Outside.

I live in a dimly lit yard.  It is at the bottom of a small mountain and there is a huge canopy of trees all around us.  My gardens have been notoriously poor producers over the last couple years.  So I decided to put my gardens in different spots to get some better sun.  Manny is on his way to school in the photo below.  It is board game day.  Who thinks that game will have all its pieces when it returns home? 

 Every year I forget that those purple flowers are flowers and yank them before they have a real chance to flourish.  This year I somehow remembered and they were spared.

 POISON IVY:  

 This is Manny's Garden.  It is really flourishing.  That little Japanese Maple there is his tree, too.

 Nasturtiums!  One of my favorite plants in the world.  You can eat the flowers.

Zucchini blossom and our first little zucchini growing.

 Sunflower standing tall and strong.

 Basil, first time ever raised from seeds.  Not bad.

 What kind of flowers are these?  Somebody tell me.

 Farm boy with his farm truck.

 He parks it in the garden.

 A sweet little blossom.

Weird.

Do you know who's weird?  Me.  I feel like I have found a new soulmate with my kid.  We are eerily similar.  I mean, this second child, my adopted one, will not leave our house without making sure the mudroom door is closed.  Also, he will not go to sleep without his perfect blanket (the super comfy one with the lyrics to "One Love"by Bob Marley on it) wrapped perfectly around him with it covering his whole body with just his eyes showing.  And the fan must be on and the curtains closed and the door shut and he needs to lay with head to the right, not the left.

What? Sound neurotic?  Well, if you can't dig that, then you can't dig him.  And if you can't dig him, you can't dig me.  Because when I go to bed I need the room completely dark and I need a roaring fan and I need a blanket that leaves my feet free (absolutely no socks in bed) and I need a firm pillow under my head and a feather pillow over my head and a whatever pillow to clutch through the night.

I dig his little neuroses.  I dig them because they show preference.  And I like it because it shows attachment to ritual.  He drinks bottles throughout the night and when he isn't drinking them, he is clutching them.  He loves his bottles.  And the blanky, and his brother, and me, and Daddy.

And I, in no way, hold myself to any standard of healthy attachment, but I do know that signs of attachment are a good thing.  And in my own narcissistic moment, I love indulging my little sweetheart his needs for the fan, the blanket, the lighting, the everything that represents what he considers to be "comfort" that I am humbly able to provide.  He will outgrow, possibly, all of them.  But, for now, I happily indulge.

Love letter to an 8 year old.

I didn't write my love letter to an 8 year old in a timely manner this year.  I was having trouble with it and that bothered me so much that I quit trying.  It doesn't mean I love you less or that anything was wrong.  Everything is just so different now with another soul living in our midst.  I felt apologetic and I didn't want to write that to you either.  Adjustment to having a brother has kind of hit home to you lately and it hasn't been easy.  It's not supposed to be.

Despite the fact that becoming a brother is not the easiest thing in the world, you have done spectacularly well.  You often argue that he has always been most attached to you and there is a strong case in your favor, indeed.  You are adored by your little brother.  I love to see him hug you and pat your back.  That is his highest form of love, those sweet little pats.  You are patient and kind to your brother and you are raucously fun to watch together.

I can't say enough about how much you have learned over the last year!  It's amazing what second grade can give to a child and you showed your science and math and reading skills.  You read like crazy and I cannot wait to sit down and read some long funny books with you this summer.  Over the last year there was far more TV watching and iPad goofing than we have ever had before.  I have felt terribly guilty about that as our regular routines were tossed into the air as we adjusted to the new family member.  A good friend of mine tells me that a family is like a mobile.  When you add a new piece to a mobile it is weighted down on that side and the rest of the family is all over the place, their place in the orbit askew.  True enough.  We all had to find a way to balance the new piece on our mobile and get back into solid orbits.

You are still the most amazing creature.  You grew so tall this year that my heart would ache when your hugs left your forehead at my collar bone.  Too, too fast.  You run like the wind.  You play so imaginatively and with such rigor.  You have become more of an adventurer, a wild thing, a risk taker.  You have friends over and they never ever leave in their own clothes.  Their clothes lay in a dirty or wet heap at the bottom of our basement stairs and they wear your clothes home.  I do not know how we manage to return these clothes or get yours back.

