A little more mine.

I remember the first time I saw him naked.  It was kind of a shock, honestly.  And mostly because I realized it was the first time I was seeing him naked.  I know that sounds strange, but there was a moment when I deeply understood that you know your own babies so intimately and I did not know Fort that way.  My three “birth” children were delivered into my hands at their tiniest, most vulnerable.  I changed their diapers and washed their naked bodies from the first day I met them.  I knew Fort for several days before I followed him into the bath.  And we did not know each other well enough for me to bath him, let alone touch his naked body. 

He had no modesty.  He was either not old enough to have any sense of what that meant or he was not taught it, here in this place where all the children were in an assembly line to get bathed and in pajamas, and in front of many “aunties”.  So he was not even aware of my watching him be naked.  I had seen him use the bathroom, but as I saw his slim black body turn shiny in the clean water, I loved him a little deeper.  The red dirt was everywhere on him, from the hours playing in the yard.  It had gotten onto his feet through the seams of his sneakers or the crocs they all had.  But you couldn’t see it on his dark skin until it touched the water and swirled away.  The grey shade that came over him from dryness turned slick and glossy and he sat in the nearly empty tub.  He sat there, a black boy in that white tub, with a pink bucket of water next to him.  He bathed all by himself, this little three year old who was one of the oldest in the bunch.  With efficiency, he splashed himself with water and used a sponge to wet his head.  Taking the white bar of soap between his hands, he scrubbed himself clean, including his hair which was cut close to the scalp.  There was no playing, no soothing warm water, not really any interaction at all.  If the kids did not bathe themselves quickly or properly, the aunties did it, and it was not done with any tender nurturing, but rather with the same attitude as scrubbing a potato.  Fort seemed rather happy to do it himself, and did not require any help, so I just watched. 

I saw for the first time the shape of his body.  I couldn't help but compare the differences from my skin and my shape, and the curves of my birth children.  His back seemed strong and muscular, tapering from strong shoulders into a trim little waist.  His bottom curved out in places ours didn't. I knew his hands and feet well, the wide frames of both giving him a sense of solidness.  I wondered about the places that didn't have answers, the scars and marks of his body that I wasn't there to witness. He had the firm pouch of a belly the way most toddlers do, and I was happy to see he was not emaciated in any way.  He may be hungry during the day, but he was getting nutrition.    An immunization scar marked his left upper arm .  I wonder why his immunization scarred him when my other children were left unmarked.  Was it the medicine or the needle, or was Fort’s skin just so different?

After rinsing off the suds, he clambered out of the tub to let the next child in.  He grabbed his towel and vigorously dried himself, rubbing his legs up and down.  The boys and girls were sent in one at a time, and then came back into the main room to dress for bed.  First the kids rubbed oil all over their skin, with a local olive oil that was very cheap and did the trick.  After the oil, their skin was beautiful and their little faces seemed aglow.  The children’s pajamas were stacked on the table by size.  The babies had already been bathed and put into their pajamas.   All clothing had been washed, line dried and then ironed, to kill any eggs that had been deposited by the Putzi fly while drying.  The children wore whatever pajamas were the proper size, and the 3 oldest boys – Fort, Jose, and James- loved their new matching pajamas.  They wore their two-piece princess pjs proudly.  They did not wear any underwear to bed, which was a habit that was difficult for Fort to change once he came home with us. 

I helped him once or twice with his bath at the orphanage, but as always I wanted to leave his routine as status quo as possible.  I had to get a ride back to my house when it was available, or take a motorcycle taxi home before it was dark.  Many times I was already gone by bathtime.  After we flew home to Ohio, I sat with him by the bath.  It was a different bath.  First, there was water IN the bath and he sat in it!  Sometimes the kids took baths together, with bubbles or toys. He learned how to blow bubbles in the water and soon put his head underwater just like his brother and sisters.  I sat and could remember washing the tiny bodies of my babies.  Holding them so their floppy heads stayed out of the water, and their little legs splashing us with little uncontrolled kicks.  I shushed them when they cried because they didn’t want to get wet or sometimes because they didn’t want to get dry.  That tender maternal feeling covered me, as I watched the calm on their faces from the warm water or the reflexive flinching when I tickled them while washing their feet and legs. 

And here was this boy.  This sweet boy whom I loved but who was still somewhat of a stranger to me.  And I sat by him in the  bath, and helped him when he didn’t need it.  I helped him wash his back, softly and slowly.  I poured water over the roundness of his belly so he could feel the delight of that sensation.  I made a big deal when he went underwater and came up with those wide shining surprised eyes.  I learned how the water drips off him in waves, as if it was a blanket moving down his face.  I held his arms out and used my hands to rub soap around his shoulders, under his armpit.  I learned the softness of his skin, the corners of his body.  I started to help him with the oil after the bath.  The oil made his body glow, his hair that was growing up in little twists soften and his skin slip under my touch. 

Every time I washed and oiled him, I felt a little closer, a little more maternal.  I was his mom, maybe the only one who ever washed him and cared for him like this.  I got to know his body, and he became a little more mine. 

Real Birthday

Last November, we celebrated Fort's 4th birthday, and first birthday celebration.  But truly, we don't know how old he is.

In the adoption process, a birthday is just a formality. Each child needs a birth certificate and therefore a birthdate. They estimate a child's age, and Fort's birthdate is the day he arrived at the orphanage. November 25. That is what his official document says. He turned 4 shortly after we got home to Ohio, and it seemed like a reasonable age. I wondered if he were older, but his life experience was so dramatically different, and he was so damn resourceful, that it was hard to compare him to any 3 or 4 year old I knew. We had the option of having a bone scan done, but it would only narrow down his age range to within 6 months and we were pretty positive we were in the ball park. Not to mention that after the multitudes of tests he had to endure during his very first weeks here, it just seemed unnecessary.
Not having or celebrating a birthday is a normal thing for an adopted child, but it was something that stunned me the first time I learned about it.  How odd, and what a sad little hole that will forever be in his life. Kids here learn their age and how to hold up "this many" fingers almost before they can talk. Their birthday is a constant marker- Facebook pages are full of the "I'm -- months old today!" announcements.  Parents follow the milestone markers obsessively to be sure "Baby" is developing as expected. And the more I think on it, the more I am aware of the importance The Birthday in our American lives. 

Now he is nearing turning five, and we are bizarrely close to having him here with us for a whole year. Under the Ohio rules, he is not eligible for kindergarten until next year unless we tested him in. I didn't even think about it last year. We were getting him acclimated to seat belts, tricycles, pizza. He began preschool after just a few months here- he was desperate to go, not understanding why the other kids could go and not him. He asked his teachers for homework, so that he could sit with the kids after school while they did theirs. He made his first friend outside of my circle of friends, learned about sharing and moving from one activity to another. He loves to be scheduled and rarely got in trouble. (They reported he wasn't listening when they told him 'no tackling with friends'. I mentioned he had never heard that word and when I told him 'no wrestling at school'- that was the end of it).  He loved his teachers, especially helpful since he takes any small correction from me, however gentle, as scathing criticism. 

What a year. How he has grown. Although he seemed to actively forget his native Luganda language, no matter how we tried to keep it up, his English is amazing. His math skills are impressive- he can learn something new so quickly and retain it. He is behind in many linguistic areas- still stumbling in the alphabet ("A B C D B F G...") and having little understanding that letters make sounds. But for ESL, I have no idea where his progress stands. He has caught on to many many idioms, making me laugh in my attempts to explain them. "Why de batteries run out?  Dey run out de door?  Dey having legs?".  Or with his characteristically huge grin he will say knowingly to me "mom!  I am 'hopping' in shower now, ok?  See hopping?"  

There has been so much physical growth this year- heck, this summer!  I don't know how many inches he has shot up, but his shoe size has grown almost 2 sizes, and he's gone from a 3T in clothes to nearly a 6. He had never tried a pedalled bike - I sat on the floor in the garage, moving his feet on the pedals to explain they went round & round. He spent all winter making circles in the garage on his tricycle, then a 2 wheeler with training wheels and by spring he was zipping up & down the sidewalk on his 2 wheeler with NO training wheels. He worked through blistered hands to master the monkey bars like his big sister, at first using pure strength to muscle his way from bar to bar until he connected the idea of momentum. And then he not only lost his 2 front teeth, but the new ones are barrelling down into his mouth, as if something had been restraining them all this time. 

