Surrealism, Self-Care & Cray-Cray

The longer our beautiful, diamond-in-the-rough is home with us, the more the wreckage of his soul is apparent. I shudder at it. I can’t imagine how he has endured. The torture he’s lived through is unthinkable. And I am not pointing any fingers because I know that every person that hurt him with the sins of things done or the things that went undone, were people with their own pain and their own doing-the-best-I-can stories. Or they were just children, too.

One of the hardest parts of all of this is the way that everything is so unclear, so surreal sometimes. His words say one thing; his behaviors say another. He tells us about something from his past that doesn’t fit with other things he’s told us or what we “know” of his history. He finds a way to upset the happy moments everytime we get there because chaos and drama feel safer somehow. He tells ridiculous, bold-faced lies for next to nothing. He is kind and endearing one moment, only to turn into a manipulative con-artist the next. He charms acquaintances and proudly declares he would prefer these people as his parents because he “loves” them. He loudly proclaims his entitlement to be treated as a king in our home, all the while, obviously believing he is nothing more than dirt on the floor. He provokes in order to look like the victim, yet he hates his powerlessness with a passion. I can’t say who or what he is. I know there must be a treasure of a boy in there….the one God dreamed up and created….but I have barely caught a glimpse of him and I am not even sure I have yet. What is real and what is not? So much of what he lets me see is smoke and mirrors. What I see is, sadly, mostly mental illness.

In the midst of caring for this child, I also care for one good man and three other children. I’ve never been great at caring for myself. I’ve grown in it, over the years, learning to take time to be alone, to be with friends, to do something just for myself, to say no to things not aligned with my highest priorities, to eat well, to exercise (sometimes). But this one little boy has launched me into a whole new level of self-care. Previously, I learned to step away from busy life for awhile. I learned to say “no” to some of busy life. But I had never learned the kind of self-soul-care I am going to describe next.

Many of the dysfunctional, unhealthy behavior patterns that he exhibits just piss me off. There. I said it. I struck through the words so you would know it isn’t really acceptable to me either. Do what you want with it. If you’ve never lived with narcissistic personality disorder or ODD or RAD, don’t judge! (And no, he doesn’t actually have those diagnoses, but his behaviors line up with them some of the time.) So here I am. I love Jesus. I am trying to love this little boy who is not just being a sassy kid with an attitude. It goes so far beyond that. And I know I’m supposed to be connecting first, hearing the fear behind his behaviors, just understanding where he’s been and what he’s been through. But he just pushed a big, red button. And I want to scream. And punish. And leave. Because I am scared, too.

Enter Christine Moers’ phrase, “Out crazy the crazy.” Some of my other adoptive mom friends have told me about humor and the roll it plays in their lives of living with kids from hard places. But I never gave it much weight for myself, because I am not funny. I don’t laugh a whole lot. Especially not when I am mad. Or when I am dealing with really heavy, sad, frustrating issues. Obviously.

But one day I saw Christine Moers (an adoptive mom and therapeutic parenting coach) had posted this video (when your kids are stuck) of how she “out-crazies the crazy,” which translated by me means this: when your child is engaging in surreal-dysfunctional-upside-down-crazy behavior, just be crazier. It throws them off, breaks the tension, and creates a protective coating for the soul of the person who is trying to love this child through the craziness. It’s like an inoculation so I can love on my child and not get sucked into the black hole of the craziness he is in. It is self-care at a level I have not really tried before.

So, I tried it. That very day after I  had watched the video. We were in the grocery store, and he started in on the whining, reproaching, and accusing. This time it was because I do not buy Fruit Loops. And I knew that nothing I had tried was going to work. Ignoring? Nope. Coaching? Nope. Empathy? Nope. Threats? Nope. I could feel the irritation rising so I just did it. Crazy. I began to cackle like an old witch rubbing my palms together in wretched glee, “I love to make my children eat nothing but broccoli! I am the worst mother in the world! Ahhhaaaahahhahaha (evil laugh)” And it worked. He smiled and moved on. No more about the Fruit Loops.

And since then, I’ve tried it multiple times, and IT IS GOOD. It is a marvelous self-care technique! I have lovingly dubbed him “the cray-cray kid.” It is silly, and he has no idea what I am talking about. It’s so much nicer and less morose than many of the other labels I’ve tacked onto him in my mind. It is a light-hearted way of being with him when he is difficult to be with. So sometimes when it all starts, I become the boxing announcer, “And in the blue corner, we have the one, the only, the faaaaaaantastic Cray-Cray Kiiiiiiiid! And in the other corner, wearing a big grin, is Suuuuuuper Mom, the cray-crrrrrrray champion of the world!” And I start shadow boxing and out-crazying the crazy.

