Found this post on Wife of the Rockstars blog. It spoke to me. I wish I could put this on a fly bill and pass them out at church, send them to teachers in the handy "news from home" envelope, and frame some as lasting reminders for our extended family. I would make it required reading for company--complete with quiz following. Perhaps have some printed in track size for nosey strangers in the grocery store, library, or salon. My additions and alterations in pink

My child has RAD. Reactive Attachment Disordered that is.
And to you she is the most adorable, affectionate, loving child you have ever met. SHe melts you with every smile. He warms your heart with his engaging disposition. I would have to say, "wraps you around her finger with her shy, soft-spoken words, and long-lashed beautiful blue eyes that seem to entreat you, 'love me.'"
In your Sunday school class she is the most well behaved student you have.
In your classroom she always listens and obeys and looks for ways to be helpful.
When you come to our home to visit, she will grab your hand and show you around. SHe will hug you and make you feel like you are the most welcome guest we have ever had. SHe may even convince you that you have some sort of special bond with her.
It is hard for me to tell you that you are not special at all. In fact she does this with everyone. SHe does this with the creepy guy at the mall. SHe does this with the checkout lady at the food store. In fact he does this with just about everyone she meets. Marina does not do this UNLESS the stranger has something tangible that she wants. Then it is like a kiddie version of fatal attraction. Do you realize how vulnerable that makes her? Can you imagine how terrified I am as a mother, wondering how this behaviour will manifest itself at sixteen? And Marina's RAD is extremely MILD.
Except for me.
When I tell you what our life is like you look at me like I am crazy. Oh, yes, how well I remember from Marina's toddler days. You wonder how on earth such a sweet child could do or be all of the things I have said. You start questioning our parenting. You begin wondering if it is really us that has the issues.You just see this cute little child.
You aren't here when she tantrums and screams. You aren't here when she refuses to eat. You aren't here when she eats until she is ill. Thanking God we are passed this. You aren't here for the constant chatter. You aren't here when she stays awake all hours of the night. You aren't here when she triangulates us. Or when she does every possible annoying thing she can think of to each of her siblings. Or steals and hoards their prize possessions. You aren't here when she won't share her toys or when she goes crazy because one of her little siblings took something away. Or when she takes her baby sister's training pants or her brother's GI Joe party favor bag--things she couldn't possibly want or need--simply because they had them and she didn't.
You don't see how she can't make eye contact. Or how she fidgets when I come close to her. Or how he gags himself in time out. For us this sentence should read, "Or how she throws herself on the floor like someone having an epileptic seizure when she is disciplined." You just don't see it.
Yes, she is an adorable child.
But, she also has RAD. We don't love her any less. We just have to parent her very different.

We had something come up today with Marina that we've worked and worked and worked with her over. I thought we were passed it, but apparently I was wrong. It is looking like we will simply have to remove the choice--as we did with her wardrobe--from her. Undoubtedly, our life will run more smoothly as a result. Because she will not be put in the position to make the wrong choice over and over and over again. But at what cost? Each time we do this, I feel an enormous sense of defeat.

A Picture's Worth

I decided it wasn't the right time to discuss the outburst. We had dinner, and ball practice and aerobics. As the days went by, no time seemed exactly "right." I mentioned it to the master and we both agreed that we should sit down and talk to her about how she was feeling. Funny how when you don't really want to do something, the opportune moment never presents itself. And besides, HOW was I to go about it? I can't just sit my five year old down and say, "Hey, let's talk adoption." Well, I suppose I could, but I doubt any productive outcome would spring from a forced, one-sided lecture. I drew a blank on how to introduce the topic naturally.
The incident had all but slipped my mind, until Wednesday night. I was discussing with the children's mission class about passports, what they were, and why missionaries needed them. I asked the class if any of them had passports. We have two children from Mexico and I mentioned that Marina had two passports. A Russian one and an American one. I smiled at Marina. She did not smile back.
When we got home I had the other children ready for bed and asked Marina to bring a piece of paper and some crayons from the art cabinet. I asked her to draw a picture of her family. She took her dear sweet time, savoring this unexpected reprieve from bedtime. She drew grass and a flower and clouds and then started on the people. She chatted as she drew,
"I'm drawing Abby first because she let me play in her room today...and you have a mouth Mommy, and TEETH...I'm drawing Daddy with two legs, because it is day time. Before he takes his fake leg off..." This was taking longer than I bargained for, but it was fun, and she was enjoying herself immensely. She drew the stick figures, and I added names above each head. As she finished up K and Ian, I began to second guess myself. As I looked at her drawing I thought:

She has drawn our family. The page is full. Complete. It is a good drawing, and she is happy. Why say anything to change it? No one else belongs there! Is it really so important that I bring painful stuff up? Just hug her, post her picture on the fridge and send her to bed. This hurts, and I don't like it.

