seldom think of themselves as two gay dads, except when they worry about not being moms.
When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me.
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
Thank you, Grandma Judy. See you soon, Aunt Erin and Aunt Jaime. We love you all very much and say this with the beautiful, hopeful confidence that comes with letting go and putting part of our children's lives in the helpful hands of the people who love us the most:
Our lives will be good.
And what will be, will be.
"Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be) c.1956 Jay Livingston and Ray Evans.
THE EFFECT OF WISHES ON CHARACTER ABILITY SCORES
"It is quite usual for players to use wishes to increase their ability scores in desired areas, whatever the areas might be. It is strongly suggested that you place no restrictions on such use of wishes. However, at some point it must be made more difficult to go up in ability, or else many characters will eventually be running around with [the maximum ability to do everything]."
The elephant in the room, of course, is the fact that both of our kids will grow up and not have a mom.
This was a difficult thing for me. Not nearly as difficult as it will be for them, but nonetheless, a painful, philosophic hurdle that kept us from adopting for many years. I don't know how other gay parents handle the personal responsibility of denying a child one-half of a "conventional" nuclear family, but in our home, the discussion was not sidestepped by any means. It was agonized over.
I love my mom. She was in my childhood, and remains in my adulthood, the single most important and formative part of my life and my character. And the thought of denying a child the equivalent of that, quite frankly, took adoption off the table for Adam and I for many, many years. Call me old-fashioned. Call me politically incorrect or stubborn, but I believe that a child needs a mom, and loving as I am, I didn't want to be the person who removed that vital component from the equation by the nature of my very existence. Sue me, HRC. Revoke my membership. That's the kind of stuff I worry about.
Adam and I were discussing a curious realization the other day.
The fact that we're gay dads enters our minds...oh...about...zero times on a daily basis.
Seriously. Zero.
New dads, yes. Dads who are busy, struggling, and often essentially clueless, most definitely. Dads who are learning, dads who are staggering under the bulk of a crazy, frustrating County DFS system, sure, every day. Dads who are raising two special needs children and doing our best to navigate the minefield of textbooks, catch-up, and personal experience? Oh, yes...endlessly. Amen, and pass the ammunition.
But does the fact that we're two gay dads ever manifest itself as any cognizant, mindful priority? Do we wrap ourselves in a rainbow flag and see it even remotely as an important aspect of our children's upbringing? Ever?
God, no. We're just too damn busy being dads to worry for a second that we're gay ones.
Aside from some play dates with a very important Las Vegas group called "We Are Family," a network of moms/moms and dads/dads we occasionally foray with so our kids can see that other kids with same-sex parents are just as normal, fun, and splashy at a waterpark as they are, the whole "gay parenting issue" (whatever that might be), never really enters the picture at all. There's really no time for it. There are too many other adventures going on.
When I was a teenager, I played a game called D&D. That's Dungeons & Dragons, for those of you who weren't geeks. Adam played too. The game, was essentially, role playing story time. Adventures acted out. You and your merry band of friends, sitting around the comfort of the dorm room or the kitchen table, went "adventuring" in the form of a guided, interactive, storytelling journey that went on ad infinitum.
One of your friends was the "Dungeon Master." (Today, I have to put the title in "isn't that funny" quotation marks to distance my dignity from all the years when Dungeon Master, capital D, capital M, was an authentic force to be reckoned with). Your DM led you through caverns, forests, castles, dungeons. There were monsters, trolls, battles, and treasure. Potions, gold pieces, and yes, there be dragons.
You were an elf maybe. Or a halfling, or a human. You were a ranger, a fighter, a magic-user, or a druid. With a roll of the dice and a little bit of luck, you could be anyone, and as the narrative of the game progressed, so did your character. So did your skill.
But life, I've discovered of late, is not just a lucky roll of the twenty-sided die. (Yes, there actually was such a thing and I still have mine, may my eternal geekiness never again be questioned). In dungeons deep or happy forests, we may be a merry band of adventurers - me, Adam, J1 and J2 - but the narrative's not always as straight-forward and laid out on a neat map of graph paper like the game I nostalgically remember from my youth.
What D&D most certainly never prepared me for, was the beautiful, tumultuous character class those letters eventually came to mean in my life. Who would have thought back in 1985, when I was a half-elf ranger named "Xl," D&D would eventually come to mean something more authentically adventurous and astoundingly perplexing. Dad & Daddy.
Confession time. Adam and I both wanted to be "Daddy." Something about the tender diminutive of the extra "D-Y" on the end brought to mind bonus love, extra cuddliness, extra warmth. Of course, that was back before we got the kids and assumed cuddles and warmth were still on the table, straight out of the box.
We tried all sorts of "who will we be?" variations. "Daddy and Papa?" No, "Papa" sounded too grandfatherly. "Daddy and Aba?" Our Jewish friends suggested "Aba," the Hebrew word for Daddy, but knowing our Jewish-born kids were fresh off the boat from a three-year stint in the Land of Mormon Foster Care, "Aba" to them would have no meaning as an endearing word at all. Might as well call us "Daddy and Blah-Blah." (Which sometimes they do).
So, we settled for Dad and Daddy. Daddy and Dad. Seemed to roll off the tongue. Pretty good fit. And after much jockying for position, both of us wanting "Daddy," Adam, prince among men, decided to give it to me, because, number one, I'm the big old mushy softie in the family, and number two, that's just the kind of nice guy he is.
So, before the kids arrived, I was going to be "Daddy," and Adam was going to be "Dad." Done, signed, the ink was dry.
But the best laid plans of mice and men.
The kids nixed that one lickity-split. I outweigh Adam by the weight of a small pony, and because I'm bigger, more "solid" (again, my dignity-saving quotation marks) and I certainly have the capacity to yell a hell of a lot louder, it turns out I got to be plain old grouchy "Dad," and Adam got to be softer, gentler "Daddy." Damn the bad luck.
