Category: Realities

Expectations, realities, real struggles

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Sometimes I forget…

…just how wounded she is.

That deep down, there is a lot of hurt.

A lot of anger.

A lot of confusion.

And I’m just not sure how to be the mom she needs me to be.

Because there are moments where it seems so completely overwhelming. And I feel so completely inadequate.

Like this morning, when a simple request is followed by a refusal from her. And thus, a consequence ensues.

Which is followed by a tantrum. But not just any tantrum.

A tantrum that reaches a whole ‘nother level. Different than any tantrum I’ve ever experienced with other kids.

There is no calming her down. There is no reasoning.

There is only escalation, and screams from the depth of her soul. Followed by more escalation. And thrashing, and contortion, and eyes rolling back in her head.

It’s as if for a little while, she’s not even there. She’s somewhere else.

And then exhaustion comes. And she curls herself up into a fetal position.

So vulnerable.

So wounded.

And then, the chanting returns. The chants that consistently rang out when we first brought her home. The self-soothing primal chants that make my heart hurt for the life she led. And the scars that bear witness to that time.

And it’s then, that I realize how much I love her. And how much I want to fix it, and make it all better. How I desperately wish she did not have to endure what she has in her short life. Where she was provided for…but not loved. Fed…but not nourished. Touched…but without affection. Abandoned. Without a soul in the world to call her own.

So I scoop her up, and love on her. And pray.

Which is really all I can do.

Because she needs a lot more than I, alone, can offer.

She’s come so far in the past year and a half. And 99% of the time she looks like a happy, spirited, well-adjusted kid who has learned how to love and play and be silly. And I am thankful.

But that 1% of the time….well, I think that road will be a long one to walk.

Sometimes I forget.

Just because she has a family, doesn’t mean she’s fine. Just because she’s been home for a while, doesn’t mean the issues are all gone.

It’s not magic. It’s not quick in this case.

BUT….adoption is healing. And redemption. And a second chance.

And while some would have me believe that she will never be restored from those hurts from her past, I will choose to believe otherwise.

Because she is CHOSEN. And LOVED.

And SHE. IS. MINE.

And really, that’s all that matters.

And that, I can remember.

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Jennifer Middleton

Jennifer and Rush Middleton have been married for 11 years and have 4 kids, Jonah (8), Reagan (5), Rylie (3) and Jude (2). Rylie came home from China in 2010 and Jude just arrived earlier this year. The Middletons have been through the easy and the hard of bringing a child into their family, yet the awesome gift of adoption has rocked their worlds in more ways than they can count. You can check out their blog about family, life, adoption, cleft lip/palate and other randomness at Apple Pie and Egg Rolls.

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A Treasure to Carry

The Lord continues to bless me with encouragement when he knows I need it the most. A few months ago I went searching online to see if I could find our little man’s orphanage. I want to know where it is, to look it up on google maps, to see pictures, to imagine him there. But between having little idea about where to start and having to translate all those sites from Russian to English on google translate, I didn’t get very far. I looked through hundreds of orphanage pictures, hoping I recognize something in the background from the photos we have of out little guy… hoping I’d maybe even have some sort of motherly sense to just know which “baby house,” as they say in Russia, was his. But I did not.

Until today.

Through the miracle of the internet and what I’d say is God’s gracious guiding, I found it. A woman I connected with on a private adoption-related forum (hi M!) found my etsy shop. She bought a t-shirt and sent me a link to the website of her son’s orphanage, asking if perhaps our son was there too. I clicked on to the site and saw that it was one I had visited before. I wasn’t sure it would lead to anything, but still- I cut and paste every piece of wording into google translate and kept clicking around, hoping and hoping until…

Until I suddenly saw his sweet face and soft smile looking back at me. I inhaled sharply and tears prickled at my eyes. It was one of the pictures we already have of him, but just to know…. to know where he is… to see the faces of his peers, his playmates, his friends… this is a gift I treasure deeply tonight.

There is only one picture of his orphanage on the website and I’ve memorized it already. The white walls, the gray floor, the pine table and chairs, the colorful toys, the old fashioned play-pen like my parents would have played in. The room it sterile, but bright- filled with sunlight from large windows- and clean. It gives my mother’s heart some peace. A treasure, that picture. A gift for my soul.

