Tag Archives: special needs adoption

The Special Needs Soul

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(Join me in welcoming my friend Meredith Cornish who is guest posting today. Read more about Meredith’s awesome family at www.cornishadoptionjourney.com.)

holding glass

The Special Needs Soul

Here’s something to think about… does every person have a soul?

If you are a Christian, you might answer without blinking and not feel the need to think about it for even a moment, however I want to challenge you to think a little further about how your life and surroundings may reflect this.

If you believe that every person has a soul, then in your town/city/region, is there an opportunity for every person in your area to learn about the saving power of Jesus Christ on a regular basis? To be a part of The Church?

What about the blind man? Someone can drive him to church. The deaf man? There are often interpreters if needed. What does the legless man do? Is there a ramp to get in?

What about the person with autism?

Or a developmental delay?

Or sensory processing disorder?

No, really. What about them?

Let me ask the questions again. Does every person have a soul?

Is there an opportunity for every person in your own community (including the individual with special needs) to learn about the saving power of Jesus Christ on a regular basis as a part of The Church?

Jesus spoke of “the least of these” and when we minister to them we minister to Him. (Matthew 25:40). Have we forgotten? Or do we consider the missionaries sent to Eastern Europe, Africa and Caribbean nations “enough” to consider our ministry complete?

Think about it: where do many people focus their efforts when out “on assignment” in the mission field? They immediately flock to the orphanages where children so desperately need to hear the Gospel, receive love, and be hugged, taught, and held.

While there, the child that cannot speak, has no eyes, is in a wheelchair, or the one that shyly follows the others around without being able to fully participate due to disabilities tend to be the children who are the most sought out to minister to. Sure, there’s the feisty little boys that want to wrestle and the girls that want their nails painted, but you’ll notice extra care taken to bring these children— the ones with disabilities— to the forefront to be ministered to alongside their peers. An extra measure of care and joy is often administered along with the ‘treasure’ of time energy that is given to that child as the Gospel is lived out.

What about at home? Where are these children when the same person gets back to their comfortable bed and out of the mosquito ridden tent or unairconditioned hotel room cohabitated by rodents? Those children live down the street. They aren’t called the shy child or the one that doesn’t speak. Instead we label them as autistic, or say the name as developmentally delayed, or intellectually disabled.

Here in the comfort of their own neighborhood, the children are… invisible. As a nation we have put the “burden of care” on the shoulders of the family, and any assistance on the government. Where are their spiritual needs met?

So, I ask again, Does every person have a soul?

Is there an opportunity for every person in your own community to learn about the saving power of Jesus Christ on a regular basis as a part of The Church?

Is a person with special needs somehow of lesser “worth” to the Kingdom of God? Are they made in God’s image (Genesis 1:27)? Were they knit together in their mother’s womb, fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14)? Are they a part of the Body of Christ (1 Corinthians 1:21-26)? Did Christ die for them (John 3:16)? Don’t they need to be taught about Jesus too (Matthew 28:19-20)??

Something to think about…

Special Needs Parents: I give you permission

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happy plain

(I’m over at Not Alone: Where Special Parents Find Community, talking about how sometimes as we parent kids with special needs, we need permission to say it’s hard. Read the whole post here … It’s my first time there. I’d love for you to stop by!)

Special Needs Parents: I give you permission

Are you a parent to a child or children with special needs?

If so, I have a message for you today.

I GIVE YOU PERMISSION.

I give you permission to be tired.

I give you permission to cancel a therapy session.

I give you permission to feel weak.

When it comes to your child with special needs, I give you permission to allow a little grief to co-exist with other emotions like love and joy.

Are you a special needs parent? Then it’s my prayer this post will encourage you today.

READ THE FULL POST HERE …

Adoption: the severe and sublime work of bonding

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Evangeline and I in Ukraine after meeting in 2009.

Evangeline and I in Ukraine after meeting in 2009.

Adoption: the severe and sublime work of bonding

She chose the wall

This first night I spent with my freshly adopted daughter from Ukraine three years ago reminded me of watching wildlife.