Most importantly, to me, your mama, you are still the emotion-filled, family-loving, open-hearted love I have always known.  I never worry about your capacity for compassion, empathy, or bright enveloping love.  You still rise early each day, lest you miss something amazing that happens early in the morning. You still spill a lot of your drinks.  You eat like a monster and your palette is wide-ranging and adventurous.  You are still my baby.  You still snuggle with me.  You like to be tickled, but it inevitably ends up as a good beating for your mama so I am a bit scared of tickle fights these days.  I adore you, love you beyond measure.  I also like you, you're a great kid, interesting and bright.  Thank you for blessing me in this life.  My cup never ever stops running over and becomes a full on waterfall when you walk into a room.  You are the one who turned the tables on life.  You turned me into the monster I have become, a mother.

Books.

It was either write about "Books" or "My Chaotic Life."  But, I chose books because it is easier.

My godmother has eight children.  She told me once that when she had kids that people told her she would never read again, that she wouldn't have time.  But, she made time for it.  I'm the same way, there is always a book and a reading light at my fingertips through the night.

One of the best books I have read recently was Far From the Tree, by Andrew Solomon.  This is a great book if you want a monster of meaty reading.  It details  families coping with deafness, dwarfism, Down syndrome, autism, schizophrenia, multiple severe disabilities, with children who are prodigies, who are conceived in rape, who become criminals, who are transgender.  The first and last chapters of the book are heartbreakingly beautiful as he generously discusses his own family experience when he came out to his parents and then became a parent himself.  I blathered about this book to everyone I know.  I started reading his first book, The Noonday Demon, but I couldn't finish it.  But, one thing I got from this book: there is a huge difference between those who suffer from a really ugly case of major depression and the 'worried well.'  God, he went through hell.  One other thing, I wrote to Mr. Solomon on Facebook and he responded which is always a good thing.

I just finished reading This is How, by Augusten Burroughs.  I love this guy and have loved him since his first book, Running with Scissors.  This is How tells you how to do all kinds of stuff.  It compiles Burroughs's down to earth meditative approach about how to really help yourself.  From getting thin to coming to grips with letting your child die, he covers most of the major bases in life.  He doesn't shy away from offering real advice which I appreciated, but more so, I loved that he stressed that knowing yourself is key to everything you want to change or come to grips with in life.

Finally, I just started reading two books.  In One Person, by John Irving.  And The Child Catchers, by Kathryn Joyce.  I linked the NPR interview with the author above because I have heard it is great, but I haven't actually listened to it.  It seems that trying to watch or listen to something on my computer causes children to crawl into my lap or need a bowl of yogurt or to take of their diaper and run around nakey.  So I stick to reading.  The Child Catchers, so far, has been eye-opening.  I am nothing if not a naive bastard, but I had no idea that there was such a huge movement in evangelical churches to adopt.  I mean, I knew it was going on, but not to the extent that I am coming to understand.  I just want to state right now that both of my children are being raised by heathens, not that different from being raised by wolves, and that's okay with me.

What is on my reading list for the summer?  I don't know.  There is a movement afoot in my home to rid ourselves of television and to have more human connection.  And I want art and I want cavorting in creeks and I want to picnic....etc. ad nauseum.  What have you read lately?  Tell me, I beg you.

Momentum

When we got Andu evaluated for Early Intervention and speech services, I had my doubts that he would be eligible.  After his last bout with two ear infections, one of which perforated, he had jumped quite a bit with speech, definitely more words and word approximations.  But, the women who came to my house to evaluate him truly seemed interested in helping us.  My own experience as a case manager for children with these kinds of needs was frustrating.  I felt like I had to fight for those services.  But, for my own child, it didn't feel like a fight at all.  Maybe it is because I didn't want services for him, I wanted to know if he needed them.

But, now that we have had speech therapy sessions a couple of times, I see how much I needed it.  His therapist is stricter with him, really pulling the words out of him, not giving into whining.  She sets clear boundaries.  I haven't really been setting clear boundaries.  He is my barnacle.  I focus on his attachment, on his heart.  I understand each whine, the tone of it, what it means, and I don't make him use his words.

