The Time Before

I don't think about it much.  Those hours and days before.

I try not to think of the cries that went unanswered or the meals that went unfed.  I try not to think of the cuddles that weren't given or the multiple strangers who stood in my place.  I can't fathom the scary times or sad times or even the possibility of happy times.  It is just too much.

I parent in a way in which I hopes help to heal the pain of what wasn't done then and what was lost when she became my daughter. I take countless pictures of every special moment of her life.  Literally thousands and thousands of pictures taken in the last two and a half years.

There are 12 months of my daughter's life of which there was no photo record.  I have asked. And asked.  And begged.  And asked.  This isn't uncommon for many children adopted at an older age but that doesn't make it any easier.  I have been this route before.  We have one photo of our oldest son as an infant and it is a priceless treasure.

But she has nothing.

She notices now, at three and a half  "Where is Baby Taya, Mommy?" as we look through albums of her brothers and sister.  I ask again.

Our "Openness Agreement" has developed into a genuine and easy friendship.  A sisterhood of love for the same children.  Yesterday for the first time, I dropped by unannounced for a surprise visit with an extended family member.  We were out of town, unable to reach them through conventional means and just stopping by was the only option.  We were welcomed and embraced.   We had a picnic together and then a long drive back to town.  It was a lovely visit.  An easy visit.

I asked again.

When I dropped them off, she asked me to wait for a moment as she ran inside her home.  Out she came with a bag of undeveloped film canisters.

"I think there might be a picture on these" she said.

This morning I stood with trembling hands at the photo desk at WalMart.  I tried not to hope, convincing myself that chances were, they were pictures of other people. Other days.  Other times.

And I was right.  The first two batches I looked through were holiday pictures and blurry faces of distant relatives.  One whole roll was completely blank.

I grabbed the last envelope heavy with pictures and flipped it open.   There, staring back at me were the eyes of my infant daughter.

The weight of those missed moments, the weight of the gaps in her story, the weight of her time before us hit me like a physical punch to the chest and I gasped.  Tears poured from my eyes, as the poor teenager behind the desk stared at me in horror.  "Oh it's a good thing"  I explained  "a very good thing!".

They are poorly lit and horribly fuzzy.  They are taken on a cheap, old camera.  We don't know exactly how old she is, or where they were taken.   But they are HER.  They are HERS.  They are a part of her early story captured for her to see.  Captured for me to see.  A tiny glimpse but so incredibly precious.

My baby, our baby.   I am so incredibly thankful for a few fuzzy pictures sitting in a drawer waiting to be discovered and I am so incredibly thankful I was entrusted with them.

It's all in a Name

I remember when I got married I felt a brief twinge at losing my maiden name as I took my husband's name as my own.  Was I giving up my identity?  What about that feminist pride I held dear to my heart?  Would I be an equal if I was giving up my name while he gained a wife?  I miss-spelled that name the first time I tried to sign it after our nuptials and wondered quietly if it would ever feel like MINE or would I always feel like an impostor carrying a name that was not my own.

That twinge was forever erased when I stared at the hospital bed that held my newborn son.  Next to his perfect little body was a name tag and that name tag held OUR name.  On that day I became part of a family.  We were a family.  We were THAT family.   That family included my precious first born son and I could not ever imagine holding a name that was different than that of my child.

Naming our adopted sons continued to be important rite of passage for claiming in our family.  Eric's name was not going to be changed except for the addition of our last name but for our oldest, changing his name was crucial to his healing.  He was a "junior".  Named exactly after his abuser, in his mind, at that age, he needed to know that he wasn't the same person.  We kept his first name essentially the same (changing it from Greg to Gregory) and added a new middle name.   Initially we were told that he had no legal middle name, and at 4.5 we let him choose one (with some guidance because Tarzan just wasn't going to be OK with this mommy).  He chose a name we loved and he was thrilled with the princely connotations of his new middle name. 

Home with us three months, he suddenly realized that his new middle name was not the shared middle name of his new daddy and new brother, and he demanded immediate recourse.  "Jon" was added to his name, and that of Eric's name as well.  Jon is a family name.  The middle name of my father, also their great grandfather as well he boys' cousin and of course their dad and both of our biological sons.  At the adoption finalization ceremony the judge literally penciled in Jon as a second middle name to both of the boys and over the last decade, that has been an important part of their claiming our family as their own. 