I said, "Marina, someone is missing from your picture. How about you draw your birthmother?"

Instantly she stiffened. She looked at me with eyes that seemed to be waiting for a trap to spring.

I tried again, "Could you draw your birthmother?"

"I don't know." She shrugged.

"Well, just try, o.k.?"

"There isn't room." The voice that sparkled with enthusiasm seconds before was dull and lifeless. Maybe this was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

Trying to keep my tone light, "Sure there is! You can draw her right here next to you."

Seeing that I was not going to let it go, she reluctantly picked up a crayon and added another head to the picture. I was relieved to see that the figure did not look different than the other, smiling heads. If she had drawn something morbid or grotesque, I'm not sure what I would have done. Probably would have called it quits and started searching for a therapist on the spot. I asked Marina if she remembered her birthmother' name. She said she didn't--even though we've told her on several occasions that she has her birthmother's name. I wrote 'Marina' above the head, and to differentiate between the two Marina's, added her last name. By this time, the master had gotten the other children to bed and joined us in the living area. I suggested she give her birthmother some hair. She picked up a yellow crayon and I said, "Yes, I think she might have blond hair like you." She glared at me, put down the yellow crayon and exchanged it for brown. She colored in long brown hair. But then she proceeded to color her hair, mine, and Abby's brown and Cara's orange, so I'm not sure that had any significance. She gave the boys sprigs and then let Daddy tease her about not giving him any hair. Her smile came out again and she relaxed. "Daddy, you don't have any hair!"
I made several suggestions trying to get her to explore what her birthmother might look like, but she resisted this, and I had to let it drop. When the picture was finished the second time, I pulled her into my lap and brought out the infamous bag of rice. I reminded her of the conversation and I asked her why she had punched the picture of the lady. She said she didn't remember hitting the rice. And maybe she didn't. This is a child who, if over-stimulated, stressed, or physically tired (at this point, she was most likely all three) cannot remember her own name. I wasn't getting where I wanted to with this line of questioning. I dropped the rice bag, swung her in a cradle hold, took a deep breath and sailed in:

"Marina, I know you may feel sad and confused when you think about your birthmother. It is o.k. to feel sad. But I hope you will not be angry with her. She couldn't take care of a baby. Any baby. She was sick. Not like when you get a cold sick, but very, very sick. You needed someone to take care of you and she just couldn't give you what you needed. She hoped you would be adopted. And you were! God gave you to us to be our little girl and we love you very much."

So I am crying now, and tears are standing in Marina's eyes. I know I said some other things about trying to meet her birthmother when we were in Russia and telling her how sorry I was that we didn't have a picture but knowing her birthmother must have been very beautiful because she is so beautiful....Maybe she needed to hear my ramblings, and maybe she didn't. But I needed to say it.

Anyway, we did finally kiss her and send her off to bed. She went calmly and quietly, but just as she reached her bedroom, I thought I heard her make a faint noise. Was it a sob? The master went to check on her. I felt emotionally spent and talked out. He stopped at her door and listened. She was laying in her bed weeping. Heart-broken, gut-wrenching sobs. Children should not have to cry like that. They shouldn't. Ever. Outside the room he cried with her for a few moments, but when he went in to comfort her, she tried to dry it up and hide that she had been crying. She's hurting, but she is not letting us in. It's as though....as though she is trying to be strong for us. Is that possible?

Perhaps it was enough to cry? The tears may have been the release she needed for now. Or did I only dredge up my daughter's sorrow unnecessarily? How can I know if I am doing the right thing?