So is he not yet 5?  Probably not.  But is he 6?  What happens if we make a careful choice as to what year to begin school, and he is 140 pounds and 6 feet tall in 6th grade?  Ah, these decisions of when to start school are so much more complicated by the fact that he is catching up in all areas.  And I see that growth, in every area of his quickly growing body and mind.  Because something has been holding him back, and now he is on fire.  Burning with curiosity, trying to figure out life and his place in this world.
So, in November, he will turn five.  And his face will light up at the candles on the cake like any child turning five.  And that will do for now.

A year gone by

It is August 11, 2013.  One year ago today I got on the first of several planes on my way to Uganda, to meet Fortunate as his mother.  I was so nervous, excited and full of anxiety but not scared at all.  Not scared to journey to a third world country on the other side of the planet, by myself as a white woman.  Not scared to see the boy whom I had only met once before and felt in my heart should be my son, and to take him home with me forever.  Not scared to risk heart ache and hurt.  I don’t know why I wasn’t afraid of those things.  I had some deep sense of security, of doing the right thing, of making the only choice.

 I recently saw this quote by Mark Twain:

“Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

It resonates with me.  I have always felt this inside me, although not so eloquently phrased.  I am always seeking that next project, looking for things that make me satisfied and fulfilled.  I would rather do too much than not for fear I would regret it someday.   I constantly yearn for more.  I tend to exhaust myself, get emotional, and wonder why I cannot be everything I want to be at the same moment.  I have had to teach myself that I can do anything I want, but not necessarily at the same time.  And now, I have had to teach myself that I have reached my limit.  I cannot spin anymore plates in the air simultaneously.  They are dropping left and right.  I have to buckle down, focus on what is most important and love what I have and who I am. 

In practical terms, this means the very deep and heartbreaking knowledge that we cannot adopt another child.  It is kind of absurd that we would consider it, and I don’t know that we ever really thought we would.  But the possibility lay there, the way all roads lie open and enticing to you when you are young.  But knowing this and saying the words -that we cannot adopt another- is the brutal truth.  Brutal because I know deep down that any child would do better being with us than staying in an orphanage or in a foster home.  But I have had to acknowledge my limits, and realize what I need.  Taking in another child would not be good for me.  I have found the edges of my abilities.  I have been aged by this process, of taking in this abandoned boy and disrupting our easy family flow.  Our children have gained so much this year, but I have been worn down.  I know that I need to do things for myself outside of the kids.  I am not someone who finds herself completed by being a mother.  Being a mother is incredibly satisfying, but I need other things too.  I have put aside parts of myself to do this thing – this raising children thing- in the best way I know how.  And now I am burned out, and I need to find those things to help redefine who I am today. 

I was back in New York City this month, with all four kids.  There is nothing like going away to make you appreciate your own home and life.  I love my life, my strange little Midwestern suburban stay-at-home mom thing that is so entirely opposite of the glamorous life I remember having in Manhattan.  And being back there reminded me all too well of the tedium, the difficulty, the constant churning machine that is city living.  And here, even with four kids, it is so easy.  Even with all the continual demands of motherhood, life in Ohio is centered.  We have a life that I think is so important for the kids, and even for me.  I don’t regret leaving show business or New York for a minute.  I am so proud of all we have accomplished – these children we are still neck deep in raising.   This commitment we have made to the world to raise a son that almost was lost.  To have a house where loud is good, standing on the furniture is allowed, and  “go play outside” is a happy refrain.  I have satisfaction in knowing that what I have been doing is important and I was good at it.  And soon, as the kids all go back to school, I can begin to return to myself, to rediscover and renew.  To have the solitude I crave, which I so ironically avoided when I was younger. 

A year has gone by.  A chaotic, difficult, exhausting, humbling and deeply and profoundly changing year.  I feel the next chapter is on the horizon.  I can’t do everything at the same time, but I can do anything.  It is time for me to see what that will be.

Be the boy I know you are

And so I sit here on one side of the door with that 4 year old child acting full-on bratty and screaming on the other side. I am trying out what I have been afraid to do, which is to put Fort in his room as a time out. By himself. He is now understanding consequences and knows exactly what he is doing. And when I sit in the room with him, he is kicking me and trying to engage me verbally. Anything he can think of - from "you are mean" to "go away...shoo!" to "I hate you". It can be comical - when he says what he thinks will make me mad- "I'm going to pop my balloon" or "I'm not going to eat pizza any more". I can hear the little wheels in his mind whirring- so frustrated at not being able to get the response he wants from me. I am working so hard to remain neutral. I moved to the hallway, where he can open the door and see me, but can't try to pinch me or head-butt me. He is not locked in, so he opens the door and closes it. Locks it from his side. Then opens it - yells "shoo". And slams it shut. Kicks the door, louder, louder.  It rattles in my ear. It does get me. I am not neutral. I am furious and worried and just want him to melt down, cry it out, and be sorry. The kicking stops. He is so grumpy. Just yelling rude things. He says he is going to tell on me when daddy gets home.  He is going to tell Grandma.   As his physical behavior has mellowed out, his verbal behavior has gotten worse. He says "I hate you" and "I'm going to punch you in the face". 

His pre-school starts in 15 minutes. He has said he is not going. I don't want him to think he is in control - that he can chose when he goes and doesn't go. But am I really going to drag him there, kicking and screaming?  Would he disrupt the class all day?  Is he in no state to go to school and should I keep him home, or does that mean he has thrown a fit and gotten his way?  Not only that, but of course I am in charge of organizing a bake sale today for the elementary school. I have told them I would be there at 9.  Not an end of the world thing, but it's something I agreed to do and I don't want to leave them in the lurch. So although I know without a doubt that sitting on the floor outside his room is where I need to be, other responsibilities and self-doubt are lurking around the edges of my mind. 

It is quiet in there. I cannot tell if he is playing. I hear a rhythmic sound. Is he kicking his bed?  He is still mad. 

Then I hear it. The crying. Not the mad kind, but the sad kind. The "I'm alone in my room and I'm hurting" kind.   I open the door and he is lying on the rug, both hands to his face, and tears streaming down. I crawl in from the hall, lie down next to him and scoop him in my arms.  I don't ask him to say sorry yet, I just say "let's be done fighting", so he knows I'm there. I'm nice, warm mommy. Mommy who loves him and isn't yelling or telling him no or holding him back from the door or from kicking.  And he is sweet Fort again.   The one who just discovered that we all die and has been telling me "But I don't WANT you to die".  The boy who told me we needed to go back to his orphanage and teach them about hugs. The one who says sure! when I ask him to help me with anything.  The boy I know he is at his core, and the one I am trying so hard to teach him how to be all the time. It is exhausting like nothing I have ever done before. 

Song of myself

There I am.
I can recognize more of myself now.
That new person is still me, mostly me.
The spinning circles around my body have solidified into shapes I know, children I love.
I am held together by the cage of support, woven for me by my husband, in which I am completely free and also fortified, made stronger.
My heart is more fluid- can it be possible?- I ache for this world I have met, and I rejoice in my part in it.
My heart drips, and I struggle; I yell and am impatient. Thoughts of carefree days and running away are tangled into my ever deepening responsibility.
I look, and am lit on fire upon seeing the sparks of curiosity in my children. And I am smothered by the very arms I adore.

The hills and valleys of life are no easier for me for having chosen this path..
There are days my eyes can hone in and see in technicolor this beautiful and tragic world and it can pull me under or raise me up.
It is a strange comfort, learning to love who I am at this moment, after all of my stops and starts. Being proud of whom I have struggled to become.
I can look back on the road behind me and be content, neither wishing I were starting over, nor at the end of my journey
No longer in danger of sinking, I can take to shore those I have chosen to take care of.
And this is my way in the world.  And the strange and glorious and rich and sometimes overwhelming life is of my making.  I hold it in my hands, like an ember of fire that needs my breath to grow.
And I blow.