Fast forward to last Thursday. I desperately wanted to go to an art exhibit at Crystal Bridges, and there were just days before it moved on. I was nervous about taking this child to an art museum; anything could happen. But the pull of Pollack and Kahlo, Matisse and Van Gogh were stronger. I knew I might feel resentful if he “ruined” our time there. But I decided that I would not let fear take this chance from me. Self-care is sometimes risky.

And so we went. And mostly, we had a wonderful time. Oh, there were a few hiccups. But there was also an audio-tour device and headphones which kept him busy and happy punching buttons. He had no idea what he was doing or listening to, but it looked and acted like an iphone, so he didn’t care. And it had a strap for his neck so I wasn’t worried about him dropping and breaking it. And he heeded my warning about losing the privilege if I saw the headphone cord in his mouth. He did not chew through the headphone wire! WIN! And my other three were mesmerized and actually studied the pieces and did not get bored. And I soaked it up and felt so rich.

Our last stop was the museum store. That’s a fun place, too. We were browsing the novelties, kids mostly following my instructions to not. touch. anything. They wanted me to snap photos of things they liked. We got tickled about some stuffed dolls made to look like famous artists. There was a Vincent and a Frieda and, of course a Salvidor Dali dolly! So while I was focusing in on the Dali dolly, Elijah stepped into the photo. A funny thought slipped into my mind…The Kings of Surrealism: Salvidor Dali Dolly and The Cray-Cray Kid! And I started laughing and couldn’t stop. And it’s so good because instead of crying, instead of getting mad that this is the life we have now, I just laughed.

As we left, I asked for one more photo, proof that we had been here and had prevailed! I said, “Okay, everybody, look at the camera!” I didn’t even ask for smiles which would be just too much. This is what I got:

And yes, the look away was intentional….we tried it multiple times with the same result…because it was my idea (looking at the camera) and not his. But did I get mad? Or let it touch my emotions at all? Heck, no! I am the Cray-Cray Queen!

Silence and Accusation

Every single day, Elijah Isus Johnson wants to eat the following for breakfast:

One banana with peanut butter

2 eggs

a bowl of buckwheat grits or rice

an 8-oz glass of warm milk (after he has finished his 8-oz glass of water because otherwise he won’t drink the water which he REALLY needs for various health reasons I won’t list here).

99% of the time this is what he gets for breakfast. There have been a few occasions when I was out of something. Today was one of them.

After handing him his banana, I opened the peanut butter jar to find it empty. The pantry did not contain a new jar waiting in the wings. I braced myself for the onslaught of his accusing words, hate-filled glare and demand that I get some peanut butter. It didn’t come. He just looked surprised. I instantly began to pour milk: my good-faith offering to say that I knew he needed a little extra care to get over the peanut butter.

He took the banana and sat down. I started doing something else in the kitchen, and when the microwave stopped, I didn’t immediately remove the warmed milk and take it to him. A few seconds went by. He came into the kitchen and said, “Can I have my milk, please?” What in the world could be wrong with that?

Ah, but tone is everything. His words dripped with coded meaning. His tone was condescending and demanding. He was saying “What is wrong with you? You are not taking care of me. Why was my milk not served to me immediately?” His eyes and expression matched the tone. Accusing. I encounter this tone daily.

When Elijah began to reproach me with his, you-are-not-loving-me-enough attitude, I didn’t open my mouth because this is a silent day, and I am not speaking. Normally, I would have defended myself and instructed him in the way to communicate his feelings appropriately. But today I was silent. I chose the easy way and simply got him the milk. I walked outside to take care of the trash bins. I was fuming inside. I heard these words:

Like a lamb before the shearer, he was silent before his accusers. (Isaiah 53:7)

What is HE teaching me through this maddening child? This eye-rolling, sassy boy who has mistaken me for his slave. He is teaching me that I do not need to defend myself. That He will vindicate me. I am bearing reproach for the abandonment this child experienced for 10 years. I am giving him more than any mother or mother-figure has ever given him, yet I am accused for all of their shortcomings. I am condemned for not doing everything he wants, how he wants, when he wants.

 I am forced to repay what I did not steal. (Psalm 69:4)

Not forced, really, but hemmed in. I do have a choice, but the choice not to do this is no choice I want. It’s the lesser of two evils: Reject this wounded child (NO!) or bear his wounds. I don’t really want to bear those wounds, because sometimes I feel as empty as that peanut butter jar. But, well, if those are the two options, I guess I will pick the latter one.

And as for teaching him how to treat me? Yes, this I must do. Yet, I cannot do it rightly when I am offended, angry, defensive. I must be willing to simply give the milk. Or I must be willing to be un-offended as I withhold the milk and invite him to ask in a way that allows me to give what he’s asked for. It sounds simple to my mind, but in the rage of being treated as nothing more than a means to an end, it is very, very complex. And hard. Don’t forget just plain hard.

