Who You Say We Are

My heart is breaking today.  One of our children is in crisis.  This child, through no fault of their own, struggles with the neurodevelopmental and behavioral effects of Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder as well as co-occurring mental illnesses.  The inability to reason effectively or make wise choices has added drug abuse to the list of issues.

Today I cried out to God.  We love our child.  We want the absolute best and we will continue to advocate for our children even if we are rejected because in this case our child cannot advocate on their own.  This child was adopted into our family “No Matter What”.  That is how we operate.

This is my lifeline today.  I am clinging to its message and clinging to the truth that is we are not our diagnoses.  We are not what others may label us.  We are not our past.  Hallelujah, we (and our child) are who HE says we are.

Oh how great is the love
The Father has lavished on us
That we should be called The children of God
Oh how great was the cost
The Father was willing to pay
So we could be called the children of God

And all that we can say is thank you, Thank you
And all that we can say is thank you, Thank you

We are your sons
We are your daughters
Hallelujah, we are who You say we are
So we lift our hands
And cry Abba Father
Hallelujah, we are who You say we are
Hallelujah, we are who You say we are

Oh how great is your amazing grace
That took us as orphans and slaves
And made us your heirs, And gave us Your name
There's nothing more we could ever do
You finished it all on the cross
Then rose from the grave
And brought us with You

Written by Steven Chapman • Copyright © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Open Letter to Jen Hatmaker

I have been a fan and a reader for some time.  I loved the threads of grace that I glimpsed in your writing and I felt a kinship with you in that I am also raising home-grown kids as well as adopted kids.  Your Facebook post today and the subsequent “hero stories” you requested from your readers and then applauded in your own replies really has me questioning that kinship.

You started your post with an amusing anecdote about a difficult day with your son and the ensuing battle of wills.  But it then deteriorated into a celebration of parenting stories that featured manipulation, abandonment (albeit temporary) and shame.  It concluded with a call for other similar stories. Many of your readers obliged.  Tales of more shame, rejection and humiliation under the guise of natural consequences followed.  And you commended them.  Repeatedly. 

First of all, I am completely aware that sometimes it is good, even necessary, to find the humor in hard circumstances.  However, laughing at and hailing destructive discipline "techniques" as positive is completely different and, in my humble opinion, is what you and a large majority of your readers did.

There is also a difference between “natural consequences” and consequences that a parent imposes to “teach a lesson”.  I believe that in your post and the resulting comments that difference was ignored.  A fellow adoptive parent once said, “A natural consequence is a consequence imposed by nature, like burning your finger when you touch a hot stove. No person decides that your finger ought to be burned to teach you a lesson. The laws of nature ensure that your finger gets burned, whether you need to learn that lesson or not.” (Mark Vatsaas)  If you need to “come up with” a “natural consequence”, it is NOT one.

What concerned me most, as an adoptive mom, was that these methods of shame and repudiation have been scientifically proven to be detrimental and ineffective for kids with backgrounds of trauma.  To champion them can quite literally be dangerous for these kids and threaten to emotionally, psychologically and neurodevelopmentally destroy them.  A survey of current neuroscientific studies validates this information.  The best resources for connecting with and disciplining (which can be defined as an activity, exercise, or a regimen that develops or improves a skill) kids from hard places can be found in the writings of Dr. Karyn Purvis from Texas Christian University’s Institute of Child Development and Dr. Dan Siegel (clinical professor of psychiatry at the UCLA School of Medicine).

I do not have perfect children.  I struggle with parenting them everyday.  Before I knew the scientific data regarding trauma and its effects on the brain I parented the same way your readers were encouraging and lauding.  Sometimes I still struggle.  Parenting is not an easy job and parenting a child with trauma is even harder and messier.  But I am daily encouraged by the progress I have seen in my children when I connect first and correct last.  When I look behind the behavior and find the need.  When I go through the natural consequence with them as opposed to delving out my own created consequence.

I encourage you and other adoptive and foster parents to attend an Empowered to Connect conference (usually sponsored by Show Hope and Focus on the Family).  You will be emboldened by the hope that can be found in connected parenting techniques.