I have talked to the boys regularly about our decision to change their names.  They are PROUD of their (our) last name, and it does come up often enough in conversation that I know it has meant alot to them as they grow up that they share the same middle name with so many of our extended family.  They have their original birth certificates.  They know what their original name was.  They know why we changed their names, and they know they are forever a part of our family.   They also know they have the legal right to change their name to whatever they want when they turn 19.  But I do believe that being of one name has been an important part of their claiming us, and us claiming them, as family.  A permanent, forever, an ALWAYS family.

And so we face a decision.  A name change is not automatic with the legal procedure that brought our girls to us as daughters but it is a decision we need to make.  We don't make this decision lightly.   We have talked with a psychologist, we have talked to long term foster parents, we have talked to children raised in foster care and we have talked to social workers.  Universally they state that having the same last name is a psychological benefit for children with this life experience.  Naming means permanence and claiming and legitimacy.  It labels us as a family to the entire world we will interact with.  But I question if I am taking something that isn't mine to take, or am I simply giving something that they rightly deserve to have?

Certain images ring clearly in my memory.  There is the 12 year old (foster child) who cried on my shoulder that all she wanted was the same name as her (foster) parents, not that she didn't love her mother, not that she didn't value that connection but just that she wanted to be part of a "normal" family. She didn't want the stigma of every classroom friend, every teacher, ever coach knowing that she didn't "really" belong to the family that was raising her.    There are my facebook friends who also happen to be kids raised in foster care who change their last names to that of their (foster) parents as time goes on.  Taking the name that the system has not bequeathed them, yet life has.   

There are my sons who are adamant that the girls' names must be changed, and changed quickly.  My 14 year old who can't express why but just tells me through watery brown eyes that is is IMPORTANT and he doesn't know how to say it any different than that.  There is my 15 year old who asks if he can change his own name to Xavier 'cause it's SOOOO COOOL  but that he definitely is keeping Jon and as such the girls should get my middle name. 

Alas, that is the angst of our decision.  I will bequeath our last name easily because I do feel that there is strong evidence that being visibly part of our permanent family will benefit the girls.  But my secret heart has always dreamed of a daughter.  A daughter to whom I can give my middle name as my husband gave his.    Joy.  My middle name.  And merely stating the desire makes me feel selfish. 

I do not want to rob my daughters of their heritage, their name as a gift from their other parents, their first parents, but I do ache to give them this connection to me.  My "experts", the adoptees I live with and raise and call my own, unanimously vote I should.  But I know others would believe differently.   And so we debate and discuss and pray. 

What am I missing?  Is it a gift or a theft? 

There are three options we can do  (well four if we don't change anything).  

Birth First Name - Birth Middle Name - My Middle Name - Our Last Name

Birth First Name - Birth Middle Name - Bio Mom's Last Name - Our Last Name

Birth First Name - My Middle Name - Bio Mom's Last Name - Our Last Name

I am looking for input here.

Surreal

I sat in the lobby of the court room.  Surrounded equally by weeping women, stoic men, shell shocked children and lawyers frantically running back and forth.

"Anyone need a duty lawyer today?"  15 hands go up.

There were familiar faces.  Smiles exchanged.  Glances met and avoided.  Lives laid open before a judge.  Names revealed. Personal details.  Accounts of failures and successes.  Stories I do not want to know.  Stories I want to forget.

The legal connection between parents and children severed or restored.

I sat.  I heard my name called and my intentions stated.  Papers filed.

We were told to come back in a month. 

Lives resting on the balance of the scales of justice. 

One moment of one day surrounded by 1000 moments on 1000 other days.

Our Best Day is Their Worst

I knew that my highlighted quote from the article in the Plain and Valley Newspaper would generate some questions. Out of context, it appears to be very negative and I would like to give a bit of an explanation.

When I dreamt of being a parent, I always dreamt of being an adoptive parent. I planned and read and prepared. I dreamt of all the fun and wonderful things we would do together. I saw a future of snuggles and hugs and Christmas Mornings. I knew by watching friends and family that being a mother was one of the greatest joys in life. And truly, it is. When Tanner was born I discovered how much I truly did love being a mom. I love everything about it. I love the craziness, the tears, the diapers, the snuggles, the joy. Truly becoming a mother was the best, and most important day, of my life.