We were staying at my mother-in-law’s apartment in Kiev, Ukraine and three weeks prior to that night our visits were limited to two-hour intervals at her baby orphanage located outside the city.

That night, upon entering the bedroom, my daughter dove for the large pull out couch pushed up against the wall. Once in bed she observed my station next to her and sized up a blanket rolled up along the part of the edge my body didn’t cover. She realized this was not the plain, low wooden crib she had grown accustom to over the two-and-a-half years of her life in the orphanage, nor were there any other children from her group near her settling in for the night. Knowing my three bio kids back home and the types of tantrums they throw, my immediate expectation was for my little one to scream and howl with fear and eventually make her way over to me, the only other person in her proximity, for comfort.

That didn’t happen. She did not make a sound.

But she was not pleased I was there. She dealt with my presence the only way she knew how; to ignore me. As I lay on the edge of the bed, one foot resting on the floor, the sun set on the 27th day of my stay in Ukraine to complete this adoption.

I tried to imagine the trauma of leaving the only home a child has known, riding in a car for the first time, eating unknown foods, being dunked in a bath for what seemed the first time (she screamed through that) and swallowing a mouthful of blood after someone stuck a purple bristly stick into her mouth, vigorously moving it up and down, up and down.

I could not.

And I decided that first evening to sit near her quietly, a decision for better or worse, to watch the little girl I did not actually know but already loved, and see how she put herself to sleep.

After panning her head from left to right and back again a few times, she planted her pudgy little arms onto her legs while sitting. She started to rock back and forth, all the while grinding her teeth incessantly, and hard. She closed her eyes here and there and chewed her tongue.

I think, although I am not sure, that Evangeline spent a lot of time in her crib at the orphanage. And having been abandoned at birth due to her diagnosis of Down syndrome, she probably never experienced someone lovingly rocking her to sleep. It was still painful to watch.

But not as painful as her next trick. After rocking for forty-five minutes, she rolled over to the concrete wall, covered with meager thin wall paper probably dating back to the 1950s.

Upon making contact she leaned back and proceeded to smash her forehead up against the wall.

This was the only time I broke my role as observer that night.  I placed my hands on her shoulders and whispered in Russian, “nelza, tak ne nada.”  “No, no, you don’t need to do that”.  My husband and children and I lived in Kiev for almost four years as missionaries until the birth of our third daughter.

I could have never guessed that God would have me use my Russian for something like this, though.

Evangeline shrugged me off and I moved her away from the wall. I pulled the blanket from my feet and wedged it between her and the cold, hard surface. She did not contest. Maybe she wasn’t aware she could? After her silent concession she made do with rubbing her head against part of the wall and part of the blanket.

It hurt my heart to watch her. I sat back on the bed and wondered if there would be a day she would let me, no, want me to rock her to sleep.

She chose me.

Fast forward three years.

What can I say? This adoption process has been arduous.

Evangeline and I have stumbled along, attempting to learn a mother/daughter dance, two steps forward in our bonding, a giant leap back. We’re awkward. We step on each other’s toes. I’m sure I’ve made mistakes. And I feel like at times, she still isn’t open to my love.

And worse yet, at times, I’m not open to her.

Last night I was sleeping downstairs on the couch because I’ve been terribly sick with a sore throat this week. I woke up to a smiley face next to me.

Evangeline had come downstairs to find me. I gathered her to me, and she complied.

She just cuddled right in, my six-year-old daughter who hasn’t muttered but a word here and there since she’s come to my family. This daughter whom therapists say is about twelve months old developmentally.

I rubbed her forehead, no sign of a bump from hitting her head. That behavior, thankfully, had long fallen away.

“Hello little one, how’d you find me?” She smiled at me, looking me in the eye, and hunkered down and I thought about how a few days ago I asked her for a kiss, and she bent her head, ever so slightly towards me, along my lips to brush her’s. She had let me in at that moment, just for a moment, and it filled the well of my heart to the brim.

I breathed her in, as we snuggled in the dark of night, thankful that this girl who used to choose to bang her head against the wall to fall asleep now, at least some nights, chooses me.