Caught off guard

The thing about raising any kid is just when you start to think you have settled into a routine, your child will flip it on its head. Nothing about being a parent is regular or dependable. The good thing is that it is definitely not boring!  Not that things here are routine in any way, but there is an element of stability that is slowly taking hold, and seeping into the core of our new family. And I feel much more able to predict what the day will hold. Ah, that is the word that has me in a pickle. Predict.  A predictable day. Just let it cross your mind, and your kids will smell it, laugh riotously, and take your plans and stuff them down their pants.
The other day, I was scrambling for a solution to a scheduling conflict.  Our first son was having some sinus/ ear problems and had to get an early morning CAT scan. I was able to drop off the girls at the elementary school early, and figured I would just take Fort with me, since I wouldn't be around to bring him to preschool nor could I guarantee that I would be back to pick him up at lunch. Then the hospital called the night before with some instructions, including the fact that siblings were not welcome, due to germ exposure, etc.  Luckily I have a girlfriend with twin girls that are Fort's age. The mom is a dear friend, and the girls take a music class with Fort, so they know each other well. She said I could drop Fort off in the am and she would bring him to school and also pick him up of I got stuck. I started to prepare Fort for the changes that were going to happen on the way to school. He said "I go to Her house? Wif no Ben and no Evie?"  "That's right Fort"  "Yessssssss!"  He was excited to go on his very first play date, without me, just like his sisters and brother get to do. Never mind that it was for 10 minutes before preschool.
I was relieved that he was so ready to go. Our appointment at the hospital went smoothly, and I knew I would be back in time to pick him up from preschool at noon. I called Lori, who said he was totally awesome that morning, just walking around to check out the house, but was talking and ready to go when it was time. I was worried he would have a hard time leaving. So I was thrilled that it all was so easy.
I got to school to pick him up, and as he came around the corner and saw me, his smiles changed from a shy excited one to a crestfallen look of disappointment. He came to me and put his head down on my shoulder. I immediately understood that he had been expecting Lori to pick him up. "Hey, buddy - did you think Lori was coming to get you?"  "Yeees- I don't want you!"  So I pulled him aside, kneeling down to talk quietly. I often will say out loud what I think he may be thinking, just in case he can't put the words to it. "Oh, you thought Lori was coming and you were excited. And now you are sad that it is just Mommy". Yup, that was it. He was able to say it, but didn't cheer up. He walked put to the car with me, and then it really began. He lay down on the floor of the car. I told him it was okay to be sad, and even mad, but we need to get in the seat and buckle up. I was working hard at staying calm and understanding, because I could see what a disappointment it was. When I told him he could get into his seat, or I would do it for him, he begrudgingly got into his seat and buckled. I praised him, because that was a pretty good step- being as upset as he was but still doing what I asked. We got home, and he didn't want to get out of the car. I picked him up - total dead weight- and brought him inside & sat him on the counter. When I went to take off his coat he started to struggle...and then he hit me. Sigh. That's a hard rule. You hit mom or dad, you go to your room. I knew a battle had begun.
It wound up being fairly easy- he did not hit again, nor did he go into any of his other frantic or out of control behaviors. But he was MAD. Mad to be in his room, mad that he was home, mad that he was not at Lori's. He had an expectation in his head and he had been disappointed. This little thing, that he misunderstood - that I clearly had not expressed well in my worries of the morning- had exploded. The other kids might have been disappointed too, but it would have been a few minutes, or a shrug, and then moving on. But Fort got stuck. He could not get over this. It was so upsetting to him. He finally lay down in his bed, and I told him I would be in the other room when he was ready to talk. I was not 2 steps out the door when he started calling "Mama! Mama! Mama!"  I went back in and he snuggled down, still sad, but needing me. I carried him to the couch, and he fell asleep. It had been an hour. About 1:30 he woke up, still a little groggy and withdrawn. He had swim lessons coming up at 2pm, and hadn't eaten yet. I was thinking we could make it if he was up for it.   I had a half a muffin from the morning with Ben, and set it in front of him in the kitchen to see if he wanted it. "Yuk". He shoved it across the table. Big sigh. Not acceptable behaviour.  I took the muffin away. He put his head down on the counter and started crying again. I gave him a few minutes, then I asked him if wanted the muffin (I suspected he really did). "If you can find your manners and say yes please, then you can have it". He sat looking at the counter for about 20 seconds. He made a decision, said yes please, ate the muffin, and it was over.
It was 2:30 and we had missed swimming.
But this is how he processed this disappointment. It took time, it was frustrating, but he had made a number of good choices along with the bad. He had buckled his seatbelt, refrained from hitting other than the first one, called to me when he needed me, and made the decision to have good manners so he could eat. I could not have anticipated this, but I realized how well I can read him now. His preschool teachers tried to cheer him up before he left with a sticker, and some fun news about the little chicks being born in their incubators, but they didn't understand that his letdowns are deeper and cannot be brushed aside. Has he never allowed himself to have expectations?  Does he have farther to fall?  Does he just get a plan in his head and it is tough to deviate from what he thinks will happen?  I can wonder, but I can't know. I know that he is learning, always learning. With each difficult and sometimes painful lesson, he is growing and changing the patterns of his psyche. He may have been sad, and reacted in a disproportionate way from his peers, but look!  From this he sees that some disappointments in life are small, that he can get over them,  and life marches on and he is just fine.

When his rage overwhelms

Late at night in bed is always some of my favorite conversations with my husband. Something about the late hour and the quiet house allows us to say what is really on our minds, after the energy of the day has dissipated. Last night I was talking about Fort, about how much he has grown. Literally grown too - he has grown an inch and a half in 4 months since his November birthday. No telling how much he's grown if you include the first six weeks here, where he inhaled teenage boy amounts of food. 

And grown in every aspect. His temper tantrums still arise from time to time, but yesterday's freak out was the first in 3 weeks. He does so well most days that I think it's practically vital for him to get these emotions out once in a while. His little body must still contain so many inexplicabe feelings. This afternoon, he had tried to run out of the backyard gate, and was not happy with me when I brought him inside to go over the rules again. He tried to run off inside the house, presumably to cry or be angry on his own, usually a choice that we encourage. But he was fully dressed in his snow clothes- coat, hat, gloves, snow pants, boots- and had snow covering him from the snow angels he had made. When I wouldn't let him run through the house until he got out of his snow gear, he exploded...hating to be restrained when he wanted to run. I forced him out of his clothes, and it quickly became a control battle with his little hands holding on to his snow pants with all his might, refusing to take them off. As it became clear they were coming off no matter what, he began to kick and punch. I kicked off my boots and lugged him to his room, trying to protect my face from his scrambling hands and my body from his flailing legs. 

In his rage, he is like a little wildcat, striking out at anything and everything.  I hate doing it, but I restrain him, until I feel confident that when I let him go he will not attack me, bite me, or throw any toys at my head. Sometimes it is enough to enrage me, this battle of control that I MUST WIN. Or I am overwhelmed with guilt at how I have to manhandle him. Sometimes it is almost comical, him trying to express his anger by throwing anything, even his socks. There are times the good times, I can see what it is. I can see his little brain furious at me for being in control, for setting hard limits and for saying no to him. I understand his anger, and I know that he is working hard to contain those most primitive of impulses, to fight. And in moments when he is not screaming, I can say very calmly, "No biting mama.  No hitting mama. I am your mother and you need to listen to me". And then yesterday he said it. I knew one day he would say it. But it still shocked me. 

"You are not my mother!!!"  

And 20 thoughts simultaneously flew through my head. Is this just a gut reaction in anger?  Is he testing me?  Does he really think I'm not his mother or that he can un-adopt himself?  Does he even know that "mother" is another word for "mom"?  I was shocked, but not hurt. If being his mother means I tell him what to do, then he wanted no part of it. I didn't get into a "yes I am- no you're not" battle with him, I just let it go. He began calming down- first he got control of his body, but not his anger. He sat in a little ball, far away from me, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. He was no longer screaming but he had a deep frown on his face. He looked at me and said his usual " you no nice". I have chosen to respond little to his verbal anger. I just let it be, let him say what comes out. Usually some switch flips, and he looks up, bright and blinking, and says " I say sorry now". 