When I met Greg and Eric I was meeting my SONS. I got to be their MOTHER. I would get to raise them and love them and be loved by them. They were my dream come true. The children I had prayed for and hoped for and longed for. I would get to watch these amazing two little boys grow into amazing men. I would get to shape them and provide them countless opportunities. I would get to be their MOMMY. It was truly one of the very best days of my life.

Now, go read HERE

That is what that first day was like for my sons. Without the maturity of years and experience they had no idea that they would learn to love me. I was a stranger. I looked different, talked different and smelled different. They were losing EVERYTHING they knew. On top of that they were losing many things they had no idea about yet - their country, their connection to their community of birth, their culture. And I was the one doing it to them. Not their birth parents or their foster parents or a social worker or a nameless judge. ME. I was creating their very worst nightmare. I was taking them away from all they knew, loved or cared about. Just like every other child placed into the arms of a stranger.

At that time, on that day, what was my dream come true was their worst nightmare.

Of course there is more to the story in the life of a child than that first day and I fully realize and advocate that there were (and are) many, many very good reasons why adoption might be in the long term best interest of a child or baby, but at the heart of it, at the very beginning of it, adoption starts in enormous loss. I gained everything from becoming their mother, but on that day and at that point my sons lost everything that was important to their toddler selves.

The adults may know and understand why adopting our children is best, and why they will hopefully one day understand, but we also need to know that at that moment in time to the tiny newborn who can't find the only mother it knows or the scared toddler aching for a foster mom or orphanage caretaker, that we are the wrong mom. We are the enemy at the centre of the nightmare of loss and change they are enduring.

Understanding that fact opens our hearts and minds to let our children grieve, to push us to focus on attachment, to truly understand that our journey as parents is not our children's journey as adoptees. To hold to the knowledge that even though our family started in loss, and at times the journey together might be very hard, and sometimes sad and lonely, that it can still be a wonderful journey. We love our children and we are family too.

Hello Saskatchewan and Manitoba

When we took the girls back to meet Shel's parents during the summer, we attended the Forget Music Festival which is hosted on their property. While we were there we were a rather conspicuous family among the mostly white rural community members, and I remember mentioning that I was worried about how our reception would be, considering our last really awful experience with racism had happened in small town Saskatchewan.

Certainly we were noticed, and part of that being noticed was being approached by a young reporter wanting to do a story on adoption. ***** Inserting disclaimer here: She approached me the morning we arrived. We had just driven through the night, two nights in a row with six kids (two of whom were BABIES) and I was surviving on very, very little sleep. ******

She was keen and naive and very, very interested in adopting from foster care because "kids need families" and she wanted another baby. As an experienced adoptive parent, you might know the "type" of whom I speak. The beauty of a "needy child" and the novelty of a multiracial family overshadows the reality of parenting a child who has experienced foster care. The reporter was thrilled to tell me that she and her husband had completed the home study process and were waiting for their life to settle down before they accepted a referral. Her children scampered around her as we did our interview. A baby, a 2 year old, a 4 year old and a 6 year old.

Yeah. That's what I thought too. Interestingly the article leads off with the fact that they were declined approval, for now.

So, admittedly, my attitude might have been a bit on the harsh side due to the lack of sleep and the very real "REALITY" of parenting that I had gone through over the last couple of travel days and usually I might have taken a bit of a softer approach to explain the needs of kids being adopted from the foster care system. But, alas, I didn't and I wasn't and the result is actually a pretty good article. There are a few parts I wish I could explain more, but overall it is an honest assessment of the attachment needs of kids coming into a family from a disrupted family.

There are some gross errors, the most glaring is that she described Miss Curious as being "quiet and well behaved". This has caused great laughter in our house because our dear Miss Curious is rather well known for being, well, CURIOUS. And a curious 18 month old? Definitely not the definition of quiet or obedience. But overall, I think you might enjoy the article. If not, I am sure you will let me know.

If you found the blog because of the article sandwiched between the advertisements for combines and oil rig workers on page 13, welcome. If you have any questions, ask. If I offended you, I am pleading sleep deprivation.

Oh and I my sister mentioned that I should probably provide this welcome to distract all the new readers who come to the blog and see that picture of my son with duct tape across his mouth. Some wonderful adoptive parent I am!