On the site, the children in the baby house are “listed” with a picture and short description. The words used to describe our sweet son echo the descriptions his nannies have given us through our agency: quiet, gentle, tender, sweet. Our precious, precious, baby boy. Oh God how I long to cup his face in my hands, to stroke his head and push back his hair, to whisper, “My love. My baby. My son.” Do that for him today, I pray. Warm his heart until it glows with my love, from miles and miles away.

Today, for this gift, I am thankful. For a peek into his world. For a gaze into the eyes of the children with whom he spends every day. For a connection with another mama whose son waits with mine.

Until I carry him in my arms, I treasure these gifts in my heart. I carry him in my heart, today.

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Jillian Burden

 

Jillian Burden is an expectant mama; she and her husband are expecting their first child by way of a Russian adoption. While her belly might not be expanding, her heart and her faith sure are growing! You can read about this soul stretching journey to parenthood on her blog.

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Puzzled

My husband Stephen and I have had front and center seats (the kind so close to the stage that you can see the make up and hear the breath of exertion from the players) for the drama and action of what most recognize as the primary task of adolescence– the grappling with the question of “Who Am I?”

The issue of identity is one we all face, but one that our adopted children must face with added complicating factors. Even those adopted at birth with no conscious memory of their birth parents contend with confusing realities once they enter their teens.

photo credit - JWL Photography

The Border Pieces

As your child grows, whether he is adopted or not, it is as if he is trying to piece together a complex puzzle. As we all figure out early on in working a puzzle, you first separate out the border pieces, right? It seems to me that for our birth children, the rummaging for and connecting of the flat-edged border pieces was an easy task. Their puzzle borders seem to be solidly in place without much searching and confusion. No struggles with missing pieces impossibly hidden amongst the mass of shapes or irretrievably lost in the dark corners of the basement game closet.

Missing and Misshapen Pieces

Borders denote definition and, therefore, identity. The borders of a country, for instance, identify it on a map. Without the definition provided by the border pieces, the process of putting together a complicated puzzle becomes all the more confusing and frustrating. For our adopted children, their relinquishment and the resulting pain have led their identity search to be like trying to work a puzzle without the border pieces or at least without whole sections and with hard to find pieces or misshapen fragments. In 1 Peter 5:10, we see that God’s plan is for our children to live complete and whole, border pieces fitted together and the puzzle finished:

And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace [Who imparts all blessing and favor], Who has called you to His [own] eternal glory in Christ Jesus, will Himself complete and make you what you ought to be, establish and ground you securely, and strengthen, and settle you.

The Message says it like this; “[God] will have you put together and on your feet for good.”

Puzzle Pieces in Our Hands

Isn’t that what we are helping our children to do? To partner with the Holy Spirit in “putting together” the pieces of the puzzle? As we get revelation of who our child is from the very One who created them, it’s as if we have a puzzle piece in our hand, a flat-edged border piece that was lost or destroyed along the way by rejection, fear, anger, pain, abuse. We parents are methodically offering these border pieces to our child as they go through the process of figuring out who they are. We have the awesome opportunity to place these pieces back into the pile of puzzle pieces on the table and watch our child pick it up, examine it, and recognize it as a defining part of who they are.

Box Top Parents

Just as we look at the box top of our puzzle that we have propped up on the table for easy reference, so do our children look up at us as they work their complicated jigsaw puzzle. Along the way, they fit in pieces with that sense of satisfaction we all get when we find the next bit of the puzzle. They are looking to us to find out who they are, how they fit in, how to relate, how to give and receive love. You and I are like that box top picture for our children as they discover their identity, scrutinizing the picture and piecing together their puzzle.

Father God, it is so good to know that You are completing our children, making them what they ought to be, “putting them together and on their feet for good.” We so desire to partner with You in this God. Would You give us revelation of who our children are, defining border pieces of their identity. And we trust You to use us so that when our children look to us they will see what is helpful as they put together the puzzle before them. What greater joy is there than being a part of such a project?!

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Beth Templeton

Beth has been married to her husband, Stephen, for 25 years. They have seven children, ages 16 to 22. Several years after giving birth to three girls, God called their family into the adventure and blessing of adoption. In 2000, they brought home a brother and sister, ages 5 and 10, from Russia. Then they returned to the same orphanage 18 months later and brought home two more brothers, ages 7 and 10.

