adoption

Parenting With Puke: and Other Food Issues

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Our children have some pretty significant food issues. It’s fairly common for children who come from an environment where they often went unfed. To this day we have to explain to doctors why Mary doesn’t know how to drink a beverage. She will hold a bottle or cup to her lips and chug until the entire thing is gone. Then she gasps for air and clutches her stomach, feeling sick. We have to portion out water or give her straws to encourage sipping. Because of the way she attacks drinking, Mary hates liquid and assumes it will make her sick. It’s like pulling teeth to keep her hydrated on a hot day.

When Marcus and Sean lived here they each had to know they had their own food available. For Marcus, we bought him a huge package of Clif bars at Costco. He kept it under his bed and never touched it. It was helpful just to know it was there. Sean, on the other hand, had a mountain of perishable food items under his bed. He had half eaten tubs of frosting, boxes of crackers, uncooked pasta that he ate raw. We found a molding tub of cream cheese with a spoon cemented to the middle. Sean could, and did, throw up at will. He was always eating or holding food in his hand. We never knew how severe the problem was until we cleaned out his room and found the food. Having a box of non-perishables did not make him feel safe.

For Carl, the issue is a bit different. He scarfs food down like a baby velociraptor. He shoves bite after bite into his mouth without stopping to chew or even swallow. His cheeks are puffed out to the max and he eats everything within a few minutes. If you aren’t careful he will try to move on to your plate next! When he is upset it’s impossible to slow him down or stop him. Carl will eat 5 helpings if we let him, and then promptly get sick. And then eat some more.

This is how Carl ended up with a tear in the lining of his stomach. It caused him to vomit everything, even ice chips. We took him to the pediatrician, and later the hospital for tests. I won’t lie, it was really scary. At first we just thought it was his trauma-eating. As it turns out, over time, this kind of eating can do some serious stomach damage. We try to give him small portions a little at a time. We space out snacks, meal courses, etc so he has time to digest. We make a big deal to count his “chews” and encourage him to chew really well. It’s very difficult to re-teach the eating habits a child learns in the first 5 years of life.

So I was home with the little guy all of last week. He’s 11 now, but when he’s sick his emotional age is somewhere around toddler. Because of this he was extra sweet and snuggly. He could only eat soup, jello, tea and other clear fluids. I made him tiny meals and gave him medication throughout the day. The poor guy missed field day, but no way could he go.

Call me a terrible mom, but I loved it. I got the opportunity to take care of my little guy. I wasn’t just providing care, I was providing care that was working! I can’t tell you how good that made me feel, especially with what’s going on with Mary right now. I felt like I was being a good mom. I could see my efforts pay off. And best of all? Carl and I got to hang out stress-free, and without physical danger. I’m not happy Mary is at RTC but I am happy that Carl seems so much more at ease. That’s right. Vomit is not as scary as murder.

Even with all of the vomit, Carl and I had super fun! We played CLUE, and Beat the Parents and Monopoly Deal. Papa came for a playdate and taught Carl to play Yahtzee! We read books and watched the Harry Potter movies. I rubbed his back and kept him hydrated. He is such a neat kid to spend time with. Although I love and miss our daughter, I am truly grateful for this one-on-one time with Carl. I hate the fact that it took puke to get me some individual parenting time with him.

As he grows up he will want to spend more and more time with his friends. But while we are on the cusp of adolescence? I’ll take all the parent-time I can get.

Not even puke could keep me away!!

 

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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family

Monster Feet in the Night

The force is strong with Carl tonight. He is trudging up the stairs into our bedroom about every hour or so. I hear a quiet, “Mommy? Daddy?” and squint my eyes open. There is Carl standing in the doorway in Star Wars Pajamas and monster-feet slippers. Yes, the force is strong. The force of wakefulness.

All manner of emergencies happen. He has a stomach ache. He needs to blow his nose. He had a bad dream while he was awake  and he cannot fall asleep. I know exactly what this means. Mary has been gone for a week straight now. I believe that Carl is afraid because he was separated from his sister for so long in foster care. The 11-year-old boy who is a fierce athlete by day, has become a frightened child with monster-feet slippers at night.

What he really needs right now is a little nurture. What I really need right now is a little sleep. He asks to sleep with the cardigan I wore that day. I hand it over while realizing I’m missing about 8 cardigans because the children like to sleep with the smell of mom. I’m either going to have to go shopping, or go digging around under their beds. But first, I really need to sleep.