The silence is a tool to move me further along this road of humility. It is a check to my reaction that allows me to choose a better response. Hearing is happening.

The Silent Experiment

Yesterday was the second time I’ve put words away for a day. I’ve taken some notes, knowing I would write about this, but none of them seem to fit together to mean much. It’s still kind of sketchy, but for those of you wondering, here goes:

All of our kids were on-board, thinking it was a novel idea…sign language, using a white board, pantomime…what could be more fun? My oldest son even joined in and used a white board to tell me a joke! My youngest son wasn’t opposed; he just didn’t get it. He was completely bewildered.

For starters, I noticed that my silence made everything calmer. (Ugh. Hard to admit.) I felt calmer, and it translated to the rest of the house.

While my healthy-adult-self is a responder, one who sees needs and meets them,

my unhealthy-not-so-adult-self is a reactor, one who feels the need to control anything that looks out of control (a kid making a mess, an argument between siblings, a child not on-task with school work during school hours).

Silence “forced” or allowed me to slow down to the place of responding instead of reacting. I felt much more powerful and in control of MYSELF, and my older kids sensed the difference.

The effect on Elijah is not clear yet. He was just as argumentative, disrespectful, and uncooperative as usual. However, I am often drawn into some sort of argument with him. Those don’t start out looking like arguments, but more like a verbal defending of a boundary. Yet, at the end of them, I am usually chiding myself for letting him draw me into his drama. But on my day of silence, there was no conversation. I just kept the boundary without discussion, and that was helpful. I am learning, slowly, how to give his “craziness” less and less room in my life as I try to give him healthy love.

Already, I am seeing that I actually LOVE the silent days. It is refreshing to find myself “unable” to try to fix, prompt, intervene, discuss, lecture (sigh), reason with or explain. And the truth is, I can still do this if necessary. I just have to condense, streamline, and share responsibility much more since I communicate in writing. I think it is healthier than the way I normally function.

So, while I love it, if I had to do it for days on end, I am sure I would not feel this way. My friend who is on doctor-ordered complete vocal rest for 6 weeks, has written that one of the negative effects of not speaking is feeling disengaged from those around her. I can attest to the truth of this. Even in one day, I can feel the disengagement. I am trying to take moments throughout the silent days to really look each child in the eyes and smile, give an extra kiss, hug or sign language “I love you.” Yet, when you have a tendency to be over-engaged, even enmeshed, with your children, a little disengagement can be healthy.

So far, I think the experiment is beneficial. I can’t say, yet, that it has allowed me to hear God more, but that may still be coming. I don’t know all of the results yet, of course, but I think a day of silence each week is going to become a more permanent part of my life.

Silence

I need silence.

Not the silence of others, although that is often welcome in this bustling, almost-never-quiet house.

I need MY silence. I need a respite from my own voice. I need to stop my natural bent to verbally process, direct, answer, explain, vent, intervene, discuss, obsess, or fix something with speech.

In this season, I have been struggling to hear the Lord’s voice. Well, maybe that isn’t quite what I mean. He IS speaking, and I AM hearing. It’s just that I need so much more of His voice than ever before. I am starved for His words, and I need so badly to hear Him at a deeper and deeper level.

It reminds me of when I was dating my husband, and he was away for the summer break. We talked on the phone once a week for an hour (old-fashioned land line and long distance rates on a college student budget), and we wrote letters. We were in touch, communicating, but I really wanted moment-by-moment words with him. I wanted him right there in the room with me to talk every day.

It’s a little like that right now with Abba & Y’shua & the Spirit. We are talking, but I need more.

Almost 2 years ago, He spoke something to me that seems to be coming to pass now.

I saw a mental picture of Alice falling down the rabbit hole…falling and falling…wondering what was happening and thinking, “This is so very strange!” Then in my mind I heard the lyrics of a song I know although one word was tweaked just a bit, All of this is strange and untrue and I won’t last a minute without you. 

I knew a time was coming when I would need Him in a way I had not before. I would need Him to guide me with His eye, with His whisper just behind me. I knew I needed to attune my ears more carefully. But somehow, I still wasn’t prepared for this season of so many voices, this season of deep need, this season of the strange and untrue.

 

Oh, how I pray it is a season, temporary and soon to change. I pray it is not a new country that we’ve moved to. (I am only camping here; I am not unpacking my furniture, right?)

I have never been at such a loss for how to respond to person as I am with my youngest and chosen child. There are no simple interactions with him. Everything means something it doesn’t mean, and what he wants he doesn’t want. Everything we say and do is twisted in his mind to mean rejection. His interactions are crafted by his brain to recreate the familiar unhealth he’s always experienced. And the traumas we only guessed at before? Some of them we now know with certainty, and I stagger under the weight of them.