It’s not perfect, this relationship between my youngest daughter and me.

But it is a relationship.

A mother/daughter relationship, complete with ups and downs, and the continual frightening, beautiful process of knowing one another, the severe and sublime work of bonding for the glory of God.

Thankful for special needs adoption

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Thankful for special needs adoption

(In the midst of all my other writing projects, I’ve been writing down snapshots from Evangeline’s adoption in Ukraine :) . Plus, November is Adoption awareness month, which got me to thinking …)

In 2009, my husband Sergei, our older daughters Elaina and Zoya, and I all travelled to Ukraine to adopt a little girl we were to name Evangeline, who happened to have Down syndrome like our youngest daughter Polly.

Our special needs adoption from Ukraine was a bit different from others in the fact that we had lived in Kiev for four years before Polly was born as missionaries. So while there, we stayed with Sergei’s mom. We knew the city and we spoke Russian, which means we could converse with Evangeline’s caregivers while visiting the orphanage.

I’ve been thinking about those seven weeks in Ukraine a lot lately.

I’m thankful for Evangeline.

And although I probably couldn’t have said this the first year she was home with us and much of the second, I am thankful for special needs adoption.

Adoption is painful and adoption is beautiful.

In my experience, it is painfully beautiful. Adoption balances both attributes. It wouldn’t be the same without each. Adoption teaches me about myself, and God, and the world.

The first time we met Evangeline at the orphanage, we went to the backyard to get acquainted.

Kids from her group were inside a large, wooden structure, akin to a pack-n-play here in the States, only three times bigger. In the corner of the play area, a large blue and white striped umbrella shaded the space. The umbrella didn’t fit. Its rightful place was on a beach on Lake Michigan, but not there, in a broken down orphanage twenty kilometers outside of Kiev.

the umbrella isn’t in the shot, but you get the picture

Two workers watched the children. One sat nonchalantly on a stool. Her hot pink painted lips pursed together while she looked through us, bored. The other worker had a kitchen towel in her hand. She went from child to child, clucking in Russian, while methodically wiping each child’s nose or mouth, whatever needed it, with the community towel.

One boy, who looked to be about five, slouched in a baby cruiser outside of the wooden pack-n-play. Drool pooled in the corners of his mouth as he stared off into the distance.

A little girl in the pack-n-play let out a high-pitched giggle and put her arms up to be held.

Another child smiled up at me sweetly.

The orphanage worker holding Evangeline halted, turned towards me and pushed her into my arms. And I was holding her, this fictitious character who, in actuality, was flesh and bones and blood and bowel movements. My arms shook. It was surreal after having dreamt of her for nearly a year, to have this child in my arms.

Our first meeting in Ukraine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If I could write our story the way I hoped meeting my daughter would go, I’d say I fell in love with Evangeline as soon as she was placed in my arms. Back in Chicago I was sure she was mine. I’d fall instantly in love with her.

But in the backyard of her orphanage my heavy thoughts doubled her weight in my arms. Reality sliced emotion.

I had come full circle, from struggling, to wanting my biological child with Down syndrome, to adopting another. This was my shot at redemption.

And I out of fear, I was blowing it.

“Slow down, child.”

God whispered to me through the breeze. For a second, I thought the earth below me was quicksand. But, no. It was solid ground.

Our routine in Ukraine included daily treks to visit Evangeline while we waited for the adoption to finalize. We brought snacks. Elaina and Zoya played. Sergei and I took turns carrying Evangeline up and down the small, cracked sidewalk while a statue of Lenin hovered over us smack dab in the middle of the yard. His cold, stone face accused anyone who dared to meet his eyes.

It was June, and the days were hot in Kiev. The kids were stripped down to diapers and underwear. One day while visiting, I watched an orphanage worker break off a leaf or two and give it to a crying child to appease her.

Sergei and I talked to the workers while we played with Evangeline. It was difficult for me to understand some of them because they spoke surzhyk which translates to “an impure language,” a mixture of Ukrainian and Russian. Most of what the women said was lost on my ill-practiced, strictly Russian speaking brain.