“Do you feel safe now? Do you have everything you need?” I hear Luke say this as he escorts Carl back to bed for the 6th time. And it’s only 1:00 AM. I do not know how people with infants do this! Luke then asks Carl to please stop coming up the stairs and knocking on our door. He explains that we all need to sleep. If Carl can’t sleep he can do one of his crossword puzzle books or read for a bit. Carl agrees in a sincere and determined voice.

2:00 AM rolls around. I am woken by something. Carl is standing at the bottom of the stairs (not going up) and whisper-yelling, “Mommy? Mommy!” Well at least he isn’t banging on the door to our room. He has a headache this time. I administer tylenol and take him back to bed. Hey, he attempted to follow Dad’s directions.

3:30 AM comes and, believe it or not, I am woken again by a little whisper-shout from the bottom of the stairs. “OK, Kid.” I say, “You’re scared. Grab the nesting materials from our closet and set up a place to sleep on the floor near our bed.” He agrees with palpable relief.

It’s that little high-pitched voice that gets me. Soon it will change and deepen. He will only be my little guy in Star Wars PJs for a little longer. Carl rustles up a soft bed made from a large down-feather quilt and several different kinds of “nesting” pillows we keep on hand for the kids. It’s usually used for watching movies. We don’t co-sleep, but whatever. Did I mention the part about 3:30 AM?

Finally, we sleep. The next morning I stumble downstairs like a bleary-eyed zombie. My face feels puffy. Carl is industriously putting his things in his backpack and getting ready for the day. I can’t seem to manage actual words so I grunt and mumble my way over to the couch. That’s when Carl hands me a fresh cup of coffee. Just the way I like it. My little big guy is now dressed in Nike sports gear and operating kitchen appliances.

Soon the days of monster-feet and the little voice will be gone. He is growing so quickly. Adopting kids from hard places is a long, difficult journey. But it’s amazing. It’s moments like these where It’s nighttime again, once more. These are the moments I can reflect and write about our lives. It’s all worth it. He has learned to show empathy. He has learned to trust. He has–wait…is he up? AGAIN?! Yes, he’s up.

What I meant to say was:

Please send coffee!!!!

 

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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parenting

Bra-gate: Puberty and Sibling Rivalry

My son is rolling around and whining on the floor, like a pained animal. All because he isn’t going bra shopping. Yup. He’s pretty upset. Mary is 10 now, and at the beginning stages of puberty. She needs bras. Badly. I can’t drive, so Nana and Papa are up. Aaaand now I’m home with a whining and moaning 11-year-old boy who doesn’t understand puberty (you can read about our sex talk here.) Carl is lucky he’s so darn cute!

He is consumed by his anger that his sister is doing something he is not. She is going somewhere without him. Clearly the world is a very harsh and unfair place. As he attempts to explain how very, very unfair this is, I try to explain a bit about girls and puberty.

Carl: OOOOohhhhhh. Why can’t it be ME?! Why can’t I be the one to go with Nana and Papa? Why do I have to be stuck here with you?!

Me: I love you too, honey. Mary needs new clothes. Fair isn’t everyone getting to do the same thing. Fair is getting what you need. And Mary needs to buy bras. She’s starting to grow breasts.

Carl: Well why did she have to do that? I want to!

Me: Honey, boys don’t usually grow new breasts.

Carl: That’s stupid. Why does she get new shirts?

Me: Again, she needs clothes to fit her changing body.

Carl: But she never changes! She is still annoying!

Me: No, it’s her body that’s changing. She needs bigger shirts now that she is growing breasts. You got new pants when you got taller during your growth spurt. Remember?

Carl: It’s still not fair. I want to do it.

OK. Well, if he really wants to go and buy some bras, then it’s fine. I lay a few of mine on the floor and ask him which style he would prefer? Just so we know what kind of bra to get him when Nana and Papa take him bra shopping. I explain sports bras, underwire, front clasp, halter style, etc. I say, “I support you, honey. I will always meet your needs. If you need to go bra shopping then you can.”

Carl freezes and a look of pure terror dawns on his face.

“GROSS!” he says,”Mom bras! Now I’m scarred for LIFE!”

And there ends the story of bra-gate. We collapsed into full-belly giggles and decided to watch TV instead. We laughed about it for the rest of the night. I hope Carl gained some insight about girls and puberty. I also hope he has less anxiety over his sister and their rivalry.  And would you believe that he never brought up bra shopping again?

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy involved.