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Perfection

I grew up in a family where perfection was expected. What others thought of us was THE most important agenda. I have to even say way back when my oldest was little I still had that thought process. I was so caught up in what others thought of my parenting based on how my kids acted, what my kids looked like, what car we drove, etc. I found myself yelling a lot more, stressing way more and plain not happy – with anything.

 

Then almost 6 years ago our little Brahm was born to our perfect little family. You know the one with the 2 kids, boy and a girl,

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Turning Worry Into Worship

Mei Mei is doing well. Really well. She is sweet and loving and happy. She is an “easy” child who goes-with-the-flow and fits into our large, crazy family perfectly. She delights in everything life has to offer. Mei Mei has been our easiest child to transition. She LOVES having a family, and she LOVES being loved. She is blossoming before our very eyes.

I find her easy transition ironic because coming to terms with the magnitude of her delays has been challenging.

In the beginning, I felt overwhelmed. I felt overcome with worry. I worried about how to best address her delays, where to take her for testing, how to access services, how to prepare her for school.

I worried about school in general, how she would fit in socially, how an appropriate classroom could be found. I worried about whether she would succeed, graduate, get a job, live independently.

Yes, I am sorry to say my worry was going out a decade and more, even when she had only been home a week!

But then something wonderful happened. God stopped by. At least, His hands and feet did.

My wonderful friend, Cheryl, listened to me as I poured my worries out. Across the phone lines, she was my nonjudgemental sounding board and praying partner. I cried. She cried with me.

Ten minutes after our conversation ended, Cheryl called back. She was bringing us dinner and wouldn’t listen to all my reasons why she shouldn’t.

It was the full meal deal with homemade soup, bread, salad, and brownies. Comfort food.

She spent the afternoon with us, delighting in watching our children interact together. And then she shared a recent sermon she had heard. When we worry, we aren’t trusting God. Instead of giving it all to Him, we try to figure it out all alone–all by ourselves. We feel overwhelmed, because we know we can’t solve our problems.

But God can.

And we have to turn our worry into worship, fully trusting that He is going to lead the way. We can do our part (like making appointments), but then we have to leave the rest to Him.

So true.

So now, when I worry, I turn my worry into worship. Often, I have to do it all over again 5 minutes later–I’m a slow learner! Each time, I feel the burden on my shoulders lift as I praise God, knowing that He has a plan. A great plan so much bigger than I can ever imagine.

A plan I am blessed to be part of.

A plan that brought this angel into our lives.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”
Jeremiah 29:11

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Ann Henderson

Ann Henderson currently finds herself wife to one and mom of ten, including a son in heaven and a daughter waiting in China. Several of her children are adopted

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Together

When we were waiting to adopt, I remember sitting in adoption training and workshops as speakers attempted to paint a realistic picture of adoption. Although I’m convinced no one can fully prepare someone to adopt, we’re thankful we were not sold the lie that adoption is glamorous and easy. Beautiful, yes. Necessary, sometimes. Easy-breezy? Never. The adoption community around us helped our family understand that we were volunteering to walk into a life-long situation built on loss, hurt, pain, and the unknown. There would be varying degrees of loss, pain, and the unknown for every adoptive household, but we knew…those elements would exist in our story moving forward. Most painfully, they would exist in our child’s story.

No matter what labels or adjectives we assign to the conversation of adoption, here’s one thing I know with certainty; adoption is miraculously brave. When families have been well-educated about what real-life adoption looks like and sign up to take on an innocent child’s grief, loss, rage, and insecurities, I’m not sure if there is anything that requires more faith and courage. Not courage in the “Pass me the cape, I’m heroic, I’ll save you” sort of way. Courage in the “we’re already imperfect in this house, feel like fat parenting failures most days while raising kids without a lot of emotional scars, and yet we’re willing to rearrange our own dysfunction to make space for another life filled with hurt and fear.”

What I did not know at the time I was sitting in adoption training and conferences was what a mess I was as an individual. I think I ignorantly thought that we could offer a stable home, hold a hurting child, and make it a little better for them. When I imagined life as an adoptive, therapeutic parent, it was mostly the child needing the therapy…the support…the love. We would be there for them. We would do what it took to help them.