But really, it turns out it was 100% okay, because the first time they called me "Dad" in their sweet little voices, I melted on the spot. Dad I was, and Dad I'll forever be. From the first time I heard it, its resonance in my heart was perfectly in tune. "Dad" is who I unquestionably should be.
So...D&D. Dad and Daddy. Which means, if you Dungeon Masters are still paying attention, we still don't have a D/M. A Dad/Mom combination to fill our little nippers' lives with dual-gendered support.
Those of you who vote a little more on the red side of the curtain than I, will be pleased to hear when they dole out adoptive kids to two gay dads, they're at least very cautious during the interviews and paperwork to ask, repeatedly, "who will provide female role-modelship for the children?" As if to say, "listen, we're glad you're two nice men, and good luck with the whole fatherhood-times-two thing, but seriously, you better have a chick up your sleeve."
And God bless our family and friends, we have ever-present women aplenty.
These are the good, strong, remarkable women you want your children to emulate. The soft, nurturing, mothering forces you've always admired. The women you hope will never stop wrapping your children in their arms. A mother's love we can't provide. And we are blessed, learning, and letting go, hoping the envy in our hearts becomes the quiet joy of watching our children flourish in female care, knowing those hugs, kisses and cuddles on the couch from their abundant substitute-moms are exactly what they need now, and may we never discourage them from seeking more.
Mom, Mommy, Heidi, Jodi, Ingrid, Jenn, thank you. Dawn, Julie, Susie, Wendy, Aimee, Danielle, Sarah, Mariana, Marla -- all the beautiful, strong women our kids have already cuddled on the couch with -- our hearts are already full of gratitude for the roll you play, and will continue to play in their grand D&D adventure.
And to my sister Erin and my niece Jaime, who live now in Wisconsin, but decided this summer to be the ultimate frosting on our motherless cake -- thank you, most of all. We can't wait to have you in our lives, and in the lives of J1 and J2, when you move here to live with us in Las Vegas, just a few houses down the street, to provide daily, warm, mothering energy to two kids who will need it as they grow up. That's cool. That's family. Our four hearts are overjoyed knowing we'll see you both on November 7th.
To my own mom, Judy, who had Erin in her town and in her life, right beside her, for 39 years, and her granddaughter Jaime, her heart's treasure, for 18, you're perhaps the bravest of us all, Mom.
You're 71 years old now, and at a time in your life when you probably thought it would just be nice, comforting and fitting to have all your kids and grandkids right next to you, somehow you managed to find the courage and grace, at great pain to yourself, to say a difficult, geographical, hometown goodbye to the two people in the universe you hold the very dearest as they come out here to live with us.
It's hurt you immeasurably, but I love you so much, and I thank you. You're lending us the two people we need the most to start our new family, and it doesn't escape my attention for a moment what a courageous, selfless sacrifice that was for you, too. Every day, our gain is something that came at your expense, unanticipated and sad, but oh, how your grandbabies will be blessed for it, I promise you.
So. That's where we are folks.
D&D. Dad and Daddy.
Plenty of strong women already here, and reinforcements on the way. Good women, smart women, the kind of women you know will give your kids a good life, even when they're being raised by two gay dads, who very seldom think of themselves as two gay dads, except when they worry about not being moms.
When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me.
Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be.
The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera.
Thank you, Grandma Judy. See you soon, Aunt Erin and Aunt Jaime. We love you all very much and say this with the beautiful, hopeful confidence that comes with letting go and putting part of our children's lives in the helpful hands of the people who love us the most:
Our lives will be good.
And what will be, will be.
"Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be) c.1956 Jay Livingston and Ray Evans.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Kid of the Day
With a highly competitive pair of siblings on our hands -- and no kidding, when we say highly competitive, we're not whistling Dixie -- these kids were actually in therapy being treated for their powderkeg of competitive issues a full year before we got them -- we've had to do what we can, rather quickly, to get up to speed and tone down the battles.
I think I mentioned once before in this blog, J1 and J2's sibling rivalry runs circles around the usual slap-happy sib shit. J2 once got two more ice cubes in his restaurant drink than J1 did, and swear to God, WWIII broke out, tears, tantrums, live ammunition and everything.
So Adam, bless him, early on, came up with "kid of the day." Three or four days into their initial placement, we were already exhausted over the endless bickering and (no kidding) violent tantrums that happened everytime one of them beat the other one to the doorknob. Fighting over who got to actually enter the house first became, no exaggeration, blood sport.
So "Kid of the Day" was invented to hand off some rather mundane honors that nonetheless seem vitally important to their world-weary, security-starved 6-and-7-year-old brains. Silly as it seems, we've actually posted a monthly calendar, taped to the fridge, with each little white box clearly labeled "J1" or "J2," so the kids can easily look up who's got "Me First" rights for any particular day. It rotates. Justin one day, Justuce the next, and so on and so on, into infinity.
And with only constant exceptions, it works like a charm.
Kid of the day doesn't really get you much around here. Beverly used to say "that and 50 cents will get you a cup of coffee," and honestly, that's about all it's worth, even though (sorry, Beverlita) Starbucks wouldn't even meet you at the counter if you walked in with a pair of quarters these days.
But for what it's worth, kid of the day honors roughly include:
Getting carried downstairs first in the morning. I do pick up and carry the kids when I wake them up in the morning, and creepily doting as that may seem to more established moms and dads, I plan to do so for the foreseeable future. It's regressive, but it's part of our attachment therapy. It's also the only way I get sleepy halfhearted hugs before they're awake enough to hate me again.
Kid of the day also gets you, in no particularly fascinating order, first dibs out of the house, occasional TiVo control, the house key when we all come inside and the right to push the garage door button. Elevator buttons too, if God help you all, you ever meet us out in public.
You wouldn't think any of these honors are particularly vital or valuable, but God Almighty, you should see the fur fly when J1 opens a doorknob when J2 is kid of the day, or vice-versa. Simply put, hell hath no fury.