Feeling Like a Mommy

Debbie and Suz posted this week regarding bonding with their children. Since this is a topic that has fascinated me for some time, I thought I would post regarding how I've bonded with each of my babies. At times I've been surprised, others amazed, and even disgusted by my responses to motherhood. I'll try to keep it brief, as it could get lengthy with six kids, and honest. This is a journey I'm on and I haven't arrived. Far from it! In so many ways, I'm learning to love my children more and more.
K--instant love vs. instant panic. I remember at first sight of him, from behind the nursery glass, pressing my hand to the pane and whispering with a post-anesthesia croak, "That's my baby...that's my baby." In the most literal sense of the word, it was an incredible thought. I couldn't believe I was a mother. I was just turned twenty and HAD NO IDEA WHAT I WAS DOING WITH A BABY. Any ooey gooey "love" feelings were shadowed by an overwhelming sense of responsibility. I remember thinking, "There is no possible way they are going to let me out of this hospital with a kid," but they did. The master and I had taken a parenting class before he was born, and we clung to it for dear life. If the book said do it, we did. If it said don't, we didn't. Bless his heart, the child was treated more like a science experiment than a baby...but we were so afraid of screwing up! I just knew we were headed down the road to disaster when K didn't take to the breast well, and I had to supplement him with the bottle. I went back to class two weeks after he was born, which compounded my new mommy guilt. I'd failed him! It wasn't until he was around three months old that I stopped looking for the baby police to show up at my door, and it wasn't until six months that I thought, "Wow! This mommy thing is kind of fun. I think I'm going to like this job." As for K himself, he was an adorable baby with a happy, content disposition, which always helps. I do wonder if our stress in parenting him has made him put undo pressure on himself. He can be quite critical of himself. He is mature for his age with many responsibilities and I sometimes forget that he still needs to be treated like a child.
Abby--like mother, like daughter. When Abby arrived two years later, I was much more confident in my role as mother. I was out of school and only working a few days a week. She came on the day she was scheduled, a beautiful child, nursed like a champ and slept through the night by two months. It was easy to bond with her. As she grew and developed personality, we soon realized that she and I are very much alike--to an eery degree. With Abby there are few surprises. I can predict how she will respond to most anything; it's exactly as I would. Now, I'm not saying that is always a good thing, but it is comfortable.
Ian-my Mansie. Ian's pregnancy was not planned. It wasn't that we didn't want more children. We just didn't plan on them making an arrival any time soon. To be honest, I wasn't excited at all to hear I was expecting, and I felt guilty for that. It was my most difficult pregnancy physically (though I know that none of them were truly "difficult" when compared to others'), and I was swollen and miserable. The last two weeks, I was on total bed rest. I have no memories of his birth or the three days following his delivery that we spent in the hospital. What I do remember is the first night we brought him home. He became sick and I sat up with him all night in the rocking chair. That is when I started to fall in love with him. The next day, he was admitted back in the hospital. The nursery being full, we were placed on the otherwise empty pediatric hall, where we spent the next ten days alone together. Me and him. Him and me. Nursing, snuggling, and sleeping. It was the best thing that could have happened to us. To this day, he is my most affectionate baby and I have spoiled him terribly.
Marina--a process. I've tried to share openly on my blogs about our struggles and our victories. I don't know what kind of picture that leaves you with. There are days I'm not certain what our relationship looks like, and I'm living it. Please have no doubt that I love my daughter. I've loved Marina since the day we were handed her referral picture, or at least, I've been in love with the idea of her. And maybe that was part of the problem. I believe the unnatural length of time pre-adoptive parents are "expecting" hinders more than helps the attachment process. It wasn't that we were uneducated about attachment in adoption or the post-institutionalized child, we were. And it wasn't that we didn't know she could very well have special needs; her prenatal exposure and risks were clearly explained. But head knowledge and heart knowledge are two vastly different things. On the one hand, I can honestly say that--if anything--I love Marina more fiercely than the others because ours is a bond that has been tested by fire. On the other hand, in the day-to-day stuff of life, she gets under my skin the fastest and I stay irritated with her the longest. That's the ugly truth, but I'm working on changing it.
Randy--we're all good. I was battle worn and weary from parenting an angry, confused, traumatized toddler (none of which was her fault) and baby Randy restored my faith in myself. Here was something I knew, here was something I was good at. Believing wholeheartily that Randy would be my last infant, I made up my mind to savor the moments. From late night nursings, to first steps, and yes, even potty training...this was my last time, I might as well enjoy it. That philosophy made for a sweet, strong bond with my son. Wish I had caught on to it sooner!
Cara--miracle child. She was a surprise blessing which made her all the more special and, as with Ian, I was able to spend the first three weeks alone with her in the hospital. Being with her from the beginning, I can tell you there is no difference in the way I bonded with her and my birth children. She is my second "last time," and we are loving every minute. I have the most tender, protective feelings for her. She is a living, breathing miracle and not a day passes that I am not again awed that God chose us to be her parents. If she ever becomes ill, my heart will break in two.

Hi/Lo Thursday

This post is part of "Hi/Lo Thursday" on the Riggs Family Blog. Check out their blog to read everyone else's "Hi/Lo" posts and get your link on their site.

This looked like a great post format, so I thought I would try it out. I'm sad that I won't bring more attention to Abby's cause. I don't get much "traffic" on my blog, but my few readers are true friends. The Riggs family is an inspiration. I'm going to flip-flop it though, so we end on a good note.