And once again I was thinking of my girlfriend, who was adopted as an infant, and how she never had an open dialogue with her mother her entire life. I hate the thought of that. Fort will have so many unanswerable questions, but I want him to always have the freedom and the confidence to ask. The questions cannot sit in his gut, swirling around, creating insecurity or low self esteem.  And so I started the conversation, so that he will hopefully come to me when things start to trouble him. 

I am your mother, Fort. I will always be your mother and you will always be my son. I will love you whether you are angry or happy with me, and I will never leave you. I may not love some of the things you do or the choices you make, but I will always love YOU. 

I don't know what parts he hears. But he hugged me so tight. He said I love you Mama. I think we will have this conversations many times in during the next few years. But I will say it as often as he needs to hear it. Loving him is the easy part. 

Winter weighs in.

The world glows orange at this midnight hour,
An unworldly daylight look as the street lamps are reflected in the white whiteness that covers everything.
The still and quiet of the yard makes me pause and I feel myself melt a little at its beauty.
I know tomorrow will be full of kids, of noise, of home from school-ness. There will be love, yes, but also banging and noise. Pounding feet.  Constant needs chipping away at me all day.
So I take this moment, a small moment, to see what I have.
To see the beauty outside with the trees pregnant with snow, bending their branches gracefully but with heaviness. Their pliant nature is keeping them from snapping.
And I am bent some days, heavy with the storm of life, whipping me around. Let me have grace and beauty in the midst of weighty days.
For if I only see the storm, I may miss the beauty. The snow transforms the landscape, but I can still recognize the swing, the fence, the chair. I am still here, under the whirlwind days.  In the quiet moments, which are few and far between but still there, I see myself. Let me gather my family -whirlwind and all -and be transformed and more beautiful for it.

How did we get to here?

I. Am. Exhausted. 

I think most mothers of four would feel the same way. Or just most mothers in general. I have started this ridiculous habit of taking a 15 minute nap around 10:30pm. Then I wake up and have a little energy to read and do things on 'my time' that I am loath to give up. Then I go to sleep for real around 12:30. I barely register Steve leaving at 6, and when the alarm goes off at 7am, I am often surprised to find Fortune in bed with me. Did he just get there?  Was he there most of the night?  It is hard to reinforce him sleeping in his bed all night when I can't wake up to put him back!

My coffee intake has tripled. I have the disgusting habit of making a pot of coffee and drinking it all day. Although I admit that I still have a glimmer of the glamorous notion that artists subsist on coffee to fuel their creative fire. I am hoping to reawaken my creative fire one day!  

I swore I would never complain about laundry. Because after living for years and years lugging the laundry to a laundromat, it seems an absolute luxury to have your own washer and dryer. And there is the ease of being able to throw in a load of laundry at any time of the day. My only issue is now I am throwing in laundry at EVERY time of the day!  The Sisyphean task awaits me every moment I am home.  Obviously there is more to managing 4 kids than laundry and groceries.  So I wonder, why - in light of all the freaking work that having four ADJUSTED kids entails- did we ever wish to adopt an older child, one that would undoubtedly have issues and would rock our stable if busy little world?  

Steve and I grew up in big families- I grew up with five siblings and Steve is one of 8. And we loved it, though we never imagined having such a brood of our own. We always talked of adopting some day, but looking back, we spoke of it in the way you dream about owning a home- not really thinking about the realities of repairing the roof or replacing a furnace. But intellectually and emotionally it has always appealed to us. It just seemed like the RIGHT thing to do- we wanted children, and all those kids wanted parents. Then we started to see friends going through the process - the ongoing piles of paperwork, the endless waiting. Really?  Who wants to do all that WORK?  And the waiting lists for a young child made it seem so commercial. And no matter how you looked at it, adoption was expensive. 

Then life happened. I had a career as a singer & dancer, Steve was in the long road to become a doctor. Finally, we moved to Ohio for Steve to start his own medical practice and for us to have kids. We both wanted that, and the Midwest gave me the luxury to be a stay-at-home mom. I left my sometimes glamourous life in the theatre and traded the sequins for Cheerios.  We had things we never had before in our student/actor life. We had a new car, a house & extra cash.  Steve and I were both in our 30s, and we were ready for a family. Then in 17 months we had 3 children; a daughter and then boy-girl twins. It was overwhelming and exhausting and any thoughts of adoption were long gone. But time moves on, you forget your exhaustion and suddenly on New Years Eve 2009,  when the twins were 3, we brought it up again. We were both excited about the idea. Excited to research it and find a toddler- maybe a 2 year old who would be close in age to the twins. We would find where the need was- and look for a child that there wasn't a wait list for- any race, any place. Share the wealth and the love that we had. We had a loud, fun house, and we had finally gotten to the point where I could manage our kids plus a few extra. We were a social house & I loved having friends with their kids over for dinners, play dates or "lunch parties" - often 5-10 moms and their accompanying children.  I was tired of needing help from everyone and thrilled that I had gotten to the point where I could reciprocate. I had more to give. And adopting would do that in an extreme way. Little did I know how extreme. 

When I think about the path that we took to get where we are, how impossible that first year of twins was, and how difficult this first year of adopting is too, I am comforted by time. Time marches on. And while I feel the sleeplessness and the stress more, while I feel worn thinner, and older, I know "this too shall pass". I hope that this will balance out- that I'll give less and get more. And that once again, I'll have more to give. 

Those I left behind

The director of the orphanage told me that I would never forget the ones I left behind. And now I am realizing the full extent of what that means. I haven't really been in very close contact with anyone in Uganda since I left. Mainly because I am overwhelmed and exhausted and it's somewhere on my list of the many things I need to do. But also because I am wary. I am wary to add a layer of emotions onto what I am already trying to manage. Even as I write this and just let my mind wander to those kids, my eyes are welling up. Not all the kids at Nafasi were able to be adopted. They have to go through a fairly intense investigation, and those who have complications or family members they have tracked down are clearly not eligible to be, nor should they be, adopted by a new family.

And each kid has his own story, and his own chances of being reunited with some form of family. 

I have heard about a few of the stories that have happened since we left - the baby whose grandmother came to visit weekly finally took him back to her home after 3 months. The 6 month old whose father also came to visit every week also took him back. But I wonder about this one boy, probably 1 1/2 years old, who was just learning to walk on his spindly legs when I was there. His mother went to jail for abandoning him, but the orphanage helped to get her out, with several stipulations. She came to visit her son, but she has given up. On him, on herself, on life. We wonder if she has AIDS. I was there the day she came to see her son. She had him in her lap, after much coaxing, but she did not even try to hold him. Her arms dangled by her sides, and the boy seemed to balance as precariously on her lap as he did when he was first abandoned. It was not good for the mom, but way more importantly, not good for the child. So what do you do in this case?  It would be horrible for this boy, once abandoned, to be reunited with his mother who does not want him, and who would probably neglect him again. The social worker is talking with her about giving up her parental rights, and then he could be adopted. 

I am still conflicted about one little girl's story. She came to the orphanage with Fort. They were close buddies. Whenever Fort sees a picture of her, he says "dat's my friend!".  She came after her father was arrested. She was with him as he tried to steal a boda boda, but it went awry and the "mob" was starting to go after him. The police saved his life by arresting him. When they interviewed the father to try to find a family for her, it turned out that the father had taken her from the mother when she was small, and she had lived with him, and been party to his many crimes. Processing all of this takes time, which in Uganda translates to years. So 4 years after she was taken from her mother, and after being in the orphanage for over a year, they were reunited.  She was at a very tough orphanage for a while, then transferred to the Dutch orphanage with Fort, which was well staffed and well run. When she finally made it back to her mother, they were strangers. The mom had thought she was dead. There were brothers and sisters she has never known. The mother held a job at a flower farm, but didn't have enough money to send them to school, although the orphanage was trying to raise money for her to go. The kids were watched by a neighbor while the mom worked. Then she lost her job. I am not clear on what the latest is, although I know they got the money to send the girl to school. We went to visit her while I was there. To me, she lived in squalor. Yes, she was with family, but there was not much- they had a one room shack with a dirt floor. They wore rags. They ran around without any supervision. I can't imagine there was much food. And so, is this the best situation for her?  I do not know.  It could have easily been a loving and wonderful home. It also might have been going back to a life of hardship. Most likely, both. To my western eye, it seemed like she was still in need. 