 

 

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family, Therapeutic Parenting

Anatomy of a Trauma Trigger: Responding to My Child’s PTSD

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I slept until 11:00AM! Instant panic on my part. Was Carl OK?! I went to bed at 9:00 PM the night before.  I was exhausted after the physical therapy session I had at my house. I took my first steps without my walker (2 in grand total.) Thank goodness my husband was awake to care for Carl in the morning and meet his needs. It doesn’t matter that Carl is 11 and not 5 anymore. This can set off the trigger alarm.

 You see, my kids come from a home with a junkie mom. She was an addict. She had mental health conditions. She would go to bed and not get up for weeks. Sometimes she would lock the kids out of her bedroom and let them take care of themselves. Mary was 4 and Carl was 5 when they were removed from her care during a drug raid.

I know it sounds harsh, but these are the facts. An unresponsive mom in bed has been a terrible threat to their survival in the past. It doesn’t matter how much of this trauma they remember. It stays in their brains and tells their bodies, “Warning! Fight or flight! This is survival!”

Later that day I ended up back in bed, crying from terrible back spasms. The pain ripping through my spine was nothing compared to the pain I could see on my son’s face. Minutes before we had been goofing around as a family, and my husband startled me. Somehow I jumped or moved in surprise and set off a series of merciless spasms through my surgical incision and deep into the muscles surrounding my spine. I took my pain meds, got on my ice pack, and reassured everyone that I was fine.

It didn’t matter, because in Carl’s mind suddenly his caregiver was unreliable. The following is the closest I could come to understanding the conversations we had with Carl the rest of the evening:

Carl: (whining,moaning and stomping around) I don’t want to take a shower tonight! I’m not as smelly as you guys think! I don’t have to shower!

Carl’s Brain: I must stay where I can see my caregivers. Something bad could happen to mom. No one would take care of me and then I could die. I must get some control over this scary situation. Control lets me feel like I can take care of myself.

When he is scared we offer choices to give him some control. He can pick to shower downstairs in his shower or upstairs in our shower, using my trendy new shower seat (you KNOW you’re jealous!)

Carl: (from inside our shower, where he has successfully showered many times before) “You guys have to help me! I can’t turn the water on! It isn’t working. I need help!!”

Carl’s Brain: Are my caregivers still out there? I’m scared I might be alone. What if they aren’t able to take care of me. I have to know they are still caring for me or I will be all on my own again. And then I might die!

My husband “fixed” the shower for him. Carl called out to us every so often and we responded from close by. Showers tend to soothe him. He came out of the shower and demanded (really close to bedtime, and quite rudely) to build the new crystal growing science kit he got for Christmas.

With soft words and soft eyes, I responded, “Are you asking or are you telling? Would you like to try that again? It sounds like you have something important to tell me but I need you to use your nice words.” (I am totally attempting to channel Karyn Purvis)

Carl: (Taking a deep breath) “Can we please build one of my crystal growing kits?”

Carl’s Brain: Are you still able to take care of me? Can I rely on you? If I cannot win your attention and care I will be all on my own again and I might die!

Me: “It sounds like you’re asking for something we may not be able to finish tonight. (Carl huffs and stomps and moans) Bring both kits up here and let’s see if we can make a compromise.

In the end, after lots of groaning from Carlos, one of the kits was a 15 minute project. I suited up in my back brace and got on my walker. Carl ran and got all of the necessary ingredients. Now we are growing crystals on top of a filing cabinet upstairs. We agreed the big glow-in-the-dark crystal growing experiment would be saved for Thursday.

As I said goodnight to Carl I could sense he was panicking again. I held him close to my chest in a big hug as we practiced our deep breathing. I looked him in the eyes and said, “Honey I know you were having some big feelings tonight. You were panicking a little bit.” He nodded in agreement. “It’s OK, honey, I will always be here. I am always going to take care of you.”

After another giant hug and our normal goodnight routine, he followed Dad downstairs without any further issue. It seemed like he finally felt safe. Not every night goes this smoothly. Fear is tricky, because it can come out looking like anger and defiance. Tonight I was able to translate the trauma trigger coming from Carl’s words. So tonight, I’ll take that as a win.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy involved.

 

 

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adoption, family

Making My World Smaller

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I’ve been confined to the upstairs of my house. My bedroom and bathroom are here. There is a hallway and an “art loft” that overlooks our living room. These are the only areas I can be without assistance.Back surgery is tough. Everything else is downstairs and I have absolutely no control over what is happening there. So far I’ve made it down twice. Once with my paramedic husband, and once with my in-home physical therapist. Hooray for me.