After participating in therapy with them, though, the need to use his words, either verbally or with sign, has bloomed.  And so have his manners.  He doesn't expect things immediately.  He may whine, but when he is reminded, he will use his words.  He is finding the power of his words.  And he has started saying 'thank you' all the time.  There is nothing cuter in the world than a little guy who says 'tank too' all day long.  It makes a mama's heart calm.

I'm so glad I stopped wondering whether or not I should have him evaluated and, instead, just did it.  I know that English is his third language and I know this is the fourth place he has lived and I know I didn't want to expect too much out of him.  But, he has just a bit more peace in his mind now.  His words are building the bridge, his own bridge.  That's the kind of momentum I wanted for him.  He's going to get there.

Never ever.

We have lived in our house for almost 12 years.  Our neighbor up the hill, "John," has lived there the whole time.  We have always had a good relationship with him.  Since we have known him, we have seen his dog die and he has seen our dog die.  We have sheltered his cats when they are astray and he has caught our runaway dogs for us.  He often plows our driveway in the winter and I leave eggs in his mailbox.  He has seen our children come home to us and we have seen his grandchildren come home to him.

Neither of our separate lives have been perfect.  When we first moved here he was married and had a thriving business.  He has since divorced and his wife has moved down south, far away.  The business went south, too, when the economy took its turn.  But we have always remained friends and tried to help each other.  One time he brought his excavator down to our yard and was digging up our septic tank which was clogged and needed to be drained.  That's the kind of neighbor he is, the kind of man he is.  He suggested that I call the previous owner of our house and try to pinpoint where the septic tank could be.  I did as he asked.  I was shocked to learn that the man we bought our house from was gravely ill with stomach cancer.  I could tell that he was crying a little on the phone when I talked about our growing family and the house.  I could hear his gulping pauses as he told me he could barely eat anymore and could be getting a feeding tube next.  Still, he told me where to find the tank and told me to make a little map so next time we would know where to find it.

I returned to John sitting outside on the excavator, my eyes wet with tears.  I told him about the cancer and I stumbled through trying to explain where the septic tank might be.  It was then that he told me his wife was leaving for good.  And then his bottom lip trembled and his brow furrowed and he paused, trying to maintain his grip.  I sat at the end of the massive hole in our yard and cried with sorrow for him and for the former homeowner who lay dying, far away, down south, too.

So, John's wife left.  He has struggled.  And lately, he has been besot with serious medical issues himself.  We have seen the ambulance pull out of his driveway far too many times as of late.  He has an autoimmune disease which has attacked his lungs.  He came to us not long ago and told us he had made his funeral arrangements and would be selling the house.  I have kept putting the eggs in the mailbox, supplemented with maple syrup.  I call his daughter to keep track of how he is doing.  I tell her I am here.

Yesterday he stopped by after yet another long bout in the hospital.  He had been in a coma for almost a week.  He told me and the boys that he had decided that he was going to beat this thing.  My ears perked up and I told him that was all I needed to hear.  And he said, yep, I'm not going to give up.  And I said, I always tell my boys that you never give up, never, never give up.  And Manny, in all his eight year old beauty and righteousness chimed in and said, right, mama? you never ever give up!  And the baby sat in the wheel barrel alongside his brother and he pumped his tiny sweet fist in the air.  And John got teary and apologized and I said, no! never apologize, we're just not giving up.

And my heart swelled with pride over the bright enthusiasm and vim and vigor of my two little boys who would never ever give up.

Understanding

This little boy, my son, Andu, is almost 22 months old.  I first saw his beautiful face over a year ago.  I had an awareness, even before I saw his face, that there was a soul out there in the world who was attached, however strongly or loosely, to mine.  He has been home for almost 9 months now.  He has woven himself into the fabric of routine, family, and heart.  He is the perfect baby of the family.  He thrives as the little entertainer and center of sweet, delighted attention.