Simply stated, our child would need help. We would be the ones helping. The healthy, helping the unhealthy. The strong parenting the weak. The whole raising the broken.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

If there is one prevailing message we have been learning as a family over the past five years, it’s this one…

You can’t be near the broken without coming face to ugly face with your own brokenness.

Fear, shame, pain, anger, and insecurity cause my child to break down and lose it. My own fear, shame, pain, anger, and insecurity fuel my embarrassing responses to his behavior. To say this isn’t how I imagined these scenarios playing out pre-adoption would be laughable.

Before adopting I thought I’d be here for my child, the instrument of help and healing to my child. The real truth is, I’m simply here with my child. Walking through our hurt and dysfunction together. Holding my child after an episode that leaves us sweaty and breathless admitting that we’re both a wreck in need of healing. In need of a miracle.

Me, needing to be parented by God while I attempt to parent.

Me, a child of this fallen world and thus a child of trauma to some extent, attempting to parent a child of trauma.

On paper this seems like such a bad idea, and I guess it would be if we fail to admit that we need healing just as much as our kids do.

We’re neck deep right now in evaluations for our son, counseling, and adoption support groups. We’re learning tactics, modifying diets, getting much-needed support, education, love, and understanding. These resources are extremely valuable. Most valuable is finding ourselves in a safe community where we feel free and encouraged to fully acknowledge our own shortcomings that keep us from responding to brokenness and pain with love, empathy, and patience. Prior to adopting, I thought adoption meant inviting loss, insecurity, and hurt into our story. Instead, adoption has been just as much about realizing to what extent those elements were already a very real part of our story and what it looks like to parent a hurting child out of our own rich bank of emotional deficits.

As painful and exhausting as this part of our life is in the moment, it’s surprising how hopeful and thankful I feel.

Adoption is the gift that you never quit opening, isn’t it?

I remember sitting in adoption training and conferences while we waited to adopt. I was scared but eager to be a small part of redemption in our future child’s life. I foolishly thought our family would be used (even if it was only in a minuscule way) to bring healing and health to a child who was coming from a place of loss and pain. Instead, our son is forever the reason why God is bringing healing and health to us. Oh, the irony.

We are learning that we rarely walk before our kids through pain, loss, insecurity, and fear. We walk with them. It’s less about healing them, and more about healing together.

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Heather Hendrick

 

Heather Hendrick is wife to Aaron and mom to four crazy boys.

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The Wrong Diagnosis

Several months ago, I took Evangeline, our adopted daughter from Ukraine, five years old, diagnosed with Down syndrome, to a developmental pediatrician.

“I heard this doctor is good at what he does, and I want his opinion about Evie’s lack of development since she’s been home from Ukraine,” I affirmed rather loudly to my husband Sergei in an effort to hide that really, I was taking Evangeline to this doctor for a second opinion.

A year ago, Evie was evaluated at the Erikson Institute here in Chicago for Autism. At the time, her main activities included rocking back and forth, sitting on her bed, and looking at a light-up toy. Her eye contact was sporadic at best, and she could not tolerate textured food nor touch (unless it was rough housing). I was certain we would come home with a dual diagnosis of ASD (autism spectrum disorder) and Down syndrome because almost every time I reached out to my beautiful blond little girl, my hand would get slapped.

After several appointments, Erikson concluded that Evangeline was not on the spectrum but probably suffered from the debilitating effects of orphanage life paired with cognitive and developmental delays that can accompany Down syndrome.

But I wanted an answer.

When the report came in the mail, I opened the letter while sitting on the toilet seat behind a locked bathroom door and cried. On some level, I wanted the dual diagnosis because I wanted answers. I wanted to know why Evie ground her teeth constantly, why she sought out dust and dirt to eat but refused real food. I wanted to know why she scratched her sisters when they tried to hug her, and cried at loud noises, and sat off to the side of our lives alone, most days, rocking.

But I did not get a concrete answer. I got a “keep doing what you are doing. Find more therapy opportunities, give her time to bond with your family.” And slowly over the next few weeks, I started to shut down. I found it too painful to try to connect with my daughter. For months, I went through the everyday motions of caring for my family as best I could, all the while holding back from climbing into bed. I no longer attempted to bond with Evie. If she was fine being a part of our family without really being close to me, than maybe, I could live like that too.

