Parenting is suppose to be a joy, right? You rarely hear parents who come home with a brand new baby, complaining about how hard it is. There may be rueful references to a lack of sleep or colic. Sometimes there are health issues and that's frightening, but for the most part, bringing a new child home is a joyous thing! And let's not forget about the instant bonding that typically happens between a newborn and her parents, whether by adoption or birth. I know that feeling. When my son was born it was like my heart leaped out of my chest and instantly belonged to him. Likewise, when we later adopted an infant daughter, she was placed in my arms and I melted under the warm, soft weight of her.
But bringing home a four year old with a history of abuse and neglect that one has only just met is a different thing all together. As I mentioned in my previous blog, meeting Bethany, our soon to be adopted daughter, wasn't exactly what I dreamed it would be. She took an instant liking to her new daddy and brother but treated me like I was invisible or more accurately, like I smelled bad or something. Before she stepped into our car, leaving the foster home, she patted her new daddy's hand and said, "I like you, not HER!" He barked out a laugh and bent to buckle her in behind me. She kicked the back of my seat, rhythmically, with great determination, until we stopped for lunch an hour later.
She wanted two hamburgers with lots of pickles so that's what we got her, to go. Back in the car she chattered non-stop about her yummy hamburgers and how much she loved PICKLES! In the rear view mirror our five year old son looked worried. I reminded him that it was a happy day and that there was no reason to look gloomy. I was just happy that Bethany was happy and actually talking to ME! Yay! Plus, she'd finally stopped kicking my seat! Things were definitely looking up.
Another hour passed and we pulled into a small amusement park that boarders the I-5 in Oregon. As I went to unbuckle Bethany I noticed that the back of my seat was smeared with pickles, ketchup and mustard. She'd taken every one of her "yummy pickles" and squished them into the upholstery. Her smile was absolutely ANGELIC as she looked at me and said, "Whoopsie." Our son, Nicholas, finally spoke up and said, "That's why I looked worried." Well, good for him, he didn't want to be a tattler. Silly me for thinking everything was better. I can't tell you how crushed I felt at that moment, standing beside our car. I wasn't angry. I wanted to cry. The little girl I wanted with all my heart was determined to hate me.
When we finally arrived home that night, she recognized our street right away from the family book we'd given her the first time we met her. She squealed when she saw our house and said, "MY HOUSE! MY RED DOOR! MY ROOM!" Sure enough, she was pointing right up to her own bedroom window and so it went. She took possession of everything she saw on her way from the car to the door and on into the house.
A few minutes later she wilted half way up the staircase in the midst of naming and claiming things. Thumb in mouth, sprawled out in utter exhaustion, she went from 1,000 MPH to deep sleep in a moment. And in the quiet, as we sat beside her on the stairs, we realized how much she was hurting. How scared she must have been. My heart ached for this fiery little stranger that was to be my new daughter. I think that's finally when I understood how hard it was going to be. Until then I'd managed to convince myself that we'd jump the hurdle of newness and everything would be okay, but I'd underestimated her pain and the challenges inherent in parenting a child one does not know and has no relationship or history with.
My husband carried her to her bed. I carefully wiggled her thick glasses off and laid them on the bedside table. We were able to get her into her new pink pajamas without waking her. Then we surrounded her with stuffed dogs, rabbits and bears and Nicholas hopped up next to her and said a prayer.
There were pink balloons all over the house and a big sign that read: WELCOME HOME, BETHANY, but the joy was absent. It was the first of many nights that I would pray myself to sleep, asking God to bless and heal Bethany and give us the ability to love her enough to make it all better.
Post Script: Bethany is not pictured with our other children.
©Just Kate, 2009
God in the Grass
1 hour ago
8comments:
Post a Comment
I just picked up Don Miller's new book. Here is how he starts his book: "I have a friend Bob who writes down everything he remembers. If he remembers dropping an ice cream cone on his lap when he was seven, he'll write it down. The last time I talked to Bob, he had written more than five hundred pages of memories. He's the only guy I know who remembers his life. He said he captures memories, because if he forgets them, it's as though they didn't happen; it's as though he hadn't lived the parts he doesn't remember."
Keep writing down your memories, Kate! Besides the fact that it will help you remember your life...it's obvious that your story will help many others.
I like one other line that Don Miller writes. He imagines us in heaven, sitting down with God, telling Him our life story. He says God will smile and tell us what our story means. Don muses..."I just hope I have something interesting to say". I don't think you will have that problem, my friend. Blessings.
((hugs))
Thank you so much for your interest! You guys are the best!
♥ Katy
Thank you for sharing. ♥
I am putting together a photo album of her life with us, to give to her now that she's grown up. It's a painful process for me and one that will take a long time as I can only bear to do it in bits and pieces.
Post a Comment