Now I have started to think about the ones still in Uganda. Especially the few that I really grew close to- and the ones who had no idea that I wasn't coming back. How did that affect them?  Have they gotten used to that?  So many people come and go. How does it feel to see their friends being adopted and nothing  changes in their life?  I also have unresolved issues with people from groups, mostly churches, who show up at orphanages like Nafasi on "mission trips". Who is getting served here?  What long term needs are being filled?  Is it a selfish trip- feeling like they have done some good by seeing first hand what devastation people live in?  Do they do more harm with the hope they instill?  Many of these kids will grow up in the system, always alone, never adopted. 

It is hard to compare their lives to our life now, and all the things Fort is doing and the ways he is changing. What will happen to those kids?  I am as overwhelmed living back in a first world country, thinking of them, as I was in a third world country thinking back on my kids in the US.   It is so extreme, the differences in our lives. I look at Fort and I wonder if he sees this world the way I see it, or if he is just more malleable and more accepting.  He takes everything in and hasn't seemed to struggle to reconcile the stuff we have access to here.  And the waste. 

What I want is ...

I can't seem to finish that sentence. What do I want?  How can I come to peace with what I left behind?  And who I left behind?

Hard is good.

I think about how far Fort has come. I wonder what the people at the orphanage would think of him now. Did they ever see him so joyful? So carefree?  I was looking at videos from my time with him and I am shocked. That little boy who checked out, who cried piteously or moaned for hours is just not part of him anymore. I see him angry, frustrated, sad- and yes, still FULL of emotion - but he never just blanks out anymore. There are videos from Uganda where he is happy, silly, crazy even. But I do not see the quiet joy that is part of him now.  I love seeing that most excited wide-eyed pure happiness spreading across his face like sunshine.  His eyes light up and are so beautiful when he talks about the things he has discovered and loves. Bacon. Chuck E. Cheese. Dump truck. Family. 

 

I think about our journey thus far. He has been home with us 11 weeks, plus I spent 6 weeks with him in Kampala, so that is more than four months. Our daily life has calmed down a thousand fold. He won't go into the basement to play by himself, and he doesn't sleep the whole night in his bed, but there are such huge steps forward. He can go to the bathroom by himself again ( and so can I!). When I go to get the paper at the front door, he doesn't follow me, or even call after me in the "Marco, Polo" method he has employed. I can run into the house if I've forgotten something and he can wait in the car for me.    He can watch a movie, or at least a good part of it. He can play independently, nearby to where I am, or near the kids or Steve when they are home. He can go into the garage to practice riding his bike while I am in the kitchen. And the big things. He has had 2 meltdowns this week. Neither one had any physical aggression towards me. I can reprimand him without it being the end of the world. I can use something he wants (2 stories) to get what I want (pajamas and brush teeth, please).  When he hurts someone on accident or takes something of theirs, he has learned the power of sorry. He goes to preschool and adores it. He would like to go every day. He wants to take his lunch like the big kids do. He listens well to his teachers and is learning quickly about transitions, socializing with kids his age, and following directions.   I feel so positive about him, the change he has already accomplished and the things he has learned. I am sure the other behaviour issues will resolve in time and that his life will be nothing like the one he might have endured forever in an institution. 

Steve always says "hard is good" when we get frustrated with a project or some work. And I have come to also realize the hardest part is seeing any negative effects on the first 3 kids. This change is forcing the kids to grow up and be more independent, if only because there are more of them and less of me. This happens anytime a family gets a new sibling, but our experience is compressed because there are so many factors happening simultaneously. I see our biological son struggling and it kills me. It feels so unfair because adoption was our choice, and it just happened to him. But it also is forcing him to face issues that have been there his whole life - the intensity of his feelings and his difficulty in communicating them.  Do I think he will ultimately benefit from all of this change, and from Fort becoming a part of our family?  Unequivocally yes. But watching him in the throes of painful growth is painful to me, and it is exhausting constantly trying to buoy his self confidence and redefine his role in the family. 

I think about what I envisioned adoption would be like. It seemed that people reacted to the idea of adoption in one of two ways- either with a mind that has always considered it, or one that cant conceive of why you would do it. And I didn't understand the naysayers. But now I do realize what a drastic step adoption is. It is not for the weak at heart!  I firmly believe it takes two passionate parents to go through the challenges, the anticipated and the unanticipated. I can see how adoption can work its way into the tiny cracks in a relationship and push them open, stressing a marriage. I feel so lucky to have an equally dedicated partner, one who can support me as much as he supports the kids. Every time I feel completely drained, it is his friendship that brings me back to life. Adopting reminds me of having twins. You think you are prepared for it, but it is never quite what you think. It is surprising, exhausting, beautiful. 

First Christmas

Everyone wants to know how Fort is doing with his first holiday in America. Most of it is surprisingly normal!  He learned about most of the customs in the manner that older siblings would teach a two or three year old. It is always amusing to recount stories to him to explain traditions we believe in. Yes, a big hairy man comes down our chimney in the middle of the night. Nope, we are not scared of him- we love him!  Yes, that's a real tree!  In our HOUSE!  These gingerbread houses are not for eating, just to look pretty. Yes, Santa puts treats in those big socks by the fireplace. No, Santa is not a dog. (Where did that one come from?).

He feeds off the emotions and excitement of the other 3 kids - running around in the cold snowy night to put "reindeer food" (glitter and oats) in our darkened yard. Waking up on Christmas morning, he was jumping around shouting "Yay! Yay! Christmas!" as if he had been doing it for years. Later in the afternoon, he kept asking " Where is Christmas?"  And we would say - this is it! This is Christmas!- until we figured out he thought Christmas was a person, and had to explain Christmas is a day like Halloween.

Whatever I worry about is rarely an issue - I thought at Halloween maybe he would be scared or freaked out by some of the scary costumes, or even just the sight of costumed children ringing our bell all night. But no- none of that phased him at all- he ran ahead of us...just as if to say " what a great idea!!  Ring the bells and get candy!!"  But he could not get over the pumpkins on the doorsteps. "Pumpkins!" he said the first time he saw one. "Yes", I said. "For eating!" Fort shouted. No, I had to explain. We scoop out those pumpkins and instead of eating them we put them outside for decorations til they rot. Yes, seeing food as decorations is weird to him.

And now there is snow. I was worried about how this little guy who lived on the equator and put on sweaters when it got below 70 degrees would react to winter here. Thankfully he came to the US in September, and it was still quite warm, so he was able to gradually go through fall and winter. And he does amazing in the cold!  He has more tolerance than some of my other kids!  He is so unaccustomed to being inside all day that I think he just loves his little windows of outside time, even if that means in snow pants, boots and gloves.

He is a LOUD kid, a boisterous kid, a hilarious kid. He loves to tease and tickle and snuggle. He loves chasing and wrestling and my iPad. He loves our house, our cars, his bed. He loves 'pezza', orange juice and BACON. He does not want to go back to his orphanage, but likes talking about it and his friends there and remembering when we were there. He wants to be a pilot- so he can fly Madeleine there and show it to her. He is a dark kid, an African kid, an almost-American kid, an almost-our kid.

What I've learned: home two months

That four kids is harder than 3. And much, much busier.  And louder. 

That 2 boys under 7 could eat so much. 

That I love the 45 minutes or so my husband and I have before we sleep, and how much I miss it with a small child in the bed. 

That Madeleine loved Fort before he was even here. 

That Ben really wanted a little brother who looked up to him. 

That Madeleine's attention to Ben means as much to him now as when he was a toddler. 