And the voices swirl like a churning sea….voices from the adoption community, and theraputic parenting models and attachment theory and all the books I’ve read, and the voices of my past parenting experiences and the voices of each child in my home and of my husband and of my own wounds and fears. And above all, there is the controlling, fearful, rejected, victimized voice of this child…..wailing at me, demanding for me to STOP THE PAIN.

And the only Voice I really can’t hear with clarity above the din is the still, small One that I know I can trust.

I can’t silence all the other voices, but I can silence my own.

If I could stop speaking, perhaps I could learn to listen from a deeper, quieter space to that Voice I know is speaking in every moment. Perhaps I could quiet my own soul’s clamour, and lean into another Sound.

For years I’ve had the idea of a fast from speech. I tried it one day about 5 years ago. It was hard. But I think I was on the right track.

Just recently a friend of mine was given the strict prescription of 100% vocal rest from her doctor because of growths on her vocal chords. Strangely, I found myself wishing (almost) that is was MY prescription. I hesitate to write it because I don’t want to diminish her agony over this or take lightly what she is doing. The self-discipline is beyond difficult and the cost to those who must help her is humbling.

And yet, I felt a spark of desire, longing. It told me something. I need silence.

And a thought occurred to me. Perhaps I could do this, too, in diluted form. And I felt hope spring up. This could be a way to recalibrate something in myself that has long been out of alignment.

One day, each week, given over to the healing of silence: could I do that?

Would one day a week be enough to plant seeds that would take root and produce a harvest?

Could a discipline of finding silence like an island in the midst of a swirling sea of voices finally bring me to the place of peace that passes understanding?

This experiment might seem silly and cumbersome. It might not work. My husband might think I am crazy (although probably not since he’s lived with me for 21 years). It might look like I’m an overly-emotional, flailing woman, trying any fanatically weird experiment to get her life under control.

Oh, well. I think I’m going to risk it.

Progress

Five months ago today, we drove to a small town in Bulgaria, picked up our son and drove away. Surreal.

 

We’ve had a lot of rough spots, but just the other day, I had a small and joyful epiphany. While at my parents’ house for Christmas, the boys decided it would be fun to weigh themselves on the fancy digital scale. We don’t own a scale, so it’s a novelty. They came to proudly report what they each weigh. Asa: 64lbs. Elijah: 58lbs. What?! For some reason it shocked me that E has gained at least 12lbs (maybe more since we didn’t weigh him until he’d been with us for 3 weeks, and he ate a LOT of food in those 3 weeks)!

If I hadn’t noticed that progress (yes, progress, despite the picky eating), then what else have I missed…or just not given its full weight? I decided to take an assessment:

Language

He came to us speaking virtually NO English. Now, he communicates well in English. He is able to communicate very well about concrete, daily living sorts of things. There are some abstract or more complex topics that are difficult, but some of this may not be a language issue as much as an understanding issue. He is able to appropriately identify in English his feelings of sadness, happiness, fear, anger and calm. Recently, as he Skyped with a friend from Bulgaria who was adopted to the US at about the same time, we were surprised that neither of them spoke Bulgarian to one another. They just limped along in their limited English. After talking with him, we are fairly sure he has stopped thinking in Bulgarian.

Play

When we first brought him home, he didn’t really want to play with anything that didn’t have buttons, flashing lights or built in noises. If I asked him to build something with blocks, he rolled his eyes. If we brought out a puzzle, he got downright huffy! He certainly didn’t want to do anything alone (unless it was playing a video game, and then he still wanted someone watching him if at all possible). Most of this was because of his sensory processing issues. In just the last few weeks, he has begun to build things with duplos and blocks without prompting and without help. He doesn’t complain when asked to work a puzzle. He has begun to play with quiet toys that are good for brain development. He specifically asked to keep our old stacking cups on his special toy shelf.

Sensory Processing

According to the Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, early “sensory and social deprivation is associated with problems in sensory modulation capacities.” Adoptive parents know this first hand. When we picked up Elijah and took him back to our apartment in Sofia that first day, he ran through each room flipping every light switch, opening every drawer and cabinet, examining and pushing every button he could find (remotes, electric razor, window locks, stove top, dvd player, etc). And he did it all at lightning speed. One of our first FIRM boundary setting experiences was the day that he went outside to the car to get a toy he had left there. He was gone a little too long so I went to check on him. He had turned on every light in the car and was trying to eject the cd’s! He thought he was in heaven the day I gave him an old calculator to play with. These days, after lots of intentional sensory stimulation, he now ASKS if he can “push the button” (on the tv, microwave, computer, phone, remote, radio, and everything else) before he does it, and he seems to need it less and less. He also no longer feels the need to switch the lights off and on a dozen times every few minutes, thank goodness.