But a few workers, upon realizing I could converse with them in Russian, spoke to me.

“Why do you want a sick child? We have several other children who are much better than her, ” one woman said while Evangeline sat in my lap, her face covered in dried snot. Her legs crusty with dirt. “She is an imbecile,” the worker coolly glanced away as her words hit me like rocks.

I wanted to snatch Evangeline up as the heat rose to my cheekbones. I was suddenly ready to take here home, bathe her, brush her teeth, clean out her ears, lather her up with baby lotion, and rock her to sleep.

I squeezed Evangeline to me and focused on the cement. I felt the worker’s eyes on us. I looked up at her face.

I asked God to help me forgive the hurtful words the worker said, and forgive my crappy heart response. Her job couldn’t be easy. We only ever saw two workers allotted to Evangeline’s group; usually ten to twelve kids, at a time. And they were probably paid the bare minimum, hardly anything to live on in Ukraine’s struggling economy.

I took another breath, and spoke.

“She is who God has for our family. We already love her. We can’t wait to take her home.”

Evangeline has been home for three years.

And God has taught me a lot about myself, and a lot about redemption.

Can I be honest? Adopting a child with Down syndrome from Ukraine was a feeble shot on my end at redemption.

Outwardly, I deemed myself altruistic. Adopting was the right thing to do. A life would be saved. But really, my intentions were selfish. I wanted a do-over. I needed a do-over because three years earlier, I had given birth to a child with Down syndrome, and grieved the child I expected, and held myself back from loving her at first.

I used to think of redemption as a one-time thing. People of faith talk about God redeeming us, buying us back through his Son. I subscribe to this theology. I buy into the idea that God liked me enough to trade his son for me.

But I also realize now that redemption happens all the time, over and over, everywhere.

We are all a work in progress. There’s a continuous need for redemption in my life. And even though my intentions weren’t entirely in the right place regarding the adoption of Evangeline, God, OF COURSE, knew better. He redeems me again and again as a person, and as a mother through the adoption of Evangeline.

I am thrilled to report that those little ones I talked about in her group:

The boy staring off into the distance,

cornishadoptionjourney.blogspot.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the girl who raised her arms up for me to hold,

www.lorainefamily.blogspot.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the sweetly smiling little thing who met my gaze,

Creation Speaks Photography
www.ellenstumbo.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

… They have all been ADOPTED, and are thriving.

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful to report that these children will enjoy turkey day with their parents and siblings here in the States through special needs adoption.

I know the families and I think each of them would say that adoption isn’t easy.

Adoption is painful.

Adoption is beautiful.

But mostly, adoption is redemption … For us all.

And I am thankful. Eternally thankful.

Learn to do right, seek justice, defend the oppressed, take up the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow. ~Isaiah 1:17

*To read more about these wonderful adoptive families, click on their pictures.

This little light of mine, watching my daughter with Down syndrome “get it” with PECS

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Watching my daughter with Down syndrome “get it.”

This little light of mine …

In 2009, we adopted our youngest daughter with Down syndrome, Evangeline, from Ukraine.

“Why do you want to adopt her?” I was asked one bright, humid afternoon in the orphanage yard outside of Kiev.

The worker looked me square in the eyes. Her words knocked over my soul. That morning, I blinked back tears while holding the worker’s gaze, and squeezed Evangeline to myself.

Don’t worry, baby. We’ll show ‘em. We’ll show all of them. You are a light.

I’m going to let it shine …

Right away, it was apparent that Evangeline’s cognitive delays due to her extra chromosome were more severe than our biological daughter Polly’s, who was waiting for us with grandparents back home in the States during the adoption.

But it made sense.

Polly had early intervention from nine weeks on.

Evangeline was abandoned at birth, and went in and out of different peoples’ hands at the orphanage.

Polly had been showered with love.

Evangeline probably spent most hours in her formative years alone.

This little light of mine …

We’ve now had Evangeline for over three years.

She’s had speech, occupational, and physical therapy. We’ve signed with her, and attempted picture communication with her in the past.

