10 Tidbits that aren't going on the Family and Friends Blog

1.  We have mice in our garage.  The kids are half terrified and half fascinated.  I'm just grossed out.
2.  Oak hasn't had any weird peeing incidents in about four days.  That we know of.
3.  The scratch on Oak's back has finally healed.  This is from when he was running from me after being defiant, and I tried to grab his shoulder and instead put a 2 inch scrape down his back with my fingernail.  How's THAT for guilt? 
4.  I was trying to think of some fair-but-realistic limits to screen time, and realized that any reasonable amount of time would be such a drastic cut-back from what we're now allowing them that it will cause a revolt.  And I was RAISED WITH NO TV.  So I am also experiencing serious guilt about allowing my kids to spend so much time on videos/games/Smart phones.
5.  Our kids go to bed at 11:00 at night.
6.  I buy them treats every fucking time I go to the grocery store.  It's ridiculous.  I justify it by pointing out that our therapist told us that until they really "get" what family is about, they need to equate mom and dad with food, which will mean mom and dad = joy, which eventually will mean mom and dad = love.  But I'm afraid that they're learning mom=easy touch at the grocery store.
7.  I keep forgetting to put sunscreen on everyone, and I'm the only person in the family who isn't sunburned now.
8.  I worry that I already love Linden, but sometimes don't even like Oak.  I know they aren't supposed to be good to "earn" my love, and I know why he behaves the way he does.  I know he has no reason to trust me, as I'm his fourth Mama, and have only known him six weeks.  I know he desperately needs me to love him wholeheartedly no matter what he does.  But when he does something shitty to someone then smirks, "Oops, I'm sorry," I have trouble keeping it all in perspective. 
9.  I worry that I love Linden because she's so cute and cuddly and tries so hard to do the right thing, and that this is going to be a lifelong pattern for her that will mess her up in a big way.  I worry that she'll get pregnant at 14 because she thinks she has to be cute and physically affectionate to get love and that she won't value her own boundaries.  I worry that she'll think she has to be perfect in order to deserve love. 
10.  Due to some questions about sexual play at the orphanage, I sleep in Linden's room and the Winemaker sleeps in Oak's room.  We feel that this is keeping them safe from each other and bad patterns of behavior, but it's not doing much for our sex life, or even cuddling time. 

Too much?

We've been keeping the kids busy the past several days.  Yesterday we went from the eye clinic to the air/space museum to the park to dinner to playing with the newly discovered neighborhood kids. Today we went from bike rides to watching the new neighbor friend's dance recital to a picnic to the amusement park to dinner to more bike rides and more neighborhood kid playing.  We have had no unwarranted peeing, mooning, throwing, or raging in that time.  Yet I feel uncomfortable with the pace.  Everything I read says, "Slow down, less stimulus, more quiet family time."  When we slow down, the kids get bored, and when they get bored, all hell breaks loose.  So are we just postponing the inevitable by keeping them constantly entertained?

I'm adding this to my running mental list of things to discuss with our adoption therapist next week.  The only problem is, my brain is so overwhelmed right now, "mental list" might as well read "burn pile."  Whatever.  I'm sure we'll have plenty to discuss with her regardless. 

First Report from the Home Front

June 30

When I tucked my kids into bed tonight, on this their second day in our country, we talked about what a good day we’d had.  We took a walk on a nature trail, they met and played with their cousin, we got 26 books at the library.  “And I got presents!” added Oak.  “And I got presents too!” added Linden, who is always trying to keep right up with her big brother. 

We’ve legally been their parents for nine days.  We’ve been their caregivers for two weeks.  Today they mooned me (I mean, spread buttcheeks and all), threw an apple at my head, smeared bananas over two windows, tried to sneak a mustard bottle into their bedrooms, locked me out of the house twice (yes, the second time I had figured out to keep a key in my pocket), cracked an egg on Linden’s brand new pillow (which yesterday they spilled orange juice on), peed on the nature trail six times, and, well, there’s more, but you get the idea.  Yet it really was a good day.  When I think about that, the reality of what we’re doing really hits me.  I don’t think I know any parents that would consider this a good day.  Somewhere in there my husband vomited into the guest bathroom sink, which clogged it, and I think having to clean that out wars with concern for him for feeling so terrible as my two biggest downers of the day. 