"She opened my door!!! I'm Kid of the Day!!!!!"
This sheer indignancy is screamed out at lung-popping, ear-bleeding volume, as if the very fabric of the universe is being single-handedly ripped apart at the seams by the pure, unadulterated evil of a sibling gone mad. When Kid of the Day's powers are usurped by Non-Kid of the Day, dogs howl, babies cry, and Adam and I hide under the kitchen table as seven kinds of shite break loose.
Clearly, Kid of the Day is far more important to them than to we mere mortals. In fact, I was thinking this morning, to them, it's almost prizeworthy and exciting in the classic game show sense.
"Tell us, Johnny. What do we have hiding behind the curtain for Kid of the Day?"
"I'll tell you, Ryan. Kid of the Day's fabulous star-studded adventure begins by being carried downstairs first!! (Tremendous studio audience applause). That's right, Justuce or Justin, your full-day, non-stop reign as Kid of the Day begins by being tenderly whispered out of a sweet sound sleep and carried downstairs to the couch where you will be given a pillow pet, a snuggy blanket, and a sippy cup full of Mott's Original Apple Juice a full sixty seconds before your sibling! (Audience "ooh's). That's Mott's, the leading producer of apple sauce and fruit juices for kids and adults. There's half a cup of fruit in every drink. Since 1842. Mott's Original Apple Juice. 100% juice. 100% yum!"
"And that's not all! The next exciting part of your Kid of the Day prize package is first dibs on the TiVo remote!! (Studio audience goes crazy once again). That's right, Justuce and Justin, one of you lucky winners will get to pick up the TiVo remote, push the button, and decide which show will start the morning!! The mystery crew from Scooby Doo? The sun coming up over Sesame Street? Or maybe...just maybe...twenty more minutes of the Disney Channel movie you had to shut off last night at bedtime??? You decide! The choice is yours!!! (Studio audience now out of their minds with applause). It all comes your way courtesy of your fabulous Kid of the Day TiVo remote!! That's TiVo, featuring the reinvented, reimagined TiVo Premiere. Record up to 4 shows at once and 75 hours of HD programing! Tivo! The one box that does it all!"
(Music changes into happy Carribbean island theme)...
"Next up, what Kid of the Day globetrotting journey would be complete without being first kid out of the house on the way to the car!! (Audience nearly shitting themselves in hysteria by this point!) Justuce or Justin, one of you lucky winners will actually get to put on your shoes, open the laundry room door, and step out into the garage a full two seconds before your sibling!! And guess what?? It's a mad dash to the same old car you ride in every day!! That's right kids, it's Daddy's 2005 Hyundai Elantra!!! (Studio audience now in complete, rabid frenzy!) You'll ride to school in two-liter, four-cylinder comfort, with automatic transmission and side curtain airbags, and only 88,000 miles on the odometer!! With Hyundai, fun is where you find it. That's Hyundai. New thinking. New possibilities."
(Music segues into tympani roll and dramatic build-up)...
"And Justuce and Justin, we've saved the best for last, because no Kid of the Day grand prize package would be complete without the absolute right and privilege of unlocking the door when we get home and pushing the garage door button to make the garage door come down!!!!! (Studio audience completely loses control. Riots break out. National Guard called in). You'll have to see it to believe it! Daddy will hand you his ring of keys, and if luck is on your side, you'll get to play with the door lock for a full 95 seconds before you finally get the door open and let us all in the fricking house! And even better...on your way inside...you'll get to push the big white garage door button, and just like it does every day...the garage door will actually come down!!!"
"This is one great trick that never grows old! It's the Chamberlain Whisper Drive One-Half Horsepower Garage Door Opener, and every time you hit the button, it goes up or down, depending on its current position!!! Justuce and Justin, you have to see it to believe it! Purchased at Home Depot and lovingly installed by Dad and Daddy's friend Dale Dobbe in 2002 for a couple of drinks and a buffet at Texas Station, this rugged beauty comes with two car remotes, manual keypad which now sticks on the first digit, and the fabulous, backlit, interior panel you'll touch with your finger, light up, and bring your slightly-dented family garage door down to a rousing and satisfying finish!!"
"This once-in-a-lifetime prize package is yours every other day, since we rotate kids, but it's all yours, Justuce or Justin, when you're the next, fabulous, incredibly lucky...Kid of the Day!!!!"
(Audience cheers, music swells to a finish, National Guard troops called off until 6am following morning).
Fabulous parting gifts for everyone involved, including our Kid of the Day home version. J2 had the honors today, so you can mark your calendars and play along at home. J1, lucky little darling, is up tomorrow.
Mazel tov, pumpkin. That and $3.59 will get you a Venti Latte.
I think I mentioned once before in this blog, J1 and J2's sibling rivalry runs circles around the usual slap-happy sib shit. J2 once got two more ice cubes in his restaurant drink than J1 did, and swear to God, WWIII broke out, tears, tantrums, live ammunition and everything.
So Adam, bless him, early on, came up with "kid of the day." Three or four days into their initial placement, we were already exhausted over the endless bickering and (no kidding) violent tantrums that happened everytime one of them beat the other one to the doorknob. Fighting over who got to actually enter the house first became, no exaggeration, blood sport.
So "Kid of the Day" was invented to hand off some rather mundane honors that nonetheless seem vitally important to their world-weary, security-starved 6-and-7-year-old brains. Silly as it seems, we've actually posted a monthly calendar, taped to the fridge, with each little white box clearly labeled "J1" or "J2," so the kids can easily look up who's got "Me First" rights for any particular day. It rotates. Justin one day, Justuce the next, and so on and so on, into infinity.
And with only constant exceptions, it works like a charm.
Kid of the day doesn't really get you much around here. Beverly used to say "that and 50 cents will get you a cup of coffee," and honestly, that's about all it's worth, even though (sorry, Beverlita) Starbucks wouldn't even meet you at the counter if you walked in with a pair of quarters these days.