And, then I realized something.

I was seeking out the wrong diagnosis for the wrong family member. Sure, it was good to have Evie evaluated a year ago. She certainly had characteristics that could point to ASD. But really, I was the one who needed the most help. I was struggling from post-adoption depression, which could have only been aggravated by a little post-traumatic stress disorder thrown in after Polly’s stroke, diagnosis of Moyamoya, and two brain surgeries. After our time at the Erikson Institute, I quietly unravelled.

I have struggled with depression all my life, but alas, it is kind of like that pesky monthly period for women. Every month I am shocked that my foul mood results with menstruation. And I am 36 years old!

Depression is like that for me, too. It sneaks up on me: a few aches and pains, feeling a little down in the dumps, sleeping poorly. I fight, I do what I absolutely need to for the family and then when I can’t anymore, I get into bed and I don’t get out.

I started to see a doctor and a therapist, but I wasn’t feeling better. I cried out to God to help me, to show me how to trust him and get back on track, but to no avail. I struggled for months, but still, somehow managed to post perky facebook stati often enough so that people outside my direct family wouldn’t suspect a thing.

But I was drowning.

This past fall, God gave me the strength to try again to get help for my depression. I went back to my doctor and let her put me on a higher dosed anti-depressant. I started seeing a different therapist and we clicked right away. I started to wake up in the morning and notice that the sun was shining.

And I saw Evangeline, a little girl considerably changed from a year ago.

Since Evie has been with us (over two years) there have been little breakthroughs here and there in our bonding. I liken them to nicking the surface of a frozen lake with a BB gun.

Now that I am above water again in life, the ice is starting to thaw. I can sit a stare at Evie for a while, marvel at her button nose, appreciate her smell, want to pull her to me.

So, why did I take Evie for the second opinion last week?

Because I wanted to make sure that a dual diagnosis isn’t in the picture for our girl. A lot of her behaviors have fallen away but she has a lot left. And although we are doing much better, I am now struggling with the guilt of that missed time when a shadow of a mother was parenting my daughter.

At the appointment, Evie climbed up into a chair, uninterested in the train set the doctor attempted to entice her with. But she laughed when he tickled her, and followed his finger as he played with her, and looked both the doctor and me in the eye almost the whole time.

I loved the doctor. He was a bit brash and un-orthodox (took a text from his wife during our interview and laughed out loud at what she wrote :). But he cut to the chase with me and it was just what I needed.

“I don’t see any definite red flags regarding a dual diagnosis off the bat, of course, if you’d like, we can do a full evaluation of Evangeline to get more in-depth. But I have to ask, why are you here? You’ve already had your daughter evaluated at Erikson?”

“Because, well”, I took a deep breath. “Because I am afraid I am not doing enough. Our other daughter got sick and ended up needing two brain surgeries six weeks after Evangeline came home from Ukraine and I. . . well, I’ve struggled with depression.” I kind of left my answer there but in my heart I added, I am afraid that I have already failed her.

“Mrs. Marchenko, your family has been through a very difficult time these last few years. I want you to know, you are doing a good job with your kids.”

I had to look away as the tears pooled in my eyes.

“And now, Ms. Evangeline,” the doctor turned to Evie and let me attempt to compose myself.

After the visit to the doctor, I realized I had been looking for two things: 1) the wrong diagnosis, and 2) validation that I am the right mom for my child.

Adoption is beautiful, but it is also very hard.

With God’s help, we all can be the right parents for our children.

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Gillian Marchenko

Gillian Marchenko is a writer, speaker, and advocate for individuals with special needs. Her writing has appeared in Mom Sense Magazine, EFCA Today, The Four Cornered Universe, and Chicago Parent. Gillian lives in Chicago with her husband Sergei and their daughters Elaina, Zoya, Polly, and Evangeline. Connect with Gillian on Facebook or Twitter, check out her website at GillianMarchenko.com, or follow her family blog Pocket Lint.

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How Long?

We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us;
we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
– C.S. Lewis

I came across this quote in a rather timely read of Mary Beth Chapman’s book Choosing to See. The book is about Mary Beth’s life, her marriage to musician Steven Curtis Chapman, the birth of her children, the adoptions of her three youngest daughters, and the tragic death of her 5-year-old in 2008. Reading through this painful story has helped me work through a lot of the pain and sadness I’ve run into this past week as John and I wait endlessly for our adoption to move forward. Sort of an “if-she-can-make-it-through-that-then-I-can-make-it-through-this” kind of a read.