I have a snazzy new walker that is sure to be the envy of every other 35-year-old mom. I use it every so often to do some laps upstairs. (Impressive, I know) If I’m lucky my hubby will help me get into my shower seat with the grip bar on the side of the tub. Then I can shower with the removable shower head he gives me. Yeah, this is the life. Glamourous, I know.

The rest of the time I am sitting on my bed with the special wedge pillow my nurse got for me. I read books or magazines or I watch TV. Visiting nurses, Occupational Therapists, and Physical Therapists come to work with me. The rest of my time I spend wondering about my family. Is Luke Ok? Does he have too much to do? How can he possibly juggle having me relatively immobile, Mary in the hospital, and Carl in Lacrosse? Impossible, right?

Wrong. He’s got it covered. He has stepped up his game like a boss. He organizes offers from friends and church members to provide dinner for us. He tries to do the laundry but he gave in and let a friend from church come to clean our house. He organized his time and gets Carlos to Lacrosse games, even when Luke is working. I haven’t had to plan a thing.

Believe it or not, the family didn’t fall apart without me. If Luke works the night shift, he arranges a sleepover for Carl with Nana and Papa or with friends. We have so much support from my parents. The kids’ godparents have helped out. No one has died. No one has been left neglected. In fact, as far as I can tell, the world is still spinning without all of my frantic planning and intervention.

We moms work ourselves into sort of a frantic pace of action that barely allows us time to breathe. And for what? Things will still continue all of our planning and listing and intervening. It may not all be perfect or perfectly planned, but who cares? When was perfection ever a goal anyone could achieve?

I’ve been so wrong. Silly me. Carl cuddles up next to me and put our favorite TV show on, “Fresh Off the Boat.” We snuggle and binge-watch a few episodes. Then he turns to me and says, “You’re the best mommy. I love you.”

“But why?” I ask him. “I haven’t done anything this week.”

“You’ve been my mom. You’ve been loving me and you’re right here,” he says slowly, as if talking to a very dim-witted adult. “Plus, you adopted me.”

Oh. Well if that’s all it takes then I guess I’m mom of the week. Yes, I am the mom that stuck around and yes, I am loving him. I’ll concentrate on my recovery. I’ll let Luke do all the planning. I will stay in my small upstairs area.

And I will have faith. I will have faith in this little family we created through adoption. Maybe I don’t need any more than that in my world right now. Maybe that is enough.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

 

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family

I’m Not Sick and You Can’t Make Me! Adventures in Oppositional Defiance

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Anyone who has ever raised an oppositional child knows that they are very good at one thing: opposing you. It is like an unexpected special talent or bonus sporting event that adoptive parents were not expecting. This issue isn’t really about trying to drive us parents crazy. It’s really about gaining their own sense of control out of a chaotic life and a traumatic background. It’s just really hard to remember that after a night with only about 3 hours of sleep and an aching back.

Mary was sick all of Sunday afternoon. She took an unprecedented nap at a friend’s house. When Luke picked her up she had red puffy eyes, a runny nose, and the sniffles that wouldn’t quit. She forced herself miserably through dinner and then begged me for snuggle time. She fell asleep in my arms around 6:30. We put her to bed with some children’s cold medicine and called it a night.

Meanwhile, Carl was hacking up deep phlegm-filled cough from his chest. We gave him some cough medicine and sent him to bed at the regular time. He got up twice for extra snuggles and a cough drop. When both kids were finally asleep, Luke and I thought we were in the clear. We quickly wrapped Christmas presents like fiends  and before we knew it the time was 11:30PM. Very late for us old folks.

Of course, this was when the parade of sick children began. It started with a tap-tapping on my shoulder and, “Mommy, I need you.” Mary was throwing up, Carl couldn’t stop coughing. It sounded like a tuberculosis factory.  I administered medicine, checked temperatures, and held back hair. By 3:00AM my husband found us all in a pile with pillows and blankets sleeping right outside the bathroom door. After this, we traded places and my husband stayed awake with the sick little chickens while I got some sleep. It was a disaster.

What we did next might shock you. We kept the children home from school. Yes, we called them out of school and made doctor’s appointments for them. Carl was astounded and infuriated with our decision. Around 5 my husband crawled into bed for some shut eye. Big mistake.

Carl was ready to go to school at 6. Not to be deterred he came back at 6:30, then at 7. We just didn’t get it. “I am NOT SICK!” he started  yelling. He wanted to watch TV. He wanted to play (cough) outside (hack) in the snow (labored wheezing breathe.) Back to bed I sent him with Vick’s vaporub and the humidifier running. As he is crying and wailing about how (gasp, wheeze, guttural coughing fit) unfair and mean I am, Mary decides to join.