But for what it's worth, kid of the day honors roughly include:
Getting carried downstairs first in the morning. I do pick up and carry the kids when I wake them up in the morning, and creepily doting as that may seem to more established moms and dads, I plan to do so for the foreseeable future. It's regressive, but it's part of our attachment therapy. It's also the only way I get sleepy halfhearted hugs before they're awake enough to hate me again.
Kid of the day also gets you, in no particularly fascinating order, first dibs out of the house, occasional TiVo control, the house key when we all come inside and the right to push the garage door button. Elevator buttons too, if God help you all, you ever meet us out in public.
You wouldn't think any of these honors are particularly vital or valuable, but God Almighty, you should see the fur fly when J1 opens a doorknob when J2 is kid of the day, or vice-versa. Simply put, hell hath no fury.
"She opened my door!!! I'm Kid of the Day!!!!!"
This sheer indignancy is screamed out at lung-popping, ear-bleeding volume, as if the very fabric of the universe is being single-handedly ripped apart at the seams by the pure, unadulterated evil of a sibling gone mad. When Kid of the Day's powers are usurped by Non-Kid of the Day, dogs howl, babies cry, and Adam and I hide under the kitchen table as seven kinds of shite break loose.
Clearly, Kid of the Day is far more important to them than to we mere mortals. In fact, I was thinking this morning, to them, it's almost prizeworthy and exciting in the classic game show sense.
"Tell us, Johnny. What do we have hiding behind the curtain for Kid of the Day?"
"I'll tell you, Ryan. Kid of the Day's fabulous star-studded adventure begins by being carried downstairs first!! (Tremendous studio audience applause). That's right, Justuce or Justin, your full-day, non-stop reign as Kid of the Day begins by being tenderly whispered out of a sweet sound sleep and carried downstairs to the couch where you will be given a pillow pet, a snuggy blanket, and a sippy cup full of Mott's Original Apple Juice a full sixty seconds before your sibling! (Audience "ooh's). That's Mott's, the leading producer of apple sauce and fruit juices for kids and adults. There's half a cup of fruit in every drink. Since 1842. Mott's Original Apple Juice. 100% juice. 100% yum!"
"And that's not all! The next exciting part of your Kid of the Day prize package is first dibs on the TiVo remote!! (Studio audience goes crazy once again). That's right, Justuce and Justin, one of you lucky winners will get to pick up the TiVo remote, push the button, and decide which show will start the morning!! The mystery crew from Scooby Doo? The sun coming up over Sesame Street? Or maybe...just maybe...twenty more minutes of the Disney Channel movie you had to shut off last night at bedtime??? You decide! The choice is yours!!! (Studio audience now out of their minds with applause). It all comes your way courtesy of your fabulous Kid of the Day TiVo remote!! That's TiVo, featuring the reinvented, reimagined TiVo Premiere. Record up to 4 shows at once and 75 hours of HD programing! Tivo! The one box that does it all!"
(Music changes into happy Carribbean island theme)...
"Next up, what Kid of the Day globetrotting journey would be complete without being first kid out of the house on the way to the car!! (Audience nearly shitting themselves in hysteria by this point!) Justuce or Justin, one of you lucky winners will actually get to put on your shoes, open the laundry room door, and step out into the garage a full two seconds before your sibling!! And guess what?? It's a mad dash to the same old car you ride in every day!! That's right kids, it's Daddy's 2005 Hyundai Elantra!!! (Studio audience now in complete, rabid frenzy!) You'll ride to school in two-liter, four-cylinder comfort, with automatic transmission and side curtain airbags, and only 88,000 miles on the odometer!! With Hyundai, fun is where you find it. That's Hyundai. New thinking. New possibilities."
(Music segues into tympani roll and dramatic build-up)...
"And Justuce and Justin, we've saved the best for last, because no Kid of the Day grand prize package would be complete without the absolute right and privilege of unlocking the door when we get home and pushing the garage door button to make the garage door come down!!!!! (Studio audience completely loses control. Riots break out. National Guard called in). You'll have to see it to believe it! Daddy will hand you his ring of keys, and if luck is on your side, you'll get to play with the door lock for a full 95 seconds before you finally get the door open and let us all in the fricking house! And even better...on your way inside...you'll get to push the big white garage door button, and just like it does every day...the garage door will actually come down!!!"
"This is one great trick that never grows old! It's the Chamberlain Whisper Drive One-Half Horsepower Garage Door Opener, and every time you hit the button, it goes up or down, depending on its current position!!! Justuce and Justin, you have to see it to believe it! Purchased at Home Depot and lovingly installed by Dad and Daddy's friend Dale Dobbe in 2002 for a couple of drinks and a buffet at Texas Station, this rugged beauty comes with two car remotes, manual keypad which now sticks on the first digit, and the fabulous, backlit, interior panel you'll touch with your finger, light up, and bring your slightly-dented family garage door down to a rousing and satisfying finish!!"
"This once-in-a-lifetime prize package is yours every other day, since we rotate kids, but it's all yours, Justuce or Justin, when you're the next, fabulous, incredibly lucky...Kid of the Day!!!!"
(Audience cheers, music swells to a finish, National Guard troops called off until 6am following morning).
Fabulous parting gifts for everyone involved, including our Kid of the Day home version. J2 had the honors today, so you can mark your calendars and play along at home. J1, lucky little darling, is up tomorrow.
Mazel tov, pumpkin. That and $3.59 will get you a Venti Latte.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Your Nothings Come Back
Spaulding: I want a hamburger. No, cheeseburger. I want a hot dog. I want a milkshake. I want potato chips...
Judge Smails: You'll get nothing and like it!
- John Barman and Ted Knight in "Caddyshack"
When I was 15 years old and dating Robin, I was so angry at her one day -- about what, I can't possibly remember -- she broke up with me, or I broke up with her -- the drama and passion of two teenagers in love is a frightful, nonsensical thing -- but I was so angry that day, I said out loud in front of her mother, "I hate her. I hate her so much right now."