But cognitively, specifically in the area of communication, she hasn’t made a whole lot of progress.

Emotional changes have been huge, and celebrated, things like seeking comfort from mom and dad, playing with sisters, enjoying school, and church, and our new dog Scout.

But as far as gaining communication skills, Evangeline’s little light has been less than a flicker here and there.

I’m going to let it shine …

Evie’s lack of communication frustrates and saddens me because I WANT to see her light shine in the area of communication.

To me, she already shines because she is my daughter and I am her mom.

But I want to know her thoughts. I want her to be able to communicate with me, with her sisters, with Sergei, with the world.

This little light of mine … 

We’ve recently started Evangeline with a new speech therapist outside of school.

Last Thursday when she came, she brought PECS with her (Picture Exchange Communication System), a fancy term for a Velcro board, and laminated pictures of things that will motivate communication with a child.

I was nervous. I was afraid Evangeline’s light wouldn’t flicker. Could either of us, my daughter or I, handle more disappointment?

I’m going to let it shine …

“We’ll start slow by picking one thing Evie really likes,” her therapist explained. I got some chocolate pudding and sat myself down crossed legged in front of Evie, her therapist sitting behind her to guide her hand.

“Hold the pudding in one hand, place the PECS book in front of you on the floor. As soon as she reaches for the pudding, guide her hand to the picture and help her pull it off. As she is reaching to give the picture to you, open your free hand. Say 2 words and show her the PECS picture (“my pudding,” “yummy pudding,” etc.).”

I took a breath. This was going to be hard. And I was afraid it wouldn’t go well.

“Now, realize, this might take a while. Usually kids need the reminder repeatedly to reach for the picture instead of the object they want. Then we may go to tapping her hand, touching her elbow, or giving verbal cues. It takes time, but that doesn’t mean Evie won’t get it.”

We started. Evangeline was jazzed about the treat, and at first, accommodated the picture for the reward of a spoonful of chocolate pudding.

After three or four offers of the pudding: her reaching for it, guiding her hand to the picture instead of the spoon, helping her pull it off and handing it to me …

She got it!

EVIE GOT IT!

I’d say, “Evie do you want pudding?” and she’d then, just after 10 minutes reach for the PECS picture, pull it off and hand it to me all by herself.

What a moment.

The light, that I know is there, was there, will be there, in my daughter shone brightly.

Evangeline was proud.

Her therapist grinned.

I bawled, and cheered, and thanked God for pudding.

Who knows what this will mean in the long run, but I’m taking as I see it.

A little girls’ light bulb glowing a bit brighter.

 Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!

Telling the whole truth; trading ugly for glory

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( Here’s a post from the archives. Still right here today, prodded by God to tell the whole truth in my life for his glory. Fall for me means kids in school, speaking engagements, writing assignments, and the continual journey towards publication of my memoir. This old post encouraged me today. I hope it does something for you, too.)

Telling the whole truth

These last two weeks, I actually sensed God’s desire for me to open up more about my personal life. I’ve written about my struggle in telling the whole truth in the memoir I recently finished writing, and about the severity of my experience with post-adoption depression after we brought our daughter Evangeline home from Ukraine.

A little bit of electricity zapped my fingertips as I hit the publish tab on both posts.

What would people think if I put myself out there? I should just keep these things to myself.

This year, in addition to therapy and after school activities and church and writing and querying agents for my book, I’ve also had the privilege to speak to a handful of MOPS groups in the Chicago land area. I talk about the birth of my daughter in the former Soviet Union and her diagnosis of Down syndrome and about the grief that ensued for almost a year after the loss of the child I expected.

I have other presentations about how to teach our kids to be good friends to those around us with special needs, and about loss and grief in motherhood.

Every time I speak, there is a part of me that is afraid of judgement. Maybe I shouldn’t share all of me. Maybe I should just share the good Christian/ pastor’s wife/ missionary parts of me and tuck away the other parts: the mom who didn’t want her child. The mom who went to a bottle of Chardonnay instead of to the Lord. The mom who adopted another child with Down syndrome; a quasi stab at redemption, only to find that she, of course, was still the one who needed redeeming.