Books

This is my favorite one. When we picked him up, he wanted nothing to do with books. This was a tough one for an old English teacher and book lover. I brought some great children’s books to Bulgaria to begin teaching him English words, and just to look at beautiful illustrations with him. He downright refused to sit with me if I had a book in tow. Now, he has favorite books and asks for me to read to him every single day. It is so interesting that his favorite books address his deepest wounds and needs: The Very Hungry Caterpillar (food and hunger), Are You My Mother?  (finding and attaching to a mother) and I’m Growing (grieving over no longer being a baby). It is amazing to me that he is expressing and addressing his feelings, worries, fears, longings and needs through identifying with the characters in these books.

Spiritual Growth

In our first weeks home, we realized that he knew some bible stories, most from the Gospels. Bulgaria is primarily Orthodox, and we knew there had probably been some exposure to religion. However, in September, I discovered that he knew the story of the Cross. The director of his children’s home had told him all about Jesus, and he had asked Jesus to forgive his sins. As time has gone on, I believe that amidst the mess that his little soul is in, I see evidence of the Holy Spirit. He prays and asks for prayer. He worships.

Just days ago, he expressed a desire for Jesus to come to his birthday party. (Okay, rabbit trail: He is obsessed with thinking about and planning and talking about his birthday that is 3 months away. I have three other kids, and I know how kids can get excited about birthdays, but I’m talking about a whole different thing here. If you know a child on the autism spectrum who verbally obsesses, then you are getting the picture.) Back to Jesus. I explained that Jesus would be at his birthday, but that he still would not be able to see him. I asked if he knew that Jesus is coming back to earth. At first he looked at me with disbelief and said, “You joking me.” When I insisted that I was telling the truth, he got very excited. He has been talking about it ever since, asking lots of questions and imagining flying with Jesus.

There are so many things that he doesn’t understand or grasp…simple things. It worries me sometimes. But then there are moments when I see something glimmer. For instance, he knows he has a broken heart and that Jesus is going to fix it “little bit, little bit.” Recently, during Advent, I was reading a verse to all four kids about the Branch coming from the root of Jesse, and I asked them who they thought the Branch was. Elijah piped up immediately, “Jesus!” Whether it was the Holy Spirit speaking to him or just a good guess, Hallie said it best, “Well, Jesus IS always the answer!”

There’s going to be more….but it’s enough for now.

 

 

 

Attachment: The Invisible Special Need

When we started this journey, we didn’t go looking for a child. We didn’t commit to adoption and then choose a little one. We did open our hearts to the idea of parenting an adopted child, but frankly our life felt already overwhelming, so we just said, “Okay, God, if you want us to do this, you’ll have to make it happen.” Yep. All we did was say yes. And then He did it. So we said yes to Elijah, but we didn’t choose him based on his country or special needs or gender, or anything except God’s say so.

When we first met him, I was relieved. He seemed so…well…normal. He was bright and funny and engaging and very affectionate (which was actually an indicator of dysfunction, but I didn’t get that).The place he lived seemed like a clean, warm, sweet place with good caregivers. He had spent 3 years with his birthmother, so we thought, “Great, he has the potential to really attach well, given time.” I even felt a little guilty. Why did God choose this child for us when there are those who are in unbearable, inhumane conditions with NO ONE? At least this boy had some caring adults in his life.

Fast forward to today. We see that those things we first thought about him are somewhat true, but now we are getting a fuller picture. We see that Elijah’s special needs are hidden, invisible wounds, and the kind that don’t show up on a first meeting unless you know what to look for. They are gaping, bleeding sores that permeate his life. No interaction, no moment, no thought is really untouched by abandonment, neglect, victimization, delay, and fear. He doesn’t display some of the most terrifying behaviors like cruelty to animals or doing bizarre things with bodily fluids. But his way of being in the world is so painful, so wrapped in darkness that it is hard to see beneath to the boy he was created to be. We know what he needs is love. That’s the remedy. It seems like a simple answer, but giving real love to someone who has not known it and cannot recognize it and isn’t even sure he wants it, is not simple at all. Once he realized that we would not give him everything he wanted, and he could not have our undivided attention every moment of every day, he wasn’t so excited to be in our family. He is going through deep disillusionment. Unconsciously or consciously, he is still looking for his “perfect” family. In the adoption community, we have a word for all of this:

Attachment.

It’s the deep knowing that you belong with someone and that someone belongs with you.

Adoptive parents talk about it, read about it, write about it, think about it, worry over it, plan for it, try to protect it, and imagine we will know it when we see it. It is like a fragile little plant whose seed germination stage can take years and years without any real evidence to confirm the viability of said seed. You can plant a seed and water it and fertilize and watch, but really, only God can make a plant grow. It’s true with attachment as well.