While our adoption process had been moving along fairly well- albeit slower than we had hoped for- we’ve come to a standstill. The home study is long done. Fundraising complete. Agency fees paid and sent. Our preliminary dossier carried to Russia; it should even be translated by now. All our immigration paperwork has been sent in to the US government. And now? We wait, endlessly- waiting for Moscow to lift the adoption suspension and start registering dossiers again.

I wake up every morning, hit the snooze button, and begin to pray for our little guy. I walk around our neighborhood, whispering prayers to God- asking him to AWAKE and act on our behalf. Pointing out that if he can make spring happen, raise every blade of grass to life, and command the trees to burst with blossoms- if he can create new life where only weeks ago it looked like there was none- then surely he can move a government to lift this adoption suspension. I lie down at night wondering what our little guy is doing, if he’s just getting up for the day, and hoping he’s well cared for. I imagine what it’s going to be like to finally hold him in my arms and then I force myself to think about something else, otherwise I’d never sleep.

I cry a lot because even though I know God’s putting all things back together in Christ, the effects of the fall are still too powerful. I cry out because I hate that the world is still so broken and I lament that God seems so slow to move sometimes. I cry because I don’t know whether my faith is weak or whether I’m right to be so upset in the face of brokenness.

I’m not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us;
I’m wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.

I’ve received a lot of assurances through our adoption journey. “It will all work out.” “All in God’s timing.” “He has a plan!”

Yes. True.

But “a plan” that “works out” in “God’s timing” still leaves room for lament. Think of the martyrs whose testimony far surpasses my own; their deaths were part of a plan that worked out in God’s timing… but still, they died.

The only thing I know is that somehow it all works out for God’s glory. In that, my faith is unwavering.

But in the rest of it, I cry out with the Psalmist:

How long O Lord?

Will you forget me forever?

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?

And day after day have sorrow in my heart?

I trust that this endless waiting and wondering and worrying is God’s best. I trust it works out for his glory. I’m just wondering how much more painful it’s going to be.

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Jillian Burden

 

Jillian Burden is an expectant mama; she and her husband are expecting their

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Loving

On vacation my girls, my mom and I wandered through the outlet mall for awhile.  On various clearance racks I found t-shirts for the boys and for the little girls.  So near the end of our wandering when we walked into Old Navy, I figured that might be a good place to find t-shirts for our teen daughters as well.

I should have known better;  like most teenage girls, they are persnickety about their clothes and habitually get overwhelmed by choices in stores.  But since I’d already found things for the other kids, I wanted to get them something. A quick cruise around the store didn’t spark their interest. To simplify things, I headed them toward a display containing basic T’s in 6 different colors.  I’m always glad to have more simple t-shirts myself, and I figured they’d be useful neutral additions to their wardrobe.

“Pick something,” I said with a smile. “What color do you want?”

They looked uncertain.  They hemmed and hawed.  They picked up things and set them down looking disinterested.  Five minutes went by.  Meanwhile the other members of our party were done shopping and the grandbaby was showing signs of needing to nurse.

“Pick something,” I said.  My smile was starting to feel tense, but I tried to make my voice coaxing.  “I want to buy you something.”

But they couldn’t–  wouldn’t — make a choice.  I toyed with the idea of just grabbing two shirts and saying, “Here ya go.”  But then they’d be sure to hate the choice I’d made, which would translate to clothes sitting in the closet, unworn. My mom suggested quietly that I just give them money, which I knew they’d happily take.  But dangitall, I wanted to give them a gift, something to bring back as a memory from this trip, not hand them cash like this was some business transaction.

Finally we left, having purchased nothing.  Yeah, I could (should?) have been happy they’d saved me a few bucks by refusing to let me get them something.  But I was livid, and I knew exactly why.  This was not just about a couple of t-shirts  This was about all the times I’ve tried to show the girls I love them and they’ve turned me down flat.

Of the times I brought thrift store finds home, excited, hoping they’d like them, only to be met with wan smiles, and have the clothes languish in their closets until I insisted they wear them.  Of the hugs I’ve given that were returned with noodle-arms.  The times I’ve invited them to play games or go to the store with me and they’ve opted out.