And her mom Ruth, no stranger herself to strained relationships and painful journeys of the heart, took my hand in hers, and sighed and said, "Listen to me, the opposite of love isn't hate...the opposite of love is indifference." And that, in a nutshell, turned out to be the single most accurate description anyone has ever given me of what love is and what love isn't.
Our two adopted children do not yet love us. They don't exactly hate us, although out of principle, they did spend much of their first two months telling us they did, vehemently and insistently, until we took it off the table by making the words "I hate you," a disciplinary misstep in our house.
"Go ahead and feel it," my less-than-noble theory goes, "but none of us will survive this transition to new familyhood if we have to hear it out loud ten times a day." Healthy or not for their freedom of expression, nobody gets to say "I hate you" in our house anymore, and that's just the way it is. Hate your situation, but you're not going hate your dads. Not verbally anyway. That dog, children, just won't hunt. So suck it up and find a few new words to express your pain and your anger. In an early world of unteachable hurdles, at least we'll teach you that much.
And honestly, they don't really hate us. They're just adapting to a whole new rainstorm of shit from a world that's already pelted them with an umbrella load already. They like us well enough as friends and babysitters as long as they get exactly what they want and we bow to their every whim, which unfortunately, as parents, we can't do frequently. Other than that, all bets are off.
Now at the four month mark, J1 and J2 still have an ongoing and utter indifference to our existance as a whole. They've had lots of parents before, and they're duly unimpressed that we're next in line. We're no more "chosen" than a random couple on the street. No more "official" than a fart in the wind. That's how much substance we have. Glimmers of hope are present, but rare. On most days, they could clearly could care less if we love them or not, and they're certainly, vastly, unanimously uninterested in loving us back.
Geoffrey: I remember my third birthday. Not just pictures of the garden or the gifts, but who did what to whom and how it felt. My memory reaches back that far, and never once can I remember anything from you or Father warmer than indifference. Why is that?
Eleanor: I don't know.
Geoffrey: That was not an easy question for me and I don't deserve an easy answer.
Eleanor: There are times I think we loved none of our children.
Geoffrey: Still too easy, don't you think?
Eleanor: I'm weary and you want a simple answer and I haven't one.
- James Goldman, "The Lion in Winter"
Sometimes I worry that I feel like I don't love them either. I have to be very careful of how I phrase that, because someday they will inevitibly read this and wonder if I did. And the answer is yes, of course I did. I did and I do.
But as much as I love them, I equally loved the picture of who I thought they would be before they got here, and in a way, I'm already mourning for what our family didn't turn out to be.
"Parents have a mental picture of the "wished for" family. It may be vague or well-formed, but it exists. After a placement, the anticipation of the dream family is supplanted by committment to the real family. If parents unknowingly adopt a special needs child, grief follows. As these various feelings and thoughts are recognized, parents tend to move into a state of sadness, acknowledging the differences between their wishes for their child and their child's reality." - Deborah D. Gray, "Attaching in Adoption"
Of course Adam and I love them. We started loving them before they even met us, when they were just two names and two outdated snapshots on a Department of Family Services bio sheet. By the time they arrived in our home, Adam and I were so emotionally invested in the roller coaster worry of "getting or not getting" them, we wanted to cover and smother them with hugs, kisses, protection and open-armed joy on the first day we met them.
But even after four months and numerous textbook predictors, we had no idea how difficult love unreturned, coupled with a myriad of behavioral, neurological and psychological challenges, would actually be. On most days, it leaves us so emotionally drained and utterly, heartwrenchingly exhausted, it's all we can do to retreat to our bed at night and stare silently at the ceiling, each of us wrapped in our own blanket of grief, hoping to find one more ounce of energy to utter the few hopeful words that might conceivably comfort the other so we can wake up and start it all over the next day.
At hopeless times like these, it's hard to identify these children as even belonging to us. On the hardest days -- and there are many -- we feel like they can't possibly be ours. Like someone left us two very bad kids to babysit, and it's up to us to figure it out, and the real parents aren't ever coming back. We have to remind ourselves constantly that we are the real parents. And it's every bit as terrifying as it is joyful.
They remind us all the time that we're not their real dads. Don't think for a minute that turn of the biological screw escapes their arsenal. I'm amazed at the inherent ability of a six and seven-year-old to hurt us and and enjoy it. Their difficult lives have made already made them sophisticated masters of passing out pain, and whether they learned it by neglect or emulation, God help them, they do it very well. And for a long while at least, it's Adam and I who will have to pay the daily price for all the others who were collectively responsible for their mostly-missing childhood. Seven long years of other people's errors, and here it is, all for us. Turn the fan on high and toss in 365 days worth of dog turds. Times seven.
Exhausted in the midst of another scowling staredown last night, I turned to Justuce, who has recently been diagnosed with ODD, or Oppositional Defiant Disorder, yet another series of letters to Google, medicate and treat through therapy, and said to her, ""It must be so difficult to hate me this much all the time. It must take up so much of your energy. You really don't have to."
I continued in words way too grown-up for her to process, desperately hoping she might catch a glimmer of understanding, that I'm here and begging, trying so hard to reach her.
"All the sad things in your heart," I told her, "I know I can't take them all away. Nobody can. But I wish you could talk to me about them so we can try to make them not hurt so much. I promise I want to help you. I'll be the best dad I can and I'll give you so much love, but you have to come out and meet me. Talk to me about all the things that are hurting your heart. Help me help you."
And she looked at me blankly, scowled again and walked away.
Everything I need to say to her is too grown-up to say to a seven-year-old, and nobody's trained me to bring it down to her level. I need to tell her exactly what I just said, but I don't know how to do it yet in a way she'll connect to. And all of these wise old doctors and therapists and "professionals" of ours don't seem to have the language for it either.