My vomitous daughter of the previous night comes out dressed in the full regalia of her sleeveless Christmas Eve gown. Did I mention that the gown is pure white? Or that she has been vomiting poison green phlegmy stuff? She tells us she is ready for school. If they can’t play in the snow or play video games then she is off to school. Carl agrees. Clearly I am crazy for ever thinking they were sick!

Unfortunately for these little chickens, the doctor did not agree with their self-diagnosis. After having both children change into warm clothing (It was 12 degrees outside this morning) Luke takes them in for a check-up. Both children have prescriptions and are ordered into bed for the day with plenty of rest and fluids.

We are all exhausted but I see a small victory. Last night, when they were in the worst throes of discomfort, they sought us out. They came to mom and dad for comfort. Our children have many issues from their past trauma, but one thing is for sure. They are attached to us. After almost 3 years, they trust us to meet their needs. Now if they would only believe us about what it is they actually need!

And home they are now. Despite how adamant Carl was about not being tired, he is fast asleep. Let’s hope we are all a little less grumpy after getting some rest.

sicky

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

 

 

 

 

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adoption, family

The “Do-Over” that Didn’t

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The closet is getting a vehement tongue-lashing. I can hear the muffled yelling of my 11-year-old son inside the hall closet. His behind is sticking out into the entryway, but the rest of his body has disappeared inside the coat closet.

“Carl? Honey, are you yelling at the closet?” I ask him.

“Yes!”

I am puzzled at best. “Why are you yelling at the closet?”

“Because!” He pops his head out to tell me, “If it keeps dropping things on me, then I’m going to keep yelling at it!”

I nod in agreement “Sounds fair,” I say.

As I walk away he continues to yell inside the closet. He also yelled at his trumpet this morning. He was upset because he had left the trumpet at school. The inanimate object wasn’t even present, and he was still yelling at it. He’s been having a lot of frustration lately and it’s hard for him to manage.

He will become enraged over the tiniest of irritants. He slams his fist on the counter. He throws books, remotes, or toys that bother him. He got upset at the therapists office because she didn’t have another stick of gum for him. He threw a football with force and smashed a picture frame. He didn’t mean to. He wasn’t looking. He just has to move, to do something, to release that feeling.

Carl has come a long way. I’m not worried about the closet, or the absentee trumpet, or even the remote. I have to admit I was a bit worried about the broken picture frame at the therapist’s office.We did offer to pay for a replacement. She refused the offer and said they should get plexiglass frames anyway. Bless that woman!

I know that Carl has big feelings. He works hard to control his body and his actions when he is upset. However, he isn’t directing his anger at people. He doesn’t hit his sister, or push her down. He doesn’t come after me in any way. Not anymore. In fact, despite what he is going through, Carl is the gentlest he’s ever been with me. I have back problems from an accident and I’ve recently had back surgery. Carl refuses to let me push the shopping cart. He brings my basket of laundry downstairs to start the wash.

He won’t hear of me carrying my own items into the house from work. “Don’t even think about it!” he’ll say. When he leaves with my husband he makes sure to open the garage door one my side, “in case I want to go out.” The door is too heavy for me. Six months ago, Carl would be dangerous while working through these emotions. A year ago, it would have been beyond imagining. Today, I am so proud of how he is trying to channel his anger.

During his shower last night a bottle of conditioner fell on his toe. I could hear him scream in anger and frustration. “The bottle did this!” he bellowed.”It hurt my toes!!!”he cried in indignation.

“Toss the bottle out here,” I told him, “I’ll deal with this.”

He popped his soapy head out from behind the shower curtain with a confused look on his face. (Yeah, both of the kids shower with the door half open. That’s a whole other story)

Dubiously he clutched the shower curtain around himself and threw the bottle to me. I snatched it up and sat it down in the corner. I gave it a stern lecture about having safe hands and safe bodies with our family. I told that bottle that it needed to take a break and regroup. I assured the bottle that it could return to Carl’s shower and try again as soon as it had taken some calming breathes and regulated its feelings. I have to say I was a bit tougher on that bottle than I would be on my children.

Carl and Mary died laughing and the tension was broken, if only for a little while. Why did I give a bottle of conditioner a “do-over?” Because that’s what we do around here.  We handle big feelings. We handle past trauma. We handle it like the champions we are!

 

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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