Coming Out of Hiding

I love the app “Time Hop”.  I enjoy pulling it up each morning and looking at the posts and photos from that same day throughout the last 7 or so years.  Occasionally they bring a tear to my eye but more often than not, I smile.  The memories are so precious… even the ones that hurt.

But something happened a couple days ago.  My “Time Hop” from a year ago abruptly went silent.  No posts.  No pictures.  No memories.  Just sudden stillness.  And I remembered.  My open book was slammed shut exactly one year ago.  For five days.  Five days in mental health facility.

Yes.

You read that correctly.

Don’t let anyone try to convince you that there is no such thing as post-adoption depression.  Or that dealing with a traumatized child will not in turn traumatize you as well.

Love alone does not conquer all.

But here’s what does:  Love with a heavy dose of Grace, Knowledge, Mindfulness and Eff-ing Hard Work.  And God.

Last September I reached the limits of my own strength.  I could no longer “pull myself up by my bootstraps.”  In fact, I didn’t even want to. I've had such dark moments of doubt that I've questioned whether I could ever believe again.

I had a small child in my home that did not speak.  Not English.  Not Mandarin.  Not Cantonese.  No words except those spoken as an echo.  He also did not cry.  Not when he hurt himself.  Not when he was sad.  No.  He did not speak.  He did not cry. 

He screamed.

All the time.

He was terrified, distressed, fighting for survival.  For him every moment was fight, flight or freeze.  All too often it was fight.  Pulling out fist full after fist full of my hair.  Spitting in my face.  Scratching me.  Biting me.  Kicking me.  Head butting me.  Hitting me.

For hours at a time. 

It seemed that nothing could calm this poor child.  And as odd as it sounds, while I was the recipient of all the rage, I was also the recipient of all of his need and attention.  I could not leave him for a moment.  He clung to me incessantly.  Always touching me, grabbing me, pulling me.  He would not let me speak to anyone else… not my husband, my children, my friends without first doing everything he could to distract me and then, if that failed, yanking my head toward him and screaming at the top of his lungs so I couldn’t hear the other person.

I knew this was the effect of trauma.  I knew he was in terrible pain.  I knew that every woman who had ever been in charge of his care had abandoned him.  I knew that he had been abused.  I knew that he had spent the majority of his life fighting to live.

I also was quite aware that I had willingly signed up for this.  This did not make it any easier.

I hid.  Or I escaped.  As often as I could.  I began to either recoil or burst into tears at the mere touch of another person.  A simple hand on my arm could send me into uncontrollable sobbing or on the other extreme, feel as if I had been burned.  I began to isolate myself.  From everyone.  I was embarrassed.  I was scared.  I was lonely.  I was hurting.  I was, in my eyes, the Queen of Inadequacy.  And I was failing at everything.

So… how did all this change?  How did I get to today?

1.     I got help.  Counseling.  Treatment.  Support.  With people who were trauma-informed. (VERY important)

2.     I was given grace by those who loved me and cared for me.

3.     I learned.  I studied.  I educated myself on the effects of trauma on children and the residual effects on those who care for them.  I found resources and was able to equip myself with the tools I needed to navigate this time of healing for both me and for my son.

4.     I stopped hiding.

I’m still learning.  I’m still working hard.  This is not easy.  But as Glennon Doyle Melton says, “We can do hard things.” (http://www.momastery.com) I believe it.

Resources:

http://empoweredtoconnect.org

Anything written or developed by Dr. Karyn Purvis (Director of the TCU Institute of Child Development)

http://drdansiegel.com

People of the Second Chance http://www.potsc.org

http://www.biblegateway.com

http://www.parentingadopteescantrust.com

My Song

Many women who were unexpectedly blessed by a child (ie Hannah, Mary) often respond with a song or prayer of praise. This is my song. 

Dear God

I am sitting under a canopy of trees on a bench of stone. The wind is blowing softly and the loudest sound around me is the rustling of the leaves. 