That Evie can break. 

That there is much to learn about the differences in black bodies and white bodies. 

That rubbing oil on Fort's body after bath would be so bonding. 

That Americans have such incredible sentiment tied to a birthday. 

That Fortune would be so different emotionally here than he was in Uganda. 

That I would feel so unprepared. 

That Fort would learn good habits (seatbelts) so quickly but also lose other habits (peeing alone) as quickly. 

That I would feel like I was doing it all on my own for so long. 

That my husband and I would grow closer, even with our struggles. 

That no matter how wonderful his orphanage was, he didn't love it and he never wants to go back. 

That I would be so emotionally wrung out from my experience in Uganda. 

That he would be so affectionate. 

That he would always feel like my son. 

That I would be so comforted by the support I felt from my friends, family, and community. 

That all my emotions need to coexist, and that love, fear, grief and joy do not cancel each other out. 

That I am too old to carry around a 40 pound boy. 

That most of what I took for granted in our biological kids was created by love and security. 

That I am so proud of myself as a mother, and of my relationship with my husband. 

That I will never cease to be amazed by the incredible resilience of children. 

That the child Fort is becoming is the child that I glanced at the orphanage, and anyone who only knew him 2 months ago would be amazed by him now. 

That every day I am tapped out and yet somehow I get renewed. 

That I thought I was so educated on what adoption would be and how blind I was in reality. 

That Fort is so strong. 

That I am so strong.

Therapy Becomes Me

I went to see a therapist twice. Othe first visit was right after hitting bottom at 3 weeks, when we didn't know some of Fort's distress was caused by scarlet fever and a double ear infection. That day, when he screamed for 7 hours straight- except for the 45 minutes when he was asleep, I promise you I made it through because I knew I had a psychologist appointment the next day.  She is a specialist for international adoption and child development, and just having the appointment made me feel better. I needed someone who could tell me that I wasn't crazy, that this was tough, and that I was not going to unwittingly scar him. 

Then I went back to see her 3 weeks later, and in many of the tough days I felt encouraged just by having her number handy in case I needed it. I never called her, but it was a great comfort. And I loved making a plan of attack, even if it was just an outline, and most of the time I still had to react and make spontaneous decisions. The plan gave me confidence, and helped me to be more decisive, which I know is good for Fort. One of the best things was at our second visit, when she asked me how a number of things were going, and with each question I could say, "that's getting better" and "yes, THAT is getting better!".  I had a gauge to look back and realize how far we had come. 

Fort's English is rapidly improving, as well as his basic ability to communicate. I can better anticipate his moods, and tell when he's hungry, tired or overwhelmed. My girlfriend who was adopted as a baby talked to me about her frustration that any troubles she had growing up almost always got pegged as an "adoption issue", and how everything was put together on that shelf. I think about this now, as I sort through Fort's issues. Is his fear of being alone part of an adoption issue?  Is it because he missed handling separation anxiety as a toddler?  Does he just have a fear of being alone like many kids?  We are finally at a point where his English and communication skills are better and he is able to express things like "me skerred" and "I don't like that". 

We can't discipline him in the same manner as we do our biological kids, but we can't let him get away with everything either.  Fort and Ben were in their room playing when I heard Fort screaming for me. They were clearly physically getting into it. I ran in, only to see Ben calmly playing with his back to me, and Fortune lying on the floor, crying hysterically. I was just about to begin on Ben, asking him what he did to make Fort cry, when Ben turned around. His face and neck had angry scratches all over. He was fine, but Fort had tried to take a toy from him and when he couldn't , he started to fight. So Ben pushed him to the ground, which is when he began to call for reinforcements. I was so grateful to be able to have evidence of what clearly happened. Fort was shocked when instead of going to him I went to console Ben. And told Fort his behaviour was not ok, and that Ben was allowed to push him over if Fort hurt him.   It was a learning moment for all of us, and something Ben sorely needed to hear from me. 

It is true that some things just work themselves out with time. 6 weeks into it, Fort knows our routine and what we expect. I know what how much he can handle, what battles are worth fighting over, and when I have to stop whatever I am doing to manage him. I know that he gets bored and anxious being with too many adults, that he opens up amidst other kids, and that he loves it when I take 10 minutes to be "silly mom". He loves going outside or on his bike, and will easily spend 20 minutes watching a man with a jackhammer or a dump truck. He loves having a job, and will wash dishes for an hour or vacuum the house. He won't go in the basement or outside without someone going with him, but is now able to "go susu" by himself like a big boy. He loves playing with the kids, misses them when they are at school, and thinks baths are no fun alone. But he hates sharing me with them, tries to push them out of my arms if I am snuggling with any of them, and cries if anyone rides "his" tricycle or plays with "his" toys.  It is a struggle on their side too, having to handle multiple layers of having a new brother all at once. There is the typical new baby feelings, jealousy of the attention he receives from others and the time he gets with me. The dynamic changes of having 4 kids who need something instead of 3. The way things are not "how they used to be" because now we have a little guy. And there are especially changes for Ben- going from the only boy to having a brother who is sharing his room and his toys;  having a brother who wants to do what Ben can do but is not yet capable. And his crying. We all are trying to deal with that. 

Is it getting better?  Absolutely. Enough so I can see it now. Is it still hard?  Yes, but we are not in the same fog of wondering what we had done to our family, to ourselves. Wondering if we'd ever sleep again, or if I'd ever have time to myself again.  Yes, the therapist helped. As did every single voice who has been supportive of me, and this crazy thing we did. So I thank you. 

One month home & still in the trenches

It is hard to look back and realize we have only been home a month. We have been through so many ups and downs already, it feels much longer. Fort is really making progress, but it has been with great effort and not without some cost.  I don't know if this will hold true, but it feels like we have turned a corner.  It makes me nervous just to think it, as if I will jinx it somehow. 

Week three was pretty hellacious. Fort turned into a tiny terror- I never knew when he would erupt. I basically got through it with the knowledge that at the end of the week he had appointments at the International Adoption Clinic in Columbus to see a gamut of professionals: including a pediatrician, speech therapist, nutritionist, developmental specialist, behaviour specialist, and last but most important to me- a psychologist. And even though I don't have another appointment with her until November, just knowing she is there and that I can call her or write down my questions, gives me an immense sense of support.  We found out he had a double ear infection and scarlet fever, and no doubt that was responsible for, or at least contributed to, his insane fluctuations in behaviors.  Of course, there is no knowing. 10 days later, he has finished his antibiotics and is doing so much better. Is it because he's well or because of what he's absorbed these past 10 days?  Will I ever know?  Does it matter?  Not really. 

That week, I told my husband I felt like Annie Sullivan, the teacher of Helen Keller. There is a famous scene where Helen is a child and eating with her hands like an animal. Annie puts a spoon in her hand and Helen throws it. Annie replaces the spoon in her hand and Helen throws it. This continues, and the teacher quietly asks Helen's parents to leave the room. When Helen realizes she is alone in a confined room with Annie she turns into a feral child. Annie never breaks, never tires, and eventually is successful. Helen eats with her spoon. But of course the real "win" is Helen learns to trust and listen to Annie. I retell this because I love that scene, but it was quite devastating to reenact.  I am not kidding, Fort seemed like a wild child- biting, kicking, pinching. He hit and grabbed during his sleep; he screamed when he was waking up- although I couldn't even tell if he were awake or asleep. I sat in his room with him the entire day my kids were at school and had to have a friend pick them up from school because I had not been able to calm him. I tried everything. Was he in pain?  I gave him Tylenol- you would've thought I was poisoning him. He spit it out, and it was all in his hair and on both of us. He had to get it washed out, so I started to get him ready for a bath. He fought like I was going to dip him in boiling oil. I brought him into the shower with me to try to reassure him, but there was no calming him. When I tried to get him dressed again, he screamed as loudly as the first time. I finally got him to calm enough to get in the car, and I drove around for 45 minutes - to give him a chance for him to fall asleep if he needed it, and to give myself a break so I could stop shaking. I felt like such a monster. I had to pull over while driving because I was crying too hard. I didn't want to talk to anyone and I didn't think I could get through another day like that. The psychologist appointment was like a handhold to sanity and I was clinging to it with all my might. 