"Parents may not understand the extent of the needs of their child until several months into the placement. By then, parents have often used all of their energy and reserves. Parents may have a reality-based perception that the quality of their lives has taken a sharp, downward turn. As parents get increasingly tired, it becomes more difficult to organize and make decisions that will benefit the family for the long haul." - Deborah D. Gray, "Attaching in Adoption"
I'm under no illusion that the addition of these two new children and their cornucopia of problems hasn't drained my reserves and completely altered my relationship with Adam in a fundamental and identity-changing way.
Where once I bragged that Adam and I never fought, never argued never shared a terse word, now I snap at him in front of houseguests when I find out Justin's three days of therapy has just turned into four. The effortless brotherhood we once so arrogantly, naively credited to the so-called strength of our own strong hearts has been replaced, diluted, called into question by the sheer exhaustion of parenting such frightfully difficult and uncaring children.
And I say that with no ill reflection on who they are, rather simply on where they are. They aren't yet ready to accept me and Adam as their parents, nor should anyone expect them to. But the fact that they haven't is still very painful. It's still demeaning to our hearts because we love them so much. We see them cuddling and cozy with everyone else but us and we feel so entirely unimportant, deflated, ridiculous and worn down. I used to spring out of bed in the morning with a smile on my lips and carpe diem in my heart. Now I wake up in the morning afraid of what each new day will bring. What new pressure or what new rejection.
Now I quietly take my little blue Zoloft, hoping it'll take the edge off the tears that will almost certainly be welling in my eyes, just below the surface, all day long. Four days out of the week, I'll reach for the Butalb my doctor prescribed to squelch the migraines that arrived, wrapped in a bow, not at all suprisingly coinciding with the exact placement date of the children. I didn't have these things before the children came, and now I do. And the fearful part of me is always thinking, "what's next?"
I want to say, "you can't imagine what it's like to work this hard and not be loved back by your children," but that would be arrogant. As sure as the day is long, a hundred of you parents out there with unruly teenagers feel the same way. Problem is, my unruly teenagers are only six and seven years old, and I didn't get the pre-school cuddling that led up to it. I have no "before" to fall back on. No wistful, "well, at least they loved me once." We hit the ground running with their built-in rejection. We prayed for them, but found out the hard way they sure as hell didn't pray for us.
I broke down crying talking to my friend Amy yesterday. She reads this blog and remembers the heartaches and challenges raising her own adopted son. We were talking about therapy and medication and how hard this all is just from a scheduling standpoint -- the enormity of trying to fit in all this special care with simple things like meals and playtime and showers and homework -- it all just seems like an impossible, ridiculous juggling act right now -- and I said, "Amy, it would be so much easier to do all this if they only just loved me a little. If they'd only just give me a glimmer of hope or throw me a bone."
And I broke down crying because (a) I feel it, and (b) I feel so selfish for feeling it.
They're just not ready to love us yet, plain and simple. It's not their job to do it and it's not in our best interest to expect it. I said to Adam yesterday, "We just have to face the reality of this. We have to do all of this, work this hard, even harder, and not expect any affection in return. For a long, long time." Note to moms and dads who plan on adopting older children. Knowing their rejection is perfectly normal doesn't make it any less likely to break your heart.
We watch Justuce and Justin happily and contentedly cuddle up to anyone but us, friends, family, people they've just met, and it fills me with such sad, complete envy, I imagine they're doing it just to spite me, and of course, they're not. They're just little kids and they just want to cuddle. They just don't want to do it with the two new pseudo-parents the State of Nevada stuck them with.
I wish it were us they were casually clinging to. We're glad they find arms to embrace them and give them shelter, because they need it so desperately, and for whatever developmental or transitional reasons, they clearly can't ask it of us yet. To love a child who needs to be loved in return, but to watch them, time after time, crawl into someone else's arms for comfort is a level of grief I never thought I'd know. "Here I am, pick me," my heart practically screams. But off they go to someone else's arms. And I have to watch it and smile, like the old Nat King Cole song, because it's fundamentally what they need the most. They just don't want it from me.
Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it's breaking
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use in crying...
And I sound like a broken record, because I've written before about the pain of this unique, unrequited love, and even though I'm tired of listening to myself too, it doesn't ever stop hurting, so here it is again.
Eleanor: What's the matter, Richard?
Richard: Nothing.
Eleanor: It's a heavy thing, your nothing. When I write or send for you or speak or reach, your nothings come. Like stones.
- James Goldman, "The Lion in Winter"
I quote "The Lion in Winter" a lot more than I probably should. It's my favorite movie, perhaps because it so deliciously, perfectly captures the heart and soul of a dysfunctional family, and Adam and I have lived in plenty of those.
I stole it's line, "your nothings come," for a long-ago poem I wrote for my own dad, who was largely absent from my life, certainly from my childhood. He made up for it at the end when it was too late and he was dying, and I love him for that, but his inaccessbility when I was young and needed him is something it's taken me a lifetime to understand.
Ironic then, that the very same poem I wrote when I was 17 for the father who was never there should come back and haunt me so completely, desribing my new childrens' lack of affection for me and how unimportant it makes me feel.
Your nothings come back.
I call, I roar, I scream to you.
But you don't see me.
I'm invisible to you.
Transparent like water is,
I hope, I beg,
I whisper, please,
But only your nothings
Always your nothings
Come back.
Moms and dads who ever contemplate this journey, let me promise you something. You can prepare yourself for resistance. You can prepare yourself for difficulty. But unwantedness, indifference...those two things are the quintessential opposite of love, and they're very hard to swallow. How in the world do you ever prepare yourself for those?
Someday, I know, I will look back on these words and thank God we got past them.
But that doesn't help me today when I'm sad and I'm tired and I'm still here trying, and only their nothings, always their nothings, come back.
Judge Smails: You'll get nothing and like it!