But each time, and I’m serious when I say this, I can almost hear God’s voice saying “tell the truth.”

“Share all of you, Gillian. Because in the hard parts, in the times you made bad choices, in your brokenness and lack of faith, I was there. And that’s MY story in you.”

 

Before I speak, I usually run to the bathroom and grab a wad of toilet paper to sop up the sweat underneath my arms. I smooth my hair, and look at myself in the mirror.

I think of God’s voice telling me not to waste the life he’s given me. I think of one mom who may be struggling.

If my voice encourages her to speak up to someone about her struggles, then sharing the ugly parts of me is more than worth it.

And I think of Polly’s voice, chattering in my ear non-stop throughout the day. I think about her reciting the Star Spangled Banner with her class in the morning at school. I think about when she tells me that she loves me, and how it fills me up to the brim of my existence with thanks and praise that I get to be her mom.

I think about Evangeline. Oh, how I long to hear her voice. I anticipate it. I wait for it. And until then I stand up for her as her voice.

So, I step out in front of strangers and tell them my story, and I keep querying publishers for my book, and I keep writing down my rambling thoughts here.

I include the embarrassing parts for sure. But I also include the best parts, how Polly and I are crazy in love now. How thankful I am to be Evangeline’s mom.

How awed I am that God knew I needed to be broken in such specific ways in order to be used for his purposes and for his glory alone.

Last night, I got an email from someone who attended one of my talks in September thanking me for my willingness to be vulnerable and for sharing my dark moments, thoughts and actions in my presentation. She is a mother to a child with special needs. Here’s a little bit of what she wrote:

What you said made me feel “normal”, connected and accepted.  (I’m tearing up as I write this to you, even now, because it meant so much to me and I understand how difficult it is to be honest like that with others… even if they are “strangers”.)

That’s really the point of why I do what I do.

I have a voice, and I am learning how to use it.

I’m telling the whole truth.

What about you? How are you using your voice?

Setting a fly free, a special needs mom attempts to let herself off the hook in her struggles with parenting

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Setting a fly free, a special needs mom attempts to let herself off the hook in her struggles with parenting

When a special needs parent struggles, sometimes all they can do is hold on. Because their children are worth it.

I sit here on Wednesday morning, second cup of coffee in hand, greasy hair, same yoga pants from yesterday, Polly and Evangeline (who both have Down syndrome) watch Angelina Ballerina for the umpteenth time in their young lives.

In the past two days, my mood has dipped (can we say Chicago teacher strike anyone?).

The previous few weeks have been extremely busy. Now I have less energy. Less interest in things around me. More anxiety. Less focus.

Not great timing, as I have several looming work deadlines, and a presentation to finish preparing for a Joni and Friends seminar I will participate in on Saturday about special needs families embracing the journey.

Problem is, this week I am not embracing much, let alone the journey of parenting kids with special needs.

Evangeline, who will be six years old next month, had a difficult day yesterday. She cried often, sprawled out on the floor, bumped her chin against the floor, refused to eat, and was generally grumpy all day.

I really wanted to help her. I bathed her, checked her temp, rocked her, fed her a couple favorite snacks. We went for a long walk outside (usually one of her favorite things) and still, she was unhappy.

Evangeline is non-verbal. She knows three signs: more, sing, and school.

She couldn’t tell me what was bothering her. And my mommy intuition was blocked.

There was no way I could reach her. I could not help.

And that disappoints me.

Defeated and deflated this morning, I am unsure I am the right mom for the task God put before me: to parent my four wonderful girls; to know their needs and address them, to help them reach their God-given potential, to love them, and love them well.

Am I the right mom for the job?

I open the window directly behind the couch in the living room, and locate a fly buzzing around in between my smudgy, hand-printed window and the netted screen. He sees the outdoors, can feel the breeze, but just can’t seem to make it to freedom.

Life slows. The kids enjoy their show. I sip coffee, pull up the window more, and open up the screen behind it.

“Come on little fly, freedom from your buzzing struggle is right there. Fly, and break free from the mishap of the cage you unknowingly got yourself into.”