And right now, we are just trying to discern which situations and activities and interactions help our little seeds take root and which ones disturb those roots. For instance, swaddling E in a blanket and rocking him while singing helps him feel like he’s really mine. Other things undermine that attachment. One of those things we have read about and are now witnessing in real life is the effect of attention and affection from kind and well-meaning adults upon our little semi-attached boy. It’s not a pretty picture. Recently after one such encounter he told me straight out in plain English, what he’s said mostly with behavior before: “I want a different place. Different mom. Different dad. Different brother and sisters. I nay like this place.” Only moments later he changed his mind, terrified we might agree with him. Always the push and pull. It’s called ambivalent attachment, and it’s stressful for everyone.

Around Thanksgiving, we sent a letter to our extended family and about 15 other families who we see on a regular basis. We’ve had a wonderful, supportive response from almost everyone who received the letter. I didn’t originally intend to share our letter here, but I’ve realized that so many families face these issues. Adoptive families need to know they aren’t alone and need to see how others are handling the challenges. So this is for other adoptive families and those who want to support them in this journey.

Dear Trusted Ones:

If you are receiving this letter, it is because you are someone in our circle of friends that we see on a regular or semi-regular basis or you are part of our family. You are part of our treasured community and therefore, part of Elijah’s community.

 As we have begun to really get to know our son and settle in with him, we have learned that while language is important, it is Elijah’s behavior that is most revealing. Because of the language barrier and because of his obvious delays, we have needed to mostly listen to what he is telling us through his behavior. We’ve begun to understand some of his behaviors in light of childhood trauma and the effects of institutionalization and the attachment process.

 When we first brought him home, one thing we noticed was how affectionate and charming he was with adults. The first time we took him to our home group meeting, as we left, he hugged every adult in the room. At the time, we didn’t interpret this behavior correctly, and we just thought, Wow, this is one friendly, affectionate kid! Although we had read about attachment issues, it is hard to identify just what you are looking at when it’s the first time you’ve ever seen it up close and personal.

 As time has gone on, we’ve realized that Elijah really trusts no one (not surprisingly) and is actually “happier” with new people than he is with us. Unconsciously, he thinks he must arrange for all his needs to be met and must control all adults in order to do that since the adults are the ones who have power over him. He uses affection, engagement and charm as a means to control. It is much easier for him to control adults who do not know him. He is on the lookout for adults who will hug, snuggle, give deep eye-contact, and respond to his requests for attention, entertainment or the kinds of foods that he wants. After experiencing these types of interactions with other adults, we see him push us away, battle for more control, become more demanding, and act out in subtle and not-so-subtle defiance. These more intimate interactions with adults (other than us) feed the dysfunctional patterns we are trying to replace with healthy ones. He seeks these interactions because relying only on Mom and Dad is terrifying at some level since all the adults in his life have left him and since he has never had to depend on just one or two relationships. He has had a revolving door of care givers, so that is what feels more comfortable to him. However, seeking out attention from other adults and getting it just reinforces the idea that he does not need to take the leap of faith in trusting us. Of course, none of this is malicious or even intentional on his part and every bit of it makes sense given his unique history. However, it is highly dysfunctional and deeply opposed to building real relationship.

 What we have realized is that just having him with us and in our home over time may not convince his brain that he is safe and can trust us. We need to take more action if we want for him to really bond with us appropriately. He needs this, our other children need it, and so do we. Living with and parenting a child with attachment issues is exhausting, frustrating and difficult…every day.

 Here’s where you come in! As you encounter Elijah, your interactions with him will either reinforce our bonding with him or slow that process down.

 The best way you can interact with him if he approaches you is to give a smile and a wave or high-five or fist bump. Giving hugs, rubbing his head, putting your arm around him or letting him sit close to you or on your lap will be enforcing his paradigm that he should not rely on us for his needs. It is best if you do not offer him food or drink. If he asks you for something, it’s best for you to say, “You’d better ask your mom or dad.” Please don’t let him play with or even hold your phone or other electronic device. He often wants to take the hand of an adult and lead them somewhere apart from others to “show them something.” This seems innocent but is not. He is trying to be sure he has the complete attention of an adult and will fabricate anything to keep one engaged. It is not healthy for him. A short friendly conversation with him is good, but giving extended attention or lots of praise is counterproductive. Any “doting” or actions to communicate how very special he is need to come from us right now.

 Of course, he needs lots of hugs, praise, snuggles, attention, feeding and need-meeting, but it’s important for it to come from those who also discipline and guide him. He needs to understand that love does not mean getting everything he demands, and that we are trustworthy and will meet his needs, giving him what is best for him.