- John Barman and Ted Knight in "Caddyshack"
When I was 15 years old and dating Robin, I was so angry at her one day -- about what, I can't possibly remember -- she broke up with me, or I broke up with her -- the drama and passion of two teenagers in love is a frightful, nonsensical thing -- but I was so angry that day, I said out loud in front of her mother, "I hate her. I hate her so much right now."
And her mom Ruth, no stranger herself to strained relationships and painful journeys of the heart, took my hand in hers, and sighed and said, "Listen to me, the opposite of love isn't hate...the opposite of love is indifference." And that, in a nutshell, turned out to be the single most accurate description anyone has ever given me of what love is and what love isn't.
Our two adopted children do not yet love us. They don't exactly hate us, although out of principle, they did spend much of their first two months telling us they did, vehemently and insistently, until we took it off the table by making the words "I hate you," a disciplinary misstep in our house.
"Go ahead and feel it," my less-than-noble theory goes, "but none of us will survive this transition to new familyhood if we have to hear it out loud ten times a day." Healthy or not for their freedom of expression, nobody gets to say "I hate you" in our house anymore, and that's just the way it is. Hate your situation, but you're not going hate your dads. Not verbally anyway. That dog, children, just won't hunt. So suck it up and find a few new words to express your pain and your anger. In an early world of unteachable hurdles, at least we'll teach you that much.
And honestly, they don't really hate us. They're just adapting to a whole new rainstorm of shit from a world that's already pelted them with an umbrella load already. They like us well enough as friends and babysitters as long as they get exactly what they want and we bow to their every whim, which unfortunately, as parents, we can't do frequently. Other than that, all bets are off.
Now at the four month mark, J1 and J2 still have an ongoing and utter indifference to our existance as a whole. They've had lots of parents before, and they're duly unimpressed that we're next in line. We're no more "chosen" than a random couple on the street. No more "official" than a fart in the wind. That's how much substance we have. Glimmers of hope are present, but rare. On most days, they could clearly could care less if we love them or not, and they're certainly, vastly, unanimously uninterested in loving us back.
Geoffrey: I remember my third birthday. Not just pictures of the garden or the gifts, but who did what to whom and how it felt. My memory reaches back that far, and never once can I remember anything from you or Father warmer than indifference. Why is that?
Eleanor: I don't know.
Geoffrey: That was not an easy question for me and I don't deserve an easy answer.
Eleanor: There are times I think we loved none of our children.
Geoffrey: Still too easy, don't you think?
Eleanor: I'm weary and you want a simple answer and I haven't one.
- James Goldman, "The Lion in Winter"
Sometimes I worry that I feel like I don't love them either. I have to be very careful of how I phrase that, because someday they will inevitibly read this and wonder if I did. And the answer is yes, of course I did. I did and I do.
But as much as I love them, I equally loved the picture of who I thought they would be before they got here, and in a way, I'm already mourning for what our family didn't turn out to be.
"Parents have a mental picture of the "wished for" family. It may be vague or well-formed, but it exists. After a placement, the anticipation of the dream family is supplanted by committment to the real family. If parents unknowingly adopt a special needs child, grief follows. As these various feelings and thoughts are recognized, parents tend to move into a state of sadness, acknowledging the differences between their wishes for their child and their child's reality." - Deborah D. Gray, "Attaching in Adoption"
Of course Adam and I love them. We started loving them before they even met us, when they were just two names and two outdated snapshots on a Department of Family Services bio sheet. By the time they arrived in our home, Adam and I were so emotionally invested in the roller coaster worry of "getting or not getting" them, we wanted to cover and smother them with hugs, kisses, protection and open-armed joy on the first day we met them.
But even after four months and numerous textbook predictors, we had no idea how difficult love unreturned, coupled with a myriad of behavioral, neurological and psychological challenges, would actually be. On most days, it leaves us so emotionally drained and utterly, heartwrenchingly exhausted, it's all we can do to retreat to our bed at night and stare silently at the ceiling, each of us wrapped in our own blanket of grief, hoping to find one more ounce of energy to utter the few hopeful words that might conceivably comfort the other so we can wake up and start it all over the next day.
At hopeless times like these, it's hard to identify these children as even belonging to us. On the hardest days -- and there are many -- we feel like they can't possibly be ours. Like someone left us two very bad kids to babysit, and it's up to us to figure it out, and the real parents aren't ever coming back. We have to remind ourselves constantly that we are the real parents. And it's every bit as terrifying as it is joyful.
They remind us all the time that we're not their real dads. Don't think for a minute that turn of the biological screw escapes their arsenal. I'm amazed at the inherent ability of a six and seven-year-old to hurt us and and enjoy it. Their difficult lives have made already made them sophisticated masters of passing out pain, and whether they learned it by neglect or emulation, God help them, they do it very well. And for a long while at least, it's Adam and I who will have to pay the daily price for all the others who were collectively responsible for their mostly-missing childhood. Seven long years of other people's errors, and here it is, all for us. Turn the fan on high and toss in 365 days worth of dog turds. Times seven.
Exhausted in the midst of another scowling staredown last night, I turned to Justuce, who has recently been diagnosed with ODD, or Oppositional Defiant Disorder, yet another series of letters to Google, medicate and treat through therapy, and said to her, ""It must be so difficult to hate me this much all the time. It must take up so much of your energy. You really don't have to."
I continued in words way too grown-up for her to process, desperately hoping she might catch a glimmer of understanding, that I'm here and begging, trying so hard to reach her.
"All the sad things in your heart," I told her, "I know I can't take them all away. Nobody can. But I wish you could talk to me about them so we can try to make them not hurt so much. I promise I want to help you. I'll be the best dad I can and I'll give you so much love, but you have to come out and meet me. Talk to me about all the things that are hurting your heart. Help me help you."
And she looked at me blankly, scowled again and walked away.
Everything I need to say to her is too grown-up to say to a seven-year-old, and nobody's trained me to bring it down to her level. I need to tell her exactly what I just said, but I don't know how to do it yet in a way she'll connect to. And all of these wise old doctors and therapists and "professionals" of ours don't seem to have the language for it either.