And this week. What a difference. Have we turned the corner?  Or is the other shoe about to drop?  I don't dread the days like I did last week. I'm not snippy with my other kids, who are just so over me disappearing for hours to manage Fort's meltdowns.  I feel like Fort understands a lot of the rules, and has acquired enough English to talk about his temper tantrums. He now knows words for feelings, and he is proud when he has had a day with no crying and being "like a big boy". I know better how to manage and read Fort's moods- that there is silly and there is crazy but crazy silly is just a step away from losing it. The last full on tantrum that he had was a week ago today, and all other issues have been settled under an hour. Steve and I continue to have amazing support and communication since the whole thing began, unlike the way we lost it for a little bit after the twins were born. I feel like keeping honest keeps my friends closer to me and this experience- it helps me feel less like I exist in a bubble. I'm usually open and direct, but pretty damn private, and this has forced me to reach out, not just for me or for him, but for our whole family. And it helps. It really does. 

Honest. Real.

I write for many reasons. First, for myself. To sort out my complicated feelings and to have a record of this journey for me and for Fort.  I write so that friends and family have an inkling of what we are going through, so no one thinks this is easy and that everything is hunky dory.  Lastly, but importantly, I write for anyone considering or going through adoption. When I was trying to educate myself, I read tons of books and blogs and found so much helpful information. Unfortunately for me, I did not connect with all of the very religious blogs, as I do not personally believe that I have been called by god to do this. And most adoption blogs are heavily religious. I wanted some answers for people like me, who need more than faith to lean on. Anyone who knows me knows that I am nothing if not direct, so I can only be forthright in my posts. And I found that honesty in the difficulties of adoption was lacking. 

So here it is folks. Honesty. Discussing the difficulty. It is difficult. Brutal. Infuriating. This child, who has seen so much, is a puzzle. He can understand English and I can understand him fairly well, when he communicates.  Which he often chooses not to.  I am not sure if he uses communication as a method of manipulation, or if it is just a terrible habit from years of neglect.  It is the silence, the pulling away, the lying prone on the floor, the sharp elbow jab that means go away, the spitting - all the ways he demonstrates that he is mad or unhappy- that leaves me baffled. I can see that he is upset, but at what? Why?  I can't help him if I put breakfast in front of him and seconds later he has melted to the floor and is kicking his sister's chair.  What just happened?  Did I miss something?

I keep reminding myself that he is 2 inside. Yet watching this preschool age child biting me and pulling out my earrings because he wanted toast instead of waffles (really??  That is what that was about?) or because I am holding Ben when he is crying (jealousy rears its ugly head) twists my mind. I know he is reacting to this new life in the way a toddler would- except he isn't a toddler. He is a strong smart boy who is hurting, but also has survived long enough on his own to have an array of behaviors to get what he wants. 

So with every day comes new and confusing tests. And I cannot decipher if they are purposeful or not. Sometimes it is clearly a test of limits - he is clearly wanting to see what I will do if he pushes that stool over, or throws not one or two but three things. And when I sit with him in his room, sometimes for more than an hour, I see him going back and forth on whether he wants to please me.  He will throw of all the pillows and blankets off his bed, and when I don't react he picks everything up and makes his bed better than my 7 year old. I never leave him alone in his room for naps or punishment, because I know that is scary to him. So I sit in his room as he screams "AI II EE" and comes and crawls onto my lap where he pinches me as he hugs me and pushes my arms away and I gently place him back on the rug where he flails and screams louder. And ultimately he calms down enough where his screaming turns to sobs and I hold him til he can calm down and hear me talk about what happens. Our only rule is he has to say "sorry mommy" for whatever he's done and give me a kiss. Sometimes after calming down he can't do all that and then the tantrum starts anew. And I worry that he will be mad at me or we are asking too much of him by disciplining him already. But afterwards he is more responsive, more loving, and sometimes even talks about "me cry lots. Me say sorry."  And then it all feels like a small step in the right direction. 

But those outbursts I at least feel I can understand - I know from raising other children what testing limits and independence is all about, even though this is at warp speed.  There are so many other times, throughout the day and night, when neither my husband nor I know what the behaviors are about, or how to begin to bridge to him.  He is clearly bonded to me, but less so to the rest of the family. It is so sad watching Ben try and try to be so nice to him, only to have Fort push him away, or cry "Mama! Mama!" like Ben was taking something instead of giving him something. I am constantly worried that I am approaching him in a way that is unhelpful, or possibly unhealthy. How much is too much?  What is reasonable to expect from him?  When can he start sleeping on his own?  Is it beneficial that he is regressing?  That he wants to be carried?  What happens when we ignore behaviour we don't like?  Will any of this hurt him in the long run?  

Questions, questions, questions. Fear and frustration and sadness. I think Fort has to be feeling the same confusion. That is a small relief- some way I can identify with him. 

Because of the joy

This is most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, no question about it. And I have been so realistic about what we were doing, how it would make an impact on all of us, and how it would be a slow process. But there was no way to anticipate the feelings that I had in Uganda, that I had children who needed me in the States, and one who desperately needed me there. There is no way to explain what it is like to endure three flights with a child who has never even used a seatbelt. There is no way to prepare for the sheer exhaustion- both mentally and physically. I have been pregnant twice, and the second time had twins. This is harder in many ways. We chose this and changed our life to make this happen.  It has been and will continue to be amazing. But it has taken a toll - on me, mostly, but also on our "first" kids, my husband, and no doubt, Fort. 

The first week was overcoming the debilitating lack of sleep both on my part, and on Fort's.  then the layer of jet lag, strep throat, and finally the stress and anxiety of the move. There were big tantrums, long screaming fits and general meltdowns. This second week we are both recovered for the most part- although I am still sleep deprived, it is of a manageable sort, not the dense fog which keeps the words from reaching the tip of my tongue. Fort and I are doing a complex tug of war- pulling this way and that. On his side- If I hit you, will you stop me?  Will you still love me?  Will you leave me?  On my side- if I discipline you, am I teaching you?  Am I scaring you?  Will you pull away farther?  It is never ending and always tenuous. 

When I sit back and look at the whole picture, we have not yet been home 2 weeks. So much has been compacted into this time. Fort's temper tantrums are not only common, but neccesary. And he has made huge strides since he's been home. I forget that we are all going through this too- not just me and Fort. The kids are all doing amazingly well. They seem to hear me when I appeal to their sense of empathy- I am only one mom for four kids who all need me. I am getting used to it to. I am working hard, but you need to patient with me.   My husband is an incredible support, he appreciates that I'm bearing the brunt of Fort's adjustment, by the mere fact that he is at work and I spent so many weeks of bonding time already. The weight of managing all the needs of all the kids in the orphanage has been relieved, although not forgotten. Now I am succumbing to the inevitable fact that, yes, raising 4 kids is more difficult than raising 3. And I see that no matter how stable, secure & strong our biological children are- they are still children. They are 6, 6 & 7 years old and they need me too. They need me right now more than they used to, because they are still compensating for the weeks I was away. And they are themselves battling with the newness of sharing me with one more, and one so needy and demanding.  And that is wearing on me. Everyone needs me, and I am constantly balancing their demands. 

Hands down, the most uplifting part is the joy. There is an unbelievable sense of delight and happiness in Fort, that I never saw while he was in Uganda. He LOVES being part of our family. His eyes light up when I ask him who lives in this house or who is in his family.  He likes to list us all by name, to say that this is HiS house, HiS bed, HIS bike. Everyday he gets a little better, a little easier.  He is affectionate by nature, but continues to surprise me with "BIG KISS!" - taking my face between his hands and planting his pillow lips on mine. . He thrives on learning the limits and rules- each tantrum getting a little more manageable after each time we teach him a new rule.  He is the little sponge I had hoped he would be.  He had barely even noticed books before, and certainly didn't seem to have an interest or attention span. Books were more of a competition to sit on the lap or turn the page. Already in a week he is lined up on the couch with our other 3, book in his lap, just happily flipping the pages and really comprehending the stories when I read them. The other night, he was in the bathtub with Ben, and watched him dunk his head under the water. Suddenly I hear "I do it!" ringing in the air, and there is my other son, slippery and shiny, surfacing from putting his entire head underwater for the very first time. His eyes were lit with excitement and he was grinning from ear to ear - so proud. 