“For a child struggling with attachment, attention from other adults is often

like giving sugar to a diabetic child whose body cannot process it correctly.

It is confusing, misleading, and damaging to them. Affectionate interaction

from other adults is poisonous, but when it comes from their parents it is

their medicine. If other adults give them attention, though, it often prevents

them from taking their medicine from their parents.

It’s easier for him to control people that aren’t familiar with his

background, behavior, or needs. He knows how to get their attention, how

to manipulate their time, how to make them repeat themselves, and how to

extort sympathy. It all feeds a craving for superficial attention so he can

ignore his real need for genuine interaction with his mom and dad.

This craving is like a parasite living inside our children; they get very little

of this superficial attention from their parents because it is not healthy for

them. What they do get from their parents is a sanctuary of genuine

connection from the same caregivers who are there for them day in and day

out – which is a completely unfamiliar, scary, upside-down experience for

many adopted children. They get honest love, guidance, and correction

regarding behavior, hygiene, food, chores, school, manners, routines,

everything. The depth of this interaction is new and frightening, though it is

healing for them.”

~Upside Down, by Shannon Guerra

If this seems like foreign thinking or if you’d just like to understand more and take a deeper look at attachment in adoption, I’d encourage you to read the e-book, Upside Down, (quoted above) by another adoptive mom who has been on a journey similar to ours for a longer time. She writes very insightfully about these issues and her book is easy to read and understand.

You can find it at: http://copperlightwood.com/upside-down

It is available for free download or you can just read online.

Thank you so much for being willing to love Elijah in this unique way as we help him heal from his wounds.

Jason & Kristin

When the Boat Rolls

Humility is beautiful…at a distance. Redemption is desirable…when you aren’t the one paying. A laid-down life is lovely…when it’s someone else’s sacrifice.

But when it is you…ah, well, before the beauty, is the beast. It feels like death, like losing your mind, like screaming in the dark and no one hearing, like wave after wave of soul-twisting anxiety, pleading for some relief. It’s being on the boat when it rolls and the waters flood in and you know you are going to drown.

And that’s what Jesus did, and that’s what he calls us to.

And at just the moment you thought all was lost, the ship rolls back up. The masts are broken and the sails are torn and hanging, and life will never be the same. But then the third day comes and the beauty starts and light begins to rise and touch each new part with it’s glowing, reaching fingers. And the old sails, the old ways, disintegrate and fall like flecks of silver. They touch the deck and the wood turns glass, the crystal sea sparkling beneath the throne of God. And praise arises from your lips and becomes white sailcloth that the Spirit blows into, and you fly on blue wings into the glory.

Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces much fruit. John 12:24

And this is what it’s been like for me…adoption…it is one lesson after another in humility, in dying, in costly mercy, in paying for wreckage I didn’t create. And it is ugly-beautiful. My preconceived ideas were pretty spot-on after all my research and reading and interviewing of friends who have gone before. It isn’t hard to intellectually accept that adoption won’t be easy. It’s the real-life, real-time emotion of the thing that is difficult to navigate; it’s the living it out every minute of every day that wears me down. It’s the crazy upside-down world that is now my home that sometimes leaves me feeling like a stranger in my own life.

So I am counting on the beauty coming, the promises foretold. I know the ship is coming upright and something new is beginning. I am counting on the Captain of this ship breathing into my praises and carrying me…and all of us…home on the wings of eagles.

 

 

Hidden

I’ve written about 50 posts in my mind in the last 10 weeks. Only two of them have made it to the screen.

I start to write and think, I can’t write THAT. What if someday he reads it? What if I am misunderstood? I’m already so weak in knowing how to parent, how to live this life. I can’t take judgment at the moment. I don’t want to be that vulnerable.

Or other posts are just jumbles of thoughts…barely formed ideas that I am uncertain bear any resemblance to the truth.

I have been able to share briefly with a few trusted friends, but even then, I am unable to say everything, express everything as it is. So much is hazy, clouded…my life has become smoke and mirrors.

Except for one Person. You know who I mean. Him. The One who Sees. The One who Hears. The I Am.

I have never lived a more hidden life. I’ve had a darker season, but He gave me partners to walk with me, to carry me when necessary. But this time, I feel that I am walking, crawling sometimes, mostly alone.

It feels wrong. But I think it is right. I have leaned heavily on others my whole life. It has been a good thing sometimes, but not always.

My life is hidden in Christ. He is my daily bread. My food is to do his will. Even when, because of my immaturity, I have only tasted crumbs, I am being fed by his hand. I am eating from the Father’s table, and his divine food sustains and nourishes me.

It is an easy yoke, yet weighty. I am taxed yet find grace. I fail, but ultimately, I am winning. I am continuing to run. I stumble but I get back up. I am enormously grateful for the gift of this child, yet morning by morning, I wake to a battle ground where I need new mercies each time.