"Parents may not understand the extent of the needs of their child until several months into the placement. By then, parents have often used all of their energy and reserves. Parents may have a reality-based perception that the quality of their lives has taken a sharp, downward turn. As parents get increasingly tired, it becomes more difficult to organize and make decisions that will benefit the family for the long haul." - Deborah D. Gray, "Attaching in Adoption"
I'm under no illusion that the addition of these two new children and their cornucopia of problems hasn't drained my reserves and completely altered my relationship with Adam in a fundamental and identity-changing way.
Where once I bragged that Adam and I never fought, never argued never shared a terse word, now I snap at him in front of houseguests when I find out Justin's three days of therapy has just turned into four. The effortless brotherhood we once so arrogantly, naively credited to the so-called strength of our own strong hearts has been replaced, diluted, called into question by the sheer exhaustion of parenting such frightfully difficult and uncaring children.
And I say that with no ill reflection on who they are, rather simply on where they are. They aren't yet ready to accept me and Adam as their parents, nor should anyone expect them to. But the fact that they haven't is still very painful. It's still demeaning to our hearts because we love them so much. We see them cuddling and cozy with everyone else but us and we feel so entirely unimportant, deflated, ridiculous and worn down. I used to spring out of bed in the morning with a smile on my lips and carpe diem in my heart. Now I wake up in the morning afraid of what each new day will bring. What new pressure or what new rejection.
Now I quietly take my little blue Zoloft, hoping it'll take the edge off the tears that will almost certainly be welling in my eyes, just below the surface, all day long. Four days out of the week, I'll reach for the Butalb my doctor prescribed to squelch the migraines that arrived, wrapped in a bow, not at all suprisingly coinciding with the exact placement date of the children. I didn't have these things before the children came, and now I do. And the fearful part of me is always thinking, "what's next?"
I want to say, "you can't imagine what it's like to work this hard and not be loved back by your children," but that would be arrogant. As sure as the day is long, a hundred of you parents out there with unruly teenagers feel the same way. Problem is, my unruly teenagers are only six and seven years old, and I didn't get the pre-school cuddling that led up to it. I have no "before" to fall back on. No wistful, "well, at least they loved me once." We hit the ground running with their built-in rejection. We prayed for them, but found out the hard way they sure as hell didn't pray for us.
I broke down crying talking to my friend Amy yesterday. She reads this blog and remembers the heartaches and challenges raising her own adopted son. We were talking about therapy and medication and how hard this all is just from a scheduling standpoint -- the enormity of trying to fit in all this special care with simple things like meals and playtime and showers and homework -- it all just seems like an impossible, ridiculous juggling act right now -- and I said, "Amy, it would be so much easier to do all this if they only just loved me a little. If they'd only just give me a glimmer of hope or throw me a bone."
And I broke down crying because (a) I feel it, and (b) I feel so selfish for feeling it.
They're just not ready to love us yet, plain and simple. It's not their job to do it and it's not in our best interest to expect it. I said to Adam yesterday, "We just have to face the reality of this. We have to do all of this, work this hard, even harder, and not expect any affection in return. For a long, long time." Note to moms and dads who plan on adopting older children. Knowing their rejection is perfectly normal doesn't make it any less likely to break your heart.
We watch Justuce and Justin happily and contentedly cuddle up to anyone but us, friends, family, people they've just met, and it fills me with such sad, complete envy, I imagine they're doing it just to spite me, and of course, they're not. They're just little kids and they just want to cuddle. They just don't want to do it with the two new pseudo-parents the State of Nevada stuck them with.
I wish it were us they were casually clinging to. We're glad they find arms to embrace them and give them shelter, because they need it so desperately, and for whatever developmental or transitional reasons, they clearly can't ask it of us yet. To love a child who needs to be loved in return, but to watch them, time after time, crawl into someone else's arms for comfort is a level of grief I never thought I'd know. "Here I am, pick me," my heart practically screams. But off they go to someone else's arms. And I have to watch it and smile, like the old Nat King Cole song, because it's fundamentally what they need the most. They just don't want it from me.
Smile though your heart is aching
Smile even though it's breaking
That's the time you must keep on trying
Smile, what's the use in crying...
And I sound like a broken record, because I've written before about the pain of this unique, unrequited love, and even though I'm tired of listening to myself too, it doesn't ever stop hurting, so here it is again.
Eleanor: What's the matter, Richard?
Richard: Nothing.
Eleanor: It's a heavy thing, your nothing. When I write or send for you or speak or reach, your nothings come. Like stones.
- James Goldman, "The Lion in Winter"
I quote "The Lion in Winter" a lot more than I probably should. It's my favorite movie, perhaps because it so deliciously, perfectly captures the heart and soul of a dysfunctional family, and Adam and I have lived in plenty of those.
I stole it's line, "your nothings come," for a long-ago poem I wrote for my own dad, who was largely absent from my life, certainly from my childhood. He made up for it at the end when it was too late and he was dying, and I love him for that, but his inaccessbility when I was young and needed him is something it's taken me a lifetime to understand.
Ironic then, that the very same poem I wrote when I was 17 for the father who was never there should come back and haunt me so completely, desribing my new childrens' lack of affection for me and how unimportant it makes me feel.
Your nothings come back.
I call, I roar, I scream to you.
But you don't see me.
I'm invisible to you.
Transparent like water is,
I hope, I beg,
I whisper, please,
But only your nothings
Always your nothings
Come back.
Moms and dads who ever contemplate this journey, let me promise you something. You can prepare yourself for resistance. You can prepare yourself for difficulty. But unwantedness, indifference...those two things are the quintessential opposite of love, and they're very hard to swallow. How in the world do you ever prepare yourself for those?
Someday, I know, I will look back on these words and thank God we got past them.
But that doesn't help me today when I'm sad and I'm tired and I'm still here trying, and only their nothings, always their nothings, come back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)