The rest of it I pretty much just rolled with, and since things never got beyond a certain point, we were able to have fun together.  Other than the peeing, I loved taking the walk with them.  They grumbled about it all the way down our street and around the corner, then when we stepped onto the nature trail, Oak gasped, “Is it a forest?!?”  They eagerly spotted birds and squirrels.  They dashed ahead of me, but stayed on the path and always stopped at the pre-arranged point I’d set.  They told me stories, very few of which I understood, but I loved the animation in their faces and their eagerness to share with me.  After the last few days (and the public peeing today), I had been concerned about them getting together with their cousin for the first time, but it went swimmingly.  She eagerly handed them gifts, which they eagerly ripped open right there in the parking lot of the park we’d decided to meet at, and their delight needed no translation.  “How did they know I wanted Legos?” wondered Oak, so “How did they know I love Barbie?” echoed Linden.  The kids played on the play structure together, our niece filled up her water bottle from the drinking fountain for them, and my two “Yuck, I don’t drink water” kids took turns gulping it down.  I translated the Lithuanian rules of Tag, and they had a rousing game.  The dads supervised more games on the play structure while I sat with my sister-in-law and talked about parenting.  Our niece is lovely, bright and willful and charming.  I know my kids’ behavior right now is extreme and atypical, but it still helped to hear some of the challenges my in-laws have with their kid.  After we left the park, the kids were delighted with the library, grabbing any book that caught their eye once they realized I wasn’t going to set much of a limit, while the librarian quickly located a half dozen wordless books for me, so we can “read” together.  We came home and they dove into their gifts, ate their dinner, asked for their baths, and climbed into bed of their own free will, happy to be settled in with their new stuffed dogs, their library books, and their new nightlights.  It was a good day, indeed.

We leave for the airport in four hours.

I seem to have gone from no blogs to one blog to fifteen dozen blogs in no time flat.  I was writing about things in my life, namely grieving my mother's death, adjusting to being one of my father's caregivers, and preparing for adoption.  In an effort to get myself to blog somewhat regularly and to set my standards higher than just journaling for myself, I announced my blog to my friends and family.  This led to a certain amount of self-censorship.  So I started an unannounced blog, which had a readership of zero, because who knew it existed?  Then one of the really great adoption bloggers I read aked her readers to leave their blog names for her blog roll, so I leapt in and did so.  Still no readers, and by then I was developing a gnawing sense that I'd give the blog the wrong name, as mentioned before.  So I created this blog, named more appropriately, and meant as a place for me to be as honest as I felt comfortable with.  But the one blog roll I'm on lists the blog I no longer use.  Next, our adoption suddenly sped up, and friends and family were clamoring for details.  (Clamoring, I tell you!)  So I started focusing more on the f & f blog.  Then my husband got all forlorn about it, and wanted to start an adoption blog WITH me, not just join the one I had going.  Which brings us up to, let's see, carry the seven, factor of x--does anyone remember, when you're multiplying fractions, do you just go straight across the top and the bottom?--yes, I was right, fifteen dozen blogs. 

And since this is the blunt one, I guess this is the place to say I'm more than a little concerned at how much I'm eating and spending money right now.  I'm like some parody of a pregnant, nesting woman.  But I'm not growing my kids in my body, and there was NO REASON to buy matching bath towels at 10:30 the night before we leave the country to get them.  We ALREADY HAVE bath towels.  And I knew that.  But I bought them anyway.  We are living on one income and are about to double the size of our household, and I'm spending money like...oh I'm too tired to come up with a good simile.  Like the Pentagon? Like I've got a secret Swiss bank account?   Like it will buy me my kids' love? 

No Alarm Needed

I used to be able to read in the car.  I spent hours in the backseat with a stack of library books as we drove to the beach, to the mountains, across the state, up to Canada.  My sisters claimed it made them carsick to just see me with a book, but they were so much older that we rarely were traveling together.  I kept this ability into my 20s, reading on buses in Eastern Europe during my first stay there after college.  Then sometime in my mid-20s, those same buses started to make me feel queasy if I was reading.  Now I can barely read stop signs without feeling ill. 