A Tough Letter to Write

I have had a stack of 60 pictures on my night stand for weeks. Sitting there. Waiting. They need to be sent. They were intended to be sent a long time ago to someone who is waiting for them impatiently. And still they sit.

Today I finally wrote the letter that I haven't had the words or the inclination to write that will go with the pictures. Our relationship with the kids birth father has tended to be happy-happy. ME so happy to hear from him because I know how important it is to the boys, HIM so happy to hear from us because he wants to know about the boys. So when you are clinging to contact and its so infrequent over the years, rocking the boat by addressing the tough stuff is sometimes hard to do.

It was time, however, for me to lay some things out for him that are bothering the boys. It was my job to toughen up and tell him the truth. I never want to hurt him, but if in not hurting HIM, I allow him to hurt the boys? That's far worse.

I ran this topic past adoptee friends, first parent friends, friends from the African American community and came to the determination that sometimes things left unsaid do more damage than saying the truth, with love, but truth none the less.

Why not have the boys write, some may ask? To be blunt, they never would. They would rather the relationship die out than to make the effort on their own. Contact from their first parents is so rare, so sparse, that to expect them at 13 and 14 to be able to write a letter and express their hurt and anger over a parents actions is simply too much of a burden to bare. Add to that the dynamic that this parent was also their abuser - the relationships are tenuous and for now, its my job as their mom to protect them, more than it is to protect the feelings of their first father.

The issue at hand? His refusal to use their last names in correspondence. I so can fathom his pain, the loss it must be to have to write a different last name for your child. A child once your "Junior" now carries the name of another father. A child named after a murdered cousin, now carries the name of another. And because I can fathom why it is so hard for him, I have let it go for years. But now the time has come where the boys scoff when the letters arrive, knowing that he won't acknowledge their reality - their truth. And so I wrote. Buried deep in a long, long newsy letter I tried to share my heart, but with as much honesty as possible.

G, I need to address some things with you and let you know its very hard
for me to do. Sometimes I like to pretend everything is wonderful
and never address the hard stuff, but sometimes doing that is wrong. **** I've deleted some other stuff going on in regards
to one of the boys wishes about contact ****

... Remember he is still just a kid and not able to yet understand
all the grown up issues. And from a parental perspective, the needs of the
adults HAVE TO come after the needs of the kids. Their needs have to be
the most important. This brings me to my third, and hardest, thing for me
to address with you. Greg and Eric both have a real problem with the fact
that you will never write their last name on the letters or cards you send to
them. I am going to assume its not a prison regulation thing, but rather a
choice on your part (correct me if I am wrong).

Greg, I understand how hard it must be for you to realize that they
no longer carry your name but I need to ask you to think of it from THEIR
perspective. They don’t remember ever being “B**s” – and that name, to
them, is associated with a horrible and sad period of their lives. They
were abused, seized by DFS, went through many traumatic things and then sat in
foster care for 3 years waiting for you and L to get things together enough to
parent them – all as B's. It was NOT their fault, nor ours, that the boys
were available to be adopted – but to them, adoption and their new last names
are VERY significant. It’s not their responsibility to help you process
your grief at the loss of your sons and the fact they now carry the name of the
man who gets to be their dad.

I can understand how hard it is for you to face, but if you could please
think of it from their perspective, I think it would help them. Greg
isn’t “Little Greg” or Greg Jr. anymore – he is Gregory J J , Eric isn’t
Eric B's, he is Eric R J. They don’t remember anything different and
what is important – the MOST important thing – is that is how they view
themselves. I so, so, so understand from your perspective that you
miss the little boys who were your sons, in every sense of the word – but if you
want to have a relationship with them someday understanding who they ARE will
help them accept you. I am sorry to say this so bluntly, but it’s an issue
to them, and I hate to see things building up for them, when maybe you had never
thought of it from their perspective.

G we love you and love the support you have given the boys – your words are
always encouraging and exactly what they kids need from you. I am sorry if
anything I have said in here is hurtful – that is NOT my intention, but its so
hard in a 5 minute phone call to address the tough stuff, even when it needs to
be said. I know you would have never, ever wanted this role or
imagined this situation when you first became a father. I know that
sometimes the consequences for your youthful choices must seem too
difficult to bear but I hope you know that always, always we put the needs of
the kids first. We love them with an undying, forever love, as we know you
love them too.

Hugs, prayers and many good wishes,
Jen

So, what do you think?