He says "pease" and "shamp pyou" when we prompt him, which is extra amazing since please and thank you don't exist in the Luganda language. He kisses the kids good night and asks them to come and play with him ("you come!"). He is able to understand better and communicate much more than before.  I have never had a child as fascinated by trucks and machinery than him- we watched the bulldozer/excavator thingamajig for twenty minutes from the sidewalk.  He is enthusiastic about trying almost everything new - food ("and me!"), mama's car, raking leaves, the kids' soccer practice and of course, toys.  I know I am in the thick of it, and I am trying to see beyond today's battle to the real growth underneath.   His life has changed about as drastically as one's life can, and as exhausting as it is, he is drinking it up. 

3 days home

And then he slept. 

Not regularly, not all the way through the night. But what a difference. 

There is a sense that we have made it over a huge hump. Things have settled down so much, it is amazing. But it is so early, could it be?  I'm sure we will have many instances of two steps forward and one step back. And yet the traveling and first night here was SO intense- it must have amplified all his fears and worries. Now he is learning our house, learning that these toys are here every day, learning that he can have food when he asks for it, learning that I will always be there for him.  Maybe he really has begun to settle in.

He is already over the jet lag. Me, not so much. I know old people recover slower. I am no longer feverish, but I still have a sore & swollen throat. I know my body just shut down in reaction to the stress and also the relief of being home. I tend to be strong during the battle, and then collapse when it is over. I have been a jangle of nerves and emotions, almost like my skin is on inside out and I am so overly sensitive to everything.  I'm not yet sleeping well, but the few nightmares I was having have stopped. 

It is hard for me to reconcile my experience in Uganda with my reality in the US. I love being home, obviously for my family and friends.  And I like having my things, I don't wish to give it all up and move back there.   I feel wedded to that country though. My heart has changed - I have Uganda in my heart and in my family. I don't want to put blinders on and forget what and who I have seen. I have a sense of purpose, that I can be helpful from here.  I hope this proves to be true. 

I am still at odds with the ease of my life - with how much I have in excess. I could not get over my first shower- the strength of the water pouring over me, compared to the minuscule trickle that could barely get me wet, let alone rinse out shampoo. And I had a rather luxurious shower in Uganda, with a water heater and everything, mind you. I had to speak out loud: "This is Amazing".  I came into the kitchen where there was a bowl of sliced fruit sitting, and I realized I was shocked not to see black flies on it. I got ready for bed feeling so CLEAN. There was no red dirt all over my shoes and feet, blown onto my clothes from the boda boda. There was no sand from the sandbox, no dried food from multiple grubby hands.  The roads are smooth and wide and orderly, with cars stopping at red lights and stop signs. Even the less beautiful parts of town seem so well off. 

Coming from a first world, a third world is so cheap. Everything is affordable to me. The income that the average person makes there is so unfathomable. That mere cents can make a difference. One single mother was telling me that her monthly rent is 100,000 UGX (Ugandan shillings). This is about $40. It is for a tiny single room, where she cooks outside and has no toilet. For Fort's goodbye party, the care mothers requested ice cream. I found a tub of ice cream for 30,000 UGX. $12. Expensive ice cream, even for me. But unfathomable to compare it to things they have to pay for. To compare to an American rent, if you paid $1000 a month, that would be a comparable ice cream of $300. No wonder it was a luxury.  

If this is confusing to me after 6 weeks there, what is going on inside the brain of this little 3 1/2 year old?  What does he think of being away from his friends, his aunties, his food, his toys?  I can tell he is happy - he is more joyous than I have ever seen him. If you ask him if he wants to do something, he answers with a resounding "ye-EH-es!!". He has not shut down and turned inward since he has been here, something I was anticipating. He has not wet the bed every night, something he did in his first weeks at Kaja Nafasi. Nor has he stopped talking, which I know he also did for a time. He is testing his boundaries, testing his limits, testing ME. Which is good & healthy, albeit exhausting.  He eats almost everything (including an entire slice of red onion, which was promptly spit out, with a look to me of how could you serve that?). He loves jobs and responsibilities. He fights them first, but is learning our routine and loving it. He repeats things to me like "time for eating, then to bathe, then for sleeping". 

He absolutely adores his new siblings. They love him right back, in their own way. Madeleine loves him immediately & completely, like she has played out meeting him in her mind. Ben takes him in stride, wrestling with him to the on his very first day. They are very similar boys- affectionate, smart & sweet (and a tad crazy).  He also said my favorite -"we waited 2 years, and now he's crying??".  And Evie, perceptive to the end. She wanted to know why he didn't feel like a brother yet, just like we were babysitting him.   I'm so glad she could articulate this very normal feeling. 

There is a sense of home for him. Certainly of comfort. Going to bed, Fort counted the people of our family on his fingers. When we got to Fort, the pinky finger, he looked at me wide eyed. "This one is for Fort!!". Yes, I said, we are a family. "A family!  A family for Fortune. Ye-EH-es!!". 

What have we done?

What have we done?  It is a question I would imagine goes through the heads of most adoptive parents at times, whether or not they share it with anyone. Adopting is not only a choice we made, but it is a tedious, pain-staking and emotionally exhausting journey just to get the child home. You put so much work and effort into it. And then, the real journey begins. 

For Fort, and for us.  And there are moments....oh there are moments when you just wonder, we chose this path, was it right?  Were we crazy? What have we done?

We finally arrived home after a brutally long and occasionally horrific trip of 32 hours. After an amazing reunion with our "first" kids, my husband, and my dear family friend - including Fort walking to the parking lot hand in hand between two new siblings- we arrived home around 10 pm. An overtired boy in a brand new house that is FULL of new toys does not like going to bed. There was much screaming and crying, a full on two year old temper tantrum with hitting and attempted biting. And it was only fair that I handled this- he needed to see that his mama would not leave him.  Steve put the other kids to bed, and I lay with Fort in his bed, picking him back up off the floor and putting him back in bed over & over. And over. Finally, I could see in his body that he wasn't as mad, only sad, and he let me take him in my arms and lay down. He sat up abruptly -"want brush"- and we went and brushed his teeth that he had refused to do an hour earlier. Then we lay back down, and whimpering, he fell asleep. 

After a bit, I got up and went to bed in my bed (oh yes, have I mentioned that I got strep throat and was entirely feverish and sick on the plane too?). Around 2am, my sweet daughter comes walking down the hall with Fort, hand in hand, leading him to me. He is awake. "Want toys". Big sigh. 

For the next 3 hours there is more screaming, some playing, some singing, some crying. There is no sleeping. This from a boy who maybe slept a total of 8 hours in 2 days. Around 5 am, Steve gets up for a minute. Fort starts screaming "Papa!  Papa!  PAPA!!". When Steve comes back, we agree that neither of us will leave the room without telling him where we are going. Sobbing, Fort climbs into Steve's arms. And sleeps. Until 8am. "Want toys!". Yes, Fort, now you may play. 

He has an amazingly great day. At 8pm, we are ready for bed. Fort is not done playing. He is crazy silly, laughing hysterically and barely able to get his pajamas on and teeth brushed. He does not want to sleep. I take him to bed and the crying begins- the loud screaming what-are-you-doing-to-me crying. he tries to take his pajamas off, testing me, trying to see what I will let him do. I put them back on, against his will. He is mad at me. "Papa!  Papa!  PAPA!!". Steve comes. He goes happily to Steve. They lay down. Fort sleeps. I cry. I sleep. 

At 2 am, I hear his door open and can see his lone figure walking wordlessly down the hall to our room. "Fort?". I go to him. He reaches up, and I carry him to our bed. He lays down on me, and without a sound, is asleep. 

What have we done?  Something, I think, I hope, good.