I used to be able to sleep on planes.  Correction; I used to LOVE to sleep on planes. I once got on a flight in Helsinki, chatted briefly with my seatmate, went to sleep, and woke up in Seattle. The other girl looked at me in awe and said, "You slept the WHOLE WAY."    My parents were quite disgruntled to find that when they sat by the tarmac and waited for my plane to pull out so they could wave goodbye, I was already sound asleep.   Occasionally when my neck got stiff I'd pop open the seat tray and cushion my head on my arms.  That was actually more comfortable, but when I sat back up, I always let loose with the world's hugest belch.  (Oh, I'm sorry, did you not want to know that?)  That ability faded, also in my 20s. (I refer to the ability to sleep on planes, not the ability to belch.) Now I fuss and fidget, and if I do doze off, the pain in my neck wakes me up within moments.  I arrive as groggy and disoriented as the rest of you.

(I also used to be able to drink copious amounts of alcohol without getting sick, but that's not a trait I particularly miss.  I'm just adding it because I lost that skill around the same time as the others.)

One thing I'm still good at is sleep.  I am a champion sleeper.  If I'm having trouble falling asleep because of brain chatter, I count backwards from 100, visualizing each number as I go.  I rarely  make it past the mid 60s.  If I do get down to zero, it's almost always because I'm not visualizing, so I do it again, right, and fall asleep.  If the house is quiet and I have no prior plans, I can easily sleep 10 hours.  Friends and family know not to bother calling before 9:00 on weekends, and that's just because I'm too embarrassed to tell them to not call before noon.  Stress does not affect this.  During the horrible month when my mom was dying and I spent most of the time at my parents' house, I'd fall asleep, exhausted, each evening, and sleep soundly until morning. 

The one exception seems to be a sort of happy stress.  I first noticed in when I was, yes, in my mid 20s and living abroad.  A friend volunteering with Peace Corps in Hungary and I had organized a language camp for her students and mine, bringing 20 kids to stay in host families in Latvia and recruiting our friends to teach a language/environmental camp.  Every night I'd set my alarm early so I could wake up and keep things rolling.  Instead, I'd pop awake after about five hours of sleep.  I realized that my body knew the bare minimum it needed to repair and recover from one day, and that was all my mind would allow it when there was so much to be done.  I had the same experience before my wedding, and on a one-day basis before major trips.  Christmas mornings have the same effect. 

Yesterday we found out that our adoption trip will be next week.  NEXT WEEK.  School isn't quite over yet.  I am moving schools next year and need to box up my classroom.  The bedrooms aren't ready yet.  (A friend said, 'Oh, you can do all that when they get home.  All they need now is a bed and furniture.'  I was too embarrased to admit that when I say the bedrooms aren't ready, I do NOT mean that the bedrooms have yet to be tastefully decorated.  I mean there is an unmade bed and an unassembled bed in one room, and a whole bunch of file cabinets, craft supplies, a desk, a work tables, and assorted other crap in the other.)  I took today off school to start working on things, went to bed at a reasonable hour last night (11:00), and set the alarm for 8:00. 

I woke up at 3:00.  Then at 4:15.  Then at 4:45.  I made myself stay in bed until it got light out, and was downstairs by 5:30.  I have a strong suspicion I'll be waking up early every morning for quite a while. 

Sharing, Oversharing, and Secrets

Our kids have had a rough start.  Obviously.  You don't wind up getting adopted by strangers living halfway around the world if everything has gone well.  Imagine the types of things that get kids here into foster care, and you have some idea of the types of things they've gone through.  But when people flat out ask me, "So, why are they up for adoption?" I'm not sure what to say.  Because I could be all "drugs, neglect, incompetence, poverty, abuse, prostitution, abandonment, mental illness, alcohol abuse, rape, endangerment, and refusal to floss,"* and then people would either gasp and recoil, or furrow their brows and say "Poor babies!" (or possibly both).  Neither of which is a response I really want people having to my kids.  Or I could say, "You first--how exactly did you conceive your children?  Which sexual position were you using at the moment of conception?  I'm just curious, you know, like you're curious about our kids."  I am just not ballsy enough to say that, and anyway, while it makes the point, it's also unnecessarily shaming.  I think curiosity about the kids' background is natural, not the sign of nosiness of assholic proportions. 