Lows- I lost it with Marina and the whole clothes situation. Again. She brought a shirt to me for approval during wardrobe lay out time that the day before I told her was too little for her and no longer appropriate to wear outside the home. I actually went over it twice, because Abby came in the middle of my explanation and asked what was wrong with the shirt. I clearly reiterated my objections to the amount of midriff the shirt revealed and sent Marina back to her room with the parting instructions that the shirt was now only to be worn as play clothes around the house. So when she parades the shirt in front of my face, two seconds after I've sent her to find school clothes for the next day, I came unglued. Petty? Yes. Silly? Yes. "It is just a shirt," you say? I know!! I know!!! But it is the little things that send me into orbit the fastest. After all, Chinese Torture is only a little drop of water! What's so terrible about that? It is the repeated drip, drip, drip, hour after hour, day after day, that drives a man insane. So it goes with motherhood. Long after my blow-up, I was able to ascertain that:
a) She remembers that EVERY time--without fail--she has put on an article of clothing against my instructions, she has gotten in trouble. AND she has not been allowed to wear the clothing in question.
b) She remembered (verbatim) what I said about not wearing the shirt.
c) She saw the shirt and thought, "Mommy says I am not supposed to wear this."
d) Her next thought was, "I am going to do it anyway."
Notice the disconnect between a-c and d? If you wonder why she does not stop and make the deduction (based on these facts and the 1,000,000+ previous encounters of a similar nature) that there will be negative consequences for bringing the shirt to me, and therefor she should put the shirt back and choose another of the PLETHORA of available outfits, WELCOME TO THE CLUB! This would be a logical, basic judgement progression even for a five year old. But Marina's brain does not work that way, and my getting angry certainly does not help it work any more effectively. On the contrary, after my yelling fit, it was hours before she regained the ability to use whole sentences.

High-This evening the same little girl asked me if she could make the juice for supper. I allowed her, but she was unable to dissolve all of the concentrate. I took the spoon and, with a few quick strokes, blended what remained.
Marina: I could not stir that hard. You are stronger.
Me:distracted in the rush to get supper on the table. You did a great job, baby. I just got the last little bit.
Marina: Someday, I will be strong and will be able to stir it all up.
Me: MmmHmm....
Marina: Someday, I will grow up and be a mommy. Just like you.

That's a great high. Though I secretly hope that she will be a much, much better Mommy than me.

Those Three Little Words

I love you. How many times have we told her? A million. In a million different ways. It was our constant refrain those first few months after she came home. We love you! Daddy loves you! Everyone prayed for you! Everyone loves you!
I love you.
Oh, she fought that love. To some degree with her daddy, but most violently from me. I would cuddle her; she would stiffen. I'd look at her with my heart in my eyes; she would stare through me with hatred. I'd whisper words of tenderness; she would scream and claw at my face. Though I had laughed when first reading them, I found myself repeating the scripted words of Holding Time, "You are strong. But I am stronger. My love is strong enough to hold you." It became my mantra for 18 months. Looking back, I don't think it was true. Only God's love is that strong. Strong enough to hold both of us.
Long after the rages subsided, she could not respond to our verbal expressions of love. She could talk--in sentences--yet somehow those three words eluded her. "I want oatmeal." "Where is my book?" were no problem, but at night when we would tuck her in and whisper, "I love you," she would reply, "cabritogel," or some other nonsense. It never sounded like, "I love you." Not even close.
It wasn't until Abby and Marina became roommates that display of passive resistance disappeared. I tell you, that child cannot bear to be excluded from anything, and occasionally that works to our advantage. I would say, "Goodnight, girls, I love you."
Abby: I love you, Mommy!
Marina: expressionless I. love. you. too.
Empty words, disconnected and meaningless.
I'll never forget the day last spring when Marina crept up behind my lawn chair. We were out with the daycare kids enjoying the beautiful sunshine. She put her hand on my shoulder, "Mommy." "Hmm?" "I love you." I couldn't believe my ears. Did I just imagine those words? I pulled her around to face me. She couldn't look at me in the eye, she stared at the ground, embarrassed. She said it! She actually said it! She LOVES me! Breath, Jessica, breath. Act like this is commonplace....DON'T OVERREACT!!!! "I--I love you, too, Baby." I gave her a quick hug, and she smiled and ran off to play. I cried.
The next day was the Hair Cutting Day. A day that will live in infamy. On the following occasion Marina told me she loved me, she painted the side of her bed with blood-red fingernail polish. The third time, she followed her expression of affection by destroying a half dozen of our outdoor playthings. When she was spanked for her actions, she grabbed the spoon from my hands and tried to attack me.
I may be slow, but I'm starting to see a pattern here. Sunday, out of nowhere, Marina looked me right in the eyes and said, "Mommy, I love you." "I love you, Marina." And while those words still hold so much sweetness for me, I dread the sting. Sure enough, she pushed all my buttons yesterday. Thank goodness the master didn't go into P*p* John's. He ran interference for me in the evening, when her acting out had reached a crescendo. You see, armed with my new suspicions of how this whole "I love you" thing was playing out, I was able to keep my cool. And she was growing desperate.
In the end, she succeeded. Her daddy put her to bed at 8:00 and told her to lay down and be still, so she did the opposite. When I went to get the baby up for her 10:00 bottle, I found her jumping like a maniac around the room she had trashed. She had opened all of her sister's special treasures, and gorged herself on a sack of hoarded Halloween candy. I haven't found any signs that she urinated on anything, but it doesn't mean that I won't. I could tell she was glad to finally have been discovered. I admit, I lost it.
The master administered her actual punishment, but I found myself yelling at her: "I know why you are doing this. I KNOW WHY! You told me you loved me yesterday. And now you are trying to push me away. You can't make me stop loving you! It doesn't matter what you do! I love you, and you are stuck with me! Do you hear me? I am your mother FOREVER!" Not the usual choice of speech for a butt chewing, but that is what is overflowing from my heart in those angry, confused, frustrated moments. And for her, them's fightin' words. She is afraid of the love she feels, the love she needs.
I don't know how to handle this. But I know when I'm yelling, she is winning. This is a battle she cannot afford to win. Heaven help us, how would her marriage survive the honeymoon? Based on my research, the best approach would be to not react negatively to her negative behavior (so far, I've been a total wash out with that) and have her spend every waking moment with me following any vocal expression of love. This ought to make for some interesting notes to the teacher:

Please excuse Marina for her absence on Tuesday. She told me she loved me on Monday.

She Has It All Figured Out

I have always been the subject of my children's first drawings. Usually, I'm pictured under a rainbow, or beside a darling house with a smoking chimney. Sometimes I'm seen skipping through exceptionally large wildflowers and sometimes I'm grasping a bouquet of "roses." Other times I'm holding a baby or the artist's hand. Added to the artwork there is typically a great profusion of hearts and X's and O's and even the occasional careful inscription, "ILUVMOM." And I am forever smiling.
Last Christmas, my mom gave Marina a M*gn* Doodle. And early last spring Marina's first real drawings emerged. Sure enough one of her first exclamations was, "Look, Momma, I drawed a picture of you." But lifting the screen to admire her work, I saw a stick figure with hair, two arms, and two legs...and a huge scowl on it's face. Where were the wild flowers? Where were the kisses and hugs? Where was my enormous, stretching-from-one-side-to-the-other smile?

Me: Marina, honey, you drew it very well, but why did you draw me with a frown?
Marina: Well, I can't draw it good the other way.
Me: Oh, I'll help you.

So we erased the frowning mommy and I helped her several times with making the U shape. Over the next few months, my sinister expression kept re-appearing on the M*gn* Doodle. It got to where--when I saw her busy with the pen--I would catch her attention and flash her my broadest grin, "See, Marina? I'm smiling. Mommy is happy. I like to smile. Please draw me smiling, Rina."
And that seemed to help. While I didn't star in any wild flower fields, at least I didn't look ready to carve some one's liver. But on Friday, Marina was working on the carpet with her precious Doodle, snickering all the while. After a few minutes she sat back on her haunches, evidently pleased with her masterpiece. She brought the Doodle over to me on the couch. The screen was 3/4 ths the way covered with scribbles and in the top right hand corner was a stick figure with two eyes and a big frown.

Marina: pointing Look Mommy...this is you.
Me: inwardly sighing Marina, why am I frowning?
Marina: indicating large mass of scribbles 'Cause this is a tornado, and it is about to carry you away. She does not seem troubled whatsoever over my sudden and traumatic departure, but rather impressed with her own ingenuity in writing me out of her life's screenplay.
Me: extensionally also impressed, somewhat amused, and mildly alarmed. My attachment sensors just went on full alert But, if I went away in a tornado, who would take care of you?

Marina pauses, then a light seems to dawn. She grabs the Doodle and goes back to the carpet. I'm thinking she has realized that perhaps my being spirited away in a whirlwind would not be best and is revamping her artwork. Guess again.

Marina: excitedly I have enough room at the bottom...I can draw Daddy...He will take care of me when the tornado take you away.

Sigh