Yes, I can force it.  And sometimes I do.  But it can be discouraging to feel such resistance to my overtures even now after they’ve been home nearly five years.

Sometimes things are good between us— like today when I broke the oven door and my 14 year old and I spent 30 greasy minutes trying to wrestle the thing into submission before calling the repair man in defeat.  We shared some absolutely lovely laughing moments.  But all too often I’m met with resistance.

I know that some of the ups and downs are normal teen stuff. Girls often have a hard time getting along with their moms– I know I did when I was 14.  For awhile I fantasized about being adopted by a rich family where I could be the only child and wouldn’t have to do chores.  I’ve told my daughters that, and I understand it’s a tough age.

But still–when a child home almost five years says you’ll never really be her mom, that signing papers doesn’t make it true, it is a knife to the heart.  A failed shopping trip, though a small failure in the grand scheme of things, feels like twisting that knife.  If we can’t even have a successful shopping trip together, what are our chances of a real relationship some day?

I comfort myself remembering how well they do when interacting with people other than me. Folks rave about how great the girls are, how sweet and fun– and I wholeheartedly agree. I’ve seen that sweetness from across the room. I just wish they’d show that loveliness to me more often.  When I do sneak a real smile out of someone, almost always the shades go quickly down over that light, veiling their hearts, snuffing the connection that flared for just a second.

I’m the second momma, you see, the substitute for the one they really want.  Maybe it’s anger.  Maybe it’s fear.  Maybe they love me way down deep, more than they dare show. (Oh, I hope so.)  But it feels to me that their automatic default is to push me away than to connect.

The years have scarred me, and make it hard some days to keep my perspective.  The truth is, eight of the kids think I’m just fine.  But I want these others to love me too, so much that some days my self-worth as a momma feels hinged on their acceptance.  I know how foolish that is;  they’re hurt kids, wounded souls. It’s only a little about me. But I care passionately for them and want them to feel truly enveloped in the love of our family.  No matter how wide the rift, they are part of my very soul, and I will continue to fight on behalf of our relationship.

I talked to the girls after the shopping incident, explained that gift-giving is one of the ways I show folks love– that I’d been trying that day in Old Navy to say ‘I love you’, and that I’d heard rejection in their refusal to accept my gifts.  I think they understood then, at least a little, why I’d come unglued over t-shirts.

While unpacking from the trip, I came across a handful of gummy bears in a baggie.  I stashed them back in a corner, thinking of a bedtime snack.  A few minutes later my 14 year old came into the kitchen, spotted them, and asked for them.  I said no, saying there weren’t enough to share with everyone.  It was true, but really it was more that I wanted them myself.

Later that evening I nibbled a few, but my conscience wouldn’t let me forget she’d asked for them.  I knotted the bag up and set them aside. The next day I came up behind her and tucked the baggie quietly into her sweatshirt pocket with a wink, then walked away quick before I could even see her reaction.  Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I need to do more of:  quick stealth ‘I love you’ actions, without looking for or expecting any immediate reaction.

Sometimes I get so set on loving kids how I want to love them that I forget about loving them the way they want to be loved.  I’m not sure if that handful of gummy bears was received as the gift of love that I intended it to be.  But I’ll keep my eyes open for other chances like that.  Maybe one of these days I’ll actually get somewhere. Until then, I’ll just keep on loving my kids to the best of my ability, and hold onto the faith that God is watching over us all, and that He has a perfect plan for all our lives.

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Mary Ostyn has been married for 25 years to the guy she met in math class at age 17. I have kids in college, high school, junior high, grade school, and preschool, 10 altogether. Six of her children arrived via adoption, 2 from Korea and 4 from Ethiopia.She homeschools, gardens, cooks, budget-stretches and takes pictures obsessively. Also she writes. Her 200-recipe cookbook/ shopping guide Family Feasts for $75 a Week came out in September, 2009. She also wrote A Sane Woman’s Guide to Raising a Large Family which came out in March, 2009. If she had to describe her blog in one sentence, she”d say it is about making the most of your resources so that you can have the greatest impact possible on the world around you, beginning, of course, with family. Visit her site Owlhaven soon!

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