I listen to these words and weep:

You have been and You will be.

You have seen and You will see.

You know when I rise and when I fall.

When I come or go, you see it all.

You hung the stars and you move the sea,

Still you know me.

And nothing is hidden from your sight.

Wherever I go, you find me.

You know every detail of my life,

And you are God, and you don’t miss a thing.

You know me.

You memorize me.

~You Know Me, Steffany Frizzell Gretzinger

 

 

The Early Weeks with Elijah

I have wanted to write many times in the recent weeks. There is so much to share. Many things are easy to write about:

He loves heavy machinery. He is delighted that we live near a fire station, a working railroad, and Swepco which is under heavy construction and has a 350 ft high crane as well as a constant stream of dump trucks and cement mixers passing by our house.

He eats a lot. He talks about food a lot. He wants to eat every two hours. In the midst of this frustrating way that food has claimed a huge place in our lives, there is at least some humor. His way of communicating his need for food now, is to say in his thick Bulgarian accent, “Mama, Elijah hungrrry, hungrrry heeppo (hippo)!”

He has adapted to his name very quickly and no longer refers to himself as Isus, nor even Elijah Isus which was transitional, but as Elijah.

He is very affectionate.This is wonderful in many ways, and yet not completely healthy either. Sometimes his affection comes from genuine feeling. But he also uses it and withholds it to manipulate and to control. He is also indiscriminately affectionate with people he doesn’t know. We recognize that he doesn’t understand love and is only falling back on his best coping methods, one of which is to “charm” those around him so he can have whatever it is he “needs” to feel safe and happy. Also, his boundaries are not well established and he needs us to teach him the difference between family, friends and strangers. We are not shocked by this or hurt by any of it, but it is complicated and it does get old sometimes.

He has finally begun to grieve some of his losses. Just this week he has expressed missing his home in the small town in Bulgaria. He misses the eight other children he was living with and the women who took care of them, especially the director of his home who loved him and shed tears when we left with him. Last night, he really cried at bedtime, missing them. It is painful to watch, but ultimately good for his heart.

He is learning English well. His first phrase to use spontaneously was, “Just a second!” Can you guess what I say 50 times a day?! We also worked on “open the door,” and “close the door” right away because he was leaving the door open to the heat and the flies. Soon after that, we went to the dentist and expanded it to, “open your mouth,” and “close your mouth.” Somehow this has morphed into “close the door in your mouth!” We laugh every time!

Other things are harder to share, and I debate about sharing them at all. I only say this to explain that while there is much joy and progress, there are difficult, exasperating moments and moments when my patience and wisdom are stretched way beyond my comfort zone.

Emotional stretch marks? Definitely.

They aren’t pretty, but they are the signs of growth. And I am thankful.

 

 

 

 

The Narrow Way

We are home! We have all four of our little birds in one nest now. It feels good…most of the time.

This is a beautiful process, and as one of my friends, Heather Jacobs, so aptly put it:

It’s easier than I thought and harder than I thought.

Elijah Isus is talkative, enthusiastic, affectionate, curious, grabby, shareful, sometimes bossy, and funny.* He learned to ride a bike last night and he’s been riding it off and on all day today. He is a very picky eater, refusing all but carbs and dairy. He is still, in many ways, like a preschooler, but then he surprises me with his intuitive understanding. When he doesn’t like what is happening (like when we are having vegetables or he doesn’t get to play a game on my phone) he sulks pitifully. I never thought I’d be so thankful for sulking…at least he isn’t throwing a tantrum!

Our other kids are really loving him well, although they have expressed their frustration and weariness with a few tears and wistfully longing for “old days.” He is loved here, yet it is a new normal and sometimes, well, they miss the old normal.

The new normal is a narrow, narrow road. I am discovering that previous to bringing Elijah home, although I didn’t realize it, I was a mediocre parent in some areas. I am learning to be more present, more consistent, more tolerant of some things and less of others, more empathetic, more focused, more dependent on Holy Spirit, more careful of my words.

Why now, and not before? Now, I have to go deeper and higher and be better or there will be mass chaos and too much pain. Sometimes you get comfy in your dysfunction when everyone is used to it. Enter a new variable and suddenly, it’s different, and more is required. It’s a narrow road I am walking.

I am thankful. He who began a good work in me is faithful and is completing all that He started.

 

*Funniest moment yet: In Bulgaria, after about 5 days together, Jason and I were having a conversation as he sat eating. Suddenly, he pipes up and says so clearly, “Hey, you speak English!” We laughed till we cried…yep, he finally figured it out! This phrase along with “thank you,” “you’re welcome,” and “bicycle” comprise his English vocabulary so far.