After a few moments, the fly finds the opening and darts out into the blue skied, crisp fall day.

My gaze falls on my children.

They both smile as Angelina Ballerina twirls across the dance floor on T.V.

I struggle as a special needs mom.

Sometimes all I can do is hold on to my children. Because in their embrace my mind carves out just enough space for perspective.

I force my attention on the fly.

He has a lesson for me.

How many traps do I set for myself. How many actions and attitudes trip up my greater goals in parenting. How many of these “traps” are really opportunities as a mom to let myself off the hook?

How many mundane, daily mom things bring me down to the point where I felt like a fly trapped between the window and the screen?

I’m not going to do everything right for my kids. In fact, I will do more wrong than right, for sure.

But by setting a fly free, this special needs mom attempts to let herself off the hook today.

I want to do better. I will set measurable goals. I will hug my children and affirm their worth and the worth of the ups and downs of embracing the journey of parenting kids with special needs.

For today, at least.

That’s what I will try to do.

“You’re doing it wrong” – Special needs adoption and mom guilt

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(I was looking through Evangeline’s special needs adoption blog today and stumbled upon the post “You’re doing it wrong.” Evie’s been home for almost three years.)

But there are still days that I feel like I’m doing this whole special needs adoption thing wrong. I struggle with mom guilt. 

This post is from Evangeline’s special needs adoption blog archives: September, 2009 just after we brought Evangeline home from Ukraine.

***

Evangeline’s three sisters; Elaina, Zoya and Polly started school yesterday (thank God, finally!).

My husband and I split up in the morning to get the kids where they needed to go; three different classrooms, two different schools. Evie went along with Sergei as he walked Elaina and Zoya and Polly and I hopped in our silver boring minivan that as it happens, I actually rather love, and drove a few miles to her school.

Last year I rarely took Polly to school. Sergei did the drop off before heading to work and I was on pick-up. So yesterday I took Polly where I would usually pick her up, the back door of the cafeteria. We stood at the locked door and knocked for a few moments. Then I peeked through the window and got someone’s attention from the cafeteria. As the woman opened the door she told me that we need to drop off through the front door of the school. OK, makes sense.

I made a mental check in my head.

Polly was stoked to be back in her classroom with her teacher, ‘Miss Ba Ba.’ After a little while I found myself generally uninvited in her school area and took advantage of my good fortune to exit. Walking out the front door there was a different lady passing out forms to students.

“Can I get a form?” I asked.

“These are for kids.”

“I know, I just dropped my daughter off in preschool.”

“Oh, I didn’t see you come in…” she said, now sizing me up and down.

“We came through the back door,” I said shyly, kicking a rock with my foot.

“You did it wrong.”

I KNOW! 

I KNOW!! I DID IT WRONG…

“OK, I’ll drop her off in front tomorrow. May I have the forms?”

The important paper lady passed me a couple sheets of paper. I turned and walked down the sidewalk towards my car.

You’re doing it wrong.

Remember that movie, ‘Mr. Mom’? It was school drop off and Michael Keaton drove into the exit to drop off his kid in the rain and like five people stopped him to let him know he was doing it wrong.

Well, that’s how I felt yesterday.

And more importantly, that’s how I’ve felt ever since Evangeline’s adoption. The mom guilt is heavy.

You’re doing it wrong.

I have this sinking feeling in my stomach that I am not doing all I can for Evie or that what I am doing is wrong. Maybe I am not strong enough to handle a special needs adoption?

The good news is I know with time my maternal instincts for her are bound to take over, that I’ll be able to tell if she’s hungry or sad or tired or if I should hold her tight when she tries to move away or let her go.

Until then, I’ll continue to do different things and as I pull into exits with Evie, I am prepared to back out and try again.

***

Some thoughts today:

Do you struggle with mom guilt?

Don’t we as moms feel like most of the time we are doing it wrong?

This may not be a popular statement but here goes: There probably are things you are doing wrong.