I want to use this first completely quiet, peaceful moment to thank you. Thank you for placing Benjamin in our family

...for naming him into existence before the stars began.  For binding our souls together in the covenant of family conquering thousands of miles, across very different cultures and providing the ransom to bring him home. 

I am in awe of your grace in our lives... to be given the gift of our son... to be entrusted with this little life and to be a part of your greater story.  You alone could make this happen. You alone could preserve his life and mend his broken heart...sustaining him through cold, sickness, hunger and time until you made it clear to us that he was our son. I will forever praise you for your goodness, your faithfulness, your mercy. To think that you could use someone such as me, so ill equipped and flawed, to play this part in the amazing journey that is Benjamin's life... I will never... never... find the words to express my overwhelming gratitude... there simply are not the words. We are witness to a miracle. I am fascinated by this chapter in our lives... sometimes fearful...sometimes joyous...sometimes confused...but always fascinated. 

Special Letter to Family and Friends (re-post)

(Re-posted)  
Very soon we’ll be bringing Benjamin Lilu home and starting the process of becoming a new and larger family.  This is an exciting and scary time for us – and will probably be especially frightening for Benjamin.  In his short life, he’s gone through more changes and life-altering experiences than most adults could handle.  He’s experienced the loss of a birth mother, experienced the loss of his second “home” in the midst of a health crisis, and will soon experience the loss of familiar caretakers, and the sights, sounds, smells, and language of his birth country.  His entire world will be turned upside down; he will be disoriented and confused.  He will have no reason to trust us – no way to know that we are safe, that he is secure in our care, and that we will meet his needs.

This process of learning to trust us, to bond and attach with our family, may take weeks, months, or years.  We expect it to get easier over time, but things are going to be a little strange at first and we ask that you please understand and support our attachment plan.  It is not our intention to shut anyone out of our lives or offend any friends in this process.  But Benjamin will need us to have certain boundaries in place to develop a strong and healthy attachment to us.

It will help immensely if adults limit what is typically considered normal physical contact with our son.  For awhile, this includes things like holding, excessive hugging, and kissing.  Children from orphanages are prone to “attach” to anyone and everyone – which disrupts his ability to attach to us.  Waving, blowing kisses, or high fives are perfectly appropriate and welcome!  We want Benjamin to know our family and friends – and interact with them!

Benjamin had a mother care for him for several months, and then relied on a stream of different adults for almost 6 years to meet his needs.  He’s learned to compete for the attention of every adult for basic things like food, clothing, comfort…  Charming any available adult becomes a survival technique.  While it works in an orphanage, it’s dangerous in our world.  It’s not safe for Benjamin to ask random strangers for a hug; in order to learn healthy, appropriate boundaries, he needs to begin by learning that we are the two people responsible for meeting his needs.  For a time, we will be the only ones to give him food, water, comfort him, take him to the restroom and so on.  If he asks you for something – please ask us.  For awhile it may look like we’re spoiling him – but he needs to understand what role we play in his life and he needs to know we are dependable and constant.

Also understand that our very busy, very active family – will be dramatically limiting our activities and events for awhile.  Local friends – you probably won’t see us at every field trip, every club meeting, every birthday party – at least for a little bit.  Large or small gatherings, parties, events will not be a priority in the beginning – but it’s not permanent, and it’s not personal.  At this point, we don’t know entirely what degree of medical treatment and therapy we may be facing with him, too.  We will be tired, busy tending to him and learning about him, forming emotional bonds, and getting through our days one day at a time.  We are eager to introduce him to everybody – but it may not be for a little while.  With one exception!  If you would like to be part of our welcoming committee at the airport, we would LOVE to see you!


The lives of each member of our family will be topsy-turvy for awhile, and we ask for your understanding as we navigate this new world.  We are obviously far from experts in this, but doing what we believe to be best for Benjamin.  We look forward to introducing him in person to so many of our friends and family, and hope you understand why some of our parenting decisions will look as they do with him.

Here’s an interesting analogy of what adoption looks like to an internationally adopted child:
http://benjaminandholly.blogspot.com/2009/04/attachment-analogy.html

And another great illustration of what adopted children go through:
http://shaungroves.com/2011/01/the-list/