So I've trodden the bland middle ground so far.  Sometimes it's been possible to ignore the question and respond to something else happening around us at the same time.  Sometimes I've said, "Oh, the same kinds of things that would put kids into foster care here."  (See how I did that earlier?) A few times I did a really awkward, "Well, I understand why you're asking, but we think it's really up to the kids to decide who they want to share that with."  That is the most honest and straightforward approach, but it really makes both the questioner and me sqirm.  It sounds preachy, and who wants to be on either end of that?  (No offense to any preachers in my non-existent audience.)  My worry is what to say when people ask in front of the kids.  And every adoptive parent I've brought this up with, plus every adoptive parenting blog and book I've seen, has assured me that PEOPLE WILL ASK THIS QUESTION IN FRONT OF THE KIDS.  PLUS "HOW MUCH DID THEY COST?".  To me, the comparison to US foster care is the response that best addresses the question politely without oversharing.  What I don't want is for the kids to get the idea that it's a secret, because secrets are shameful, and would imply there is something wrong with their history, and thus, wrong with them.

Then there are the people who will be really taken aback/hurt if we don't pony up a real answer.  I'm talking immediate family.  As immediate family, they want to know not out of nosiness, but because family knows each other's stuff and looks out for each other, right?  My sisters especially; man, we are in each other's business like nobody's business.  And I think my mother-in-law was a little...miffed?  hurt?  when we didn't spell it out for her.  But I don't want even them having the kids' background as something to blame if things go wrong, if we struggle.  And I don't want them even silently judging how we handle it--when we tell the kids what information and how.  But the story is so intense that I also don't want to carry it around by myself.  And again, I don't want to hide it and treat it like a shameful secret.  I'm still struggling with this.  I talked it all over with my oldest friend, who is a school social worker who's heard it all and then some, and that was helpful.  I finally told one of my sisters when she asked me flat out, but I asked her to not share it with her husband or kids, and then I felt really weird about that. 

I've heard two stories on par with our kids' story.  One is the story a friend of mine tells about her family history, which includes all sorts of wild stuff from both her birth family and adopted family.  The other is a story one of my students tells about how she wound up in foster care. I don't think either of these women tells their story to strangers on the bus, but they told me within a few months of getting to know them, and it clearly wasn't a disturbing secret to either of them.  That's what I really want--for my kids to own their story without shame or concern for what others will think.  Of the many many things I don't want to mess up on, this is high on the list.

*This list does not represent the real story.  They didn't go through ALL of the above, although we have been warned they will need plenty of dental care.**

**That was just a joke about my joke about refusing to floss, not some weird reference to what they've actually been through.

Kids Say...

May 11
I teach 10th grade.  They have a thin veneer of civilization.  I've been telling my classes lately about our adoption, and their responses have been so...interesting.  They say the stuff that adults are thinking but don't say.  Like...

• How much did they cost?
• Why did you adopt from there and not from here?
• Are you going to be one of those moms who won't let them eat sugar?  (I explained that I will be all weird about screen time and my husband will be all weird about sugar, and we will balance each other out on both those issues)
• DO THEY SPEAK ENGLISH????  (This is freaking out my English only kids, although I don't think a single bilingual kid has asked this.)
• Why did you guys decide to adopt? (Or the even nosier one)  Why didn't you have your own kids?
• Won't it be really weird when you first meet them, and you don't know them, but you're all "Hi, I'm your mom?"  (this question apalled my more tactful kids, but I appreciated it because--honestly, he's right.)
• What if you don't like them?   Can you give them back?

On the other hand, I've been amazed by the number of kids who've said mainly, "I'm so happy for you; you must be so excited."  And two days after I told one class about it, a girl said, "Linden is 6, right?  And how old is Oak?"  She remembered their names, and in Linden's case, it wasn't a name she ever would have heard before.*  They are rallying to make posters for our fundraising garage sale.  They keep asking if they'll get to meet the kids.  And I am trying to be mature and tactful and not haul aside the girl who identifies herself as a foster kid, despite having been adopted by her foster family 6 years ago, to question her inappropriately about her experiences and feelings. 

I start these conversations with a slideshow of those few photos we have.  Invariably, kids see the photos of Linden and ask, "Is that you when you were little?"  I know many adoptive parents look nothing like their kids, but I have to admit that something in me sings when people mistake my little girl for me.

*Their names are not Oak and Linden.  Trees are a big part of Baltic folklore.  Oaks are associated with men, and lindens are associated with women.