There are things I’m doing wrong when it comes to my kids. My mom guilt shows up in various areas: with my children with Down syndrome, with the adoption, with my older girls, my cooking (or lack thereof :) ), laundry, one on one time, you name it, I’ve probably experienced mom guilt over it.

I propose we attempt to take a step back and gauge what exactly we think we are doing wrong and then work to work on it.

Let’s be honest.

There probably are things we all could improve on when it comes to our kids.

There are things we are doing really well, and we need to acknowledge and celebrate them. And the things we are not doing wrong, but plague us with guilt anyway, well, let’s attempt to preserve our energy and brain space for other things.

Down syndrome, adoption, bonding, hot cement, and hearing each other’s voice

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How is your bond with Evangeline?

“How is your emotional connection to Evie going?” Nicola asked last week after I opened the blog for questions.

Thank you for asking about our bond, Nicola. I am a writer, so of course, as I thought about how to answer your question, a story emerged. Enjoy!

***

This afternoon the kids and I went outside to play. Our new dog Scout got to come out and bask in the sunshine too once I figured out how to screw her leash anchor into a small patch of malleable earth next to our house (the rest of our ‘yard’ is cement. Long story, different post).

I sank into a saggy folding chair, flicked a pair of over-sized sunglasses on to my nose from the crown of my head, and breathed in the 80 degree air.

Scout panted at my feet, Zoya lost herself in some make-believe world with neighbors, Elaina stretched out next to me; her nose in a book, and Polly giggled as a friend imprinted her body onto the ground with a sturdy piece of purple chalk.

Evangeline paced happily in front of me, hands flapping, sounds erupting in  my world that equate joy and excitement. “Oooohhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh, yeeeeehaaaaaw.” To others probably just unpleasant noises they’d want to tone down. If she were a radio, someone  would get up and turn the dial. To me, though, it is her.

It is my daughter’s beautiful voice.

Last summer an afternoon like this was impossible without another adult present. Those truly were the dog days of summer in the world of Marchenko. Polly nursed an affinity for the street. Elaina and Zoya struggled with turn taking. Most of their games ended in tears. And Evangeline foraged the pavement for rocks and leaves and pieces of wood to eat.

“Evie, no!” my voice commands my daughter’s attention today. A chubby fist, still so baby after five years, already in motion to bring a small stick to her mouth to eat, pauses.

Her bent body straightens. She looks for me. Our eyes lock.

“No eat!”

I am all business.

She pauses, turns her chin towards her hand, and releases her grasp.

“Good job, sweetie! Way to go, Evie!”

If I ended this excerpt here, you would celebrate, right? This is a little girl that is non-verbal. So far she has no signs, she was abandoned at birth because of her diagnosis of Down syndrome, and it has taken an awful lot of work for both of us to bond.

Just wait until what comes next.

“I am so proud of you Evie! Come here,” I say. “Come here and give Mama a hug.”

I hold my arms out to Evie and will every cell in my face to attempt to communicate the hope in my heart.

The hope that my daughter will come to me when I ask her to. The hope that she will hear my voice and respond.

A slow smile unwinds across Evangeline’s face. Her feet rock back and forth and I stretch my arms through the tips of my fingers. If possible, my stretch would reach her and draw her to me where she belongs.

But then some of the magic, the hard work, the reckoning and redemption that have slowly taken place in the last three years since this child has joined our family would be lost.

This magic, here, now.

She takes a step towards me.

I gulp.

“Come here, sweetie. Good job, baby girl. Good job.”

Giggles erupt and she is in my arms, hugging me, proud of herself that she heard me, understood, responded, and sought comfort.

I’m proud too. I had no idea that bonding would be so much work for both of us. I assumed I would sign a piece of paper and she would fall into my arms where she belongs.

That scenario, however, has not been anywhere close to the adoption Polaroid that has cloudily developed in our lives.

But today on hot cement, my daughter has walked into my embrace. It took us both a long time to get here.

And I hope I am not so naive to think that this is it, from here on out everything will be sunshine and outstretched arms.

All relationships take work.

Evie and I are just starting to hear each other’s voice. We have a lot more to say to each other.

But our bond is there. It’s strengthening.

And it feels good.