I worry about him, of course.  That is what mothers do.  The worry I carry for both of my sons is kind of like a pot that simmers away on the back of the stove.  The thing that has caused me the most worry about Andu is his speech.  He is a an amazing feat of physical ability, there is no doubt about that.  He is the most flirtatious and social child you might ever meet.  But, since he has come home, his speech has not blossomed.  He seems to understand us very well, but his own talking has been lagging.

What have I felt about his speech?  Guilt.  Angst.  Grief.  I have had many little and big sorrows about his adoption.  I think most people must think that when you bring your child home, it has finally happened for you, that second child you longed for is here.  They are weary of hearing your blahblahblah about the wait.  They are expecting the exultant mother, victorious in growing her family. But, truly, I was sad that Andu had lost his birth family, his country, his place in Ethiopia, that he had lived so many places before coming home to us, and that I had not been there to help him get through it.  It may seem a paradox that one can grieve not having been there for a person whom one did not even know at the time, but I have news for you, it happens.  When you adopt a child who is not a newborn infant, you grieve that they cried without you, that they were scared without you, that they were ever without you.

So, I was feeling all of those things when Andu came home.  And Andu most certainly must have been scared and worried and anxious and maybe a hundred other emotions in between.  And his reaction to those feelings was to scream and holler.  A lot.  And to chase us everywhere we went.  It's not that we weren't carrying him, we were, but sometimes you do take off for the toilet or need to grab a drink of water and you don't think you need to schlep Mr. Baby with you, but it turns out you do.  I took to taking his hand whenever and wherever we crossed a threshold.  If he wasn't in my arms he was escorted by hand in and out of every single room anywhere and everywhere.

But, back to that screaming.  It wasn't just screaming.  It was whining.  What's a better word?  I hate that word, "whining," because it implies annoyance on the part of the listener.  I wasn't annoyed, but that whining or the querulous tones or whatever you want to call them, were wearisome.  And worse yet, they made me sad.  The child had been raised in not one, but two, different languages before he started hearing English.  This gobbledy-gook he kept hearing out of our droning heads was his third language.  And he came home at 14 months, no less.  He had heard Oromo until about 8 months, then most likely Amharic until 14 months, and from then on, English.  The thought of it makes me hold my own head in my hands.

My pediatrician felt that we should hold Andu to the standards of American children in terms of speech.  My ENT felt that Andu should be given far more leeway than American children and more time to hone his language skills.  I was quietly and, sometimes not so quietly, simmering away with worry and angst and sadness about his speech.  I watched a tantrumming child who once took a full day to get me to understand that he just wanted juice in a bottle, not in a sippy cup, not milk, just give me the f***ing juice in. my. bottle. for. shit's. sake.  And then he sat there, with hitches in his breathing, finally relieved of the burden of making me understand what he needed, finally done crying.  Sometimes, the little man just would not continue any further into the day unless he felt understood.  He has stood his ground, unwilling to move on until you get why.  It has been hard on both of us, but I admire my strong little man.

Finally, in February I contacted Early Intervention and asked for an evaluation, which he had just yesterday.  If he didn't qualify, fine.  I really enjoyed the evaluation, much to my surprise.  Three women, all mothers, one an adoptive mother, all sitting there for one reason:  to know and learn everything about my son.  They were charmed by his smile.  They talked sweetly of his secure attachment to me.  He bewitched them with his eyelashes and sparkling smile.  I told them proudly of his gross motor skills (my running, dancing, stair-cimbing marvel of nature).  I told them proudly of his fine motor skills (his nearly adult grip of a crayon, how he has been feeding himself for months).  And I told them proudly that he has around 8 words and can sing 'Bah Bah Black Sheep' and knows some sign language.  And I told them about our shared angst and that he won't listen to books and I told them about the tantrumming.  And I am even proud of that.  I feel he won't listen to books because he wants to be able to participate more in book-reading.  He tantrums because he is frustrated and hasn't the words to explain himself.  And he has angst because he has angst.

And he qualified for speech services.  I can't even bring myself to say that I'm not happy that he needs speech.  It's all so okay that I am actually quite happy that he will have speech.  I feel vindicated in my worries and angst.  I feel like despite that he could not put it into words, I still understood what was going on.  I feel like mama and boy intuition are in synch.  I know with complete certainty that it will be fine.

I understood you all along, little man.