Adopting the Older Child -- Part 4: Power Struggles

The stairs at the right of the photo were the site of one of our early power struggles -- T wanted to jump from the platform, and I didn't want to him cracking open his skull.

"I don't like you. You mean." I hear that a lot, typically in response to things like "Time to pick up your toys," or "You need to take your vitamin," or "It's time to get dressed for school," or "Time to brush your teeth." Basic, every day power struggle stuff. T wants to keep playing, doesn't want to go to school, doesn't like any of his clothes, doesn't understand why he needs to brush his teeth twice a day every day, and most definitely does not want to take those yucky vitamins. He even rebels at being called to the dinner table.

I try to avoid power struggles by using the options approach: "It's time to get ready for school -- do you want to get dressed first or brush your teeth first?" Or, "It's time to get dressed, do you want to pick out your clothes or do you want me to?" So far, this has been met with minimal success, as was demonstrated by our recent Battle of the Turtlenecks.

I've been informed through my reading that our adopted children are particularly prone to engage in these power struggles because they have had so little control over anything in their lives. This makes sense to me, which is why I attempt to either not engage at all -- "Ok, you want to go to school with your hair a mess? I don't care; it's not my hair," or attempt the above mentioned options approach. Both methods are supposed to give the children a sense of control as they get to make choices, which should eventually lead to a generally happier child.

I've also added the countdown method to my arsenal -- that is to give a five or ten minute warning before a fun activity is due to end, such as saying "You have five minutes to play in the tub and then bath is over." Then I set the timer and let the timer be the bad guy. For some reason, this has worked really well for us. Instead of getting an argument about getting out of the tub, he'll start putting his bath toys away as soon as he hears the timer.

But even with my attempts at providing control where I can, and giving countdown warnings, I still often hear that I'm mean, because even with offering choices, in the end he has to take his vitamin, make his bed, and get dressed for school. He has assured me that his Mommy in Itiopia was ever mean. Nope. She never yelled. I thought about it. Then it occurred to me -- there was virtually nothing in rural Ethiopia to have a power struggle over.

There's no electricity and therefore no light. Everyone goes to bed when it gets dark. It's dangerous outside the hut in the dark, and therefore there's no option. Others are not up and about -- and other parts of the house were not lighted-- at bedtime. Bedtime is bedtime, for everyone. Period. Nothing to argue over.

The children typically have one outfit that they wear day and night. No arguing over getting dressed or what to wear.

There are no toys to play with, and therefore no toys to argue over putting away.

There's little water -- so no arguing over bath time or washing hair or brushing teeth.

Many of the children have no shoes -- so no arguing over why you can't wear work boots to a school that has a sneakers only policy.

There's rarely enough food to fill little tummies. And the variety in southern Ethiopia is, from what I understand, quite limited. So you eat what is served. Because there's nothing else. There's no peanut butter and jelly sandwich option. If you dawdle because you're annoyed that it's not what you want, someone else probably eats your portion. So you don't pout for five minutes before finally deciding to eat.

There are no forks or spoons, so you don't need to use them to eat.

There's no bed, so no need to make it back up before leaving for school in the morning.

There's no school within a day's walking distance, or your parents can't afford to send you, so there's no having to get up for, get ready for, or go to school.

Again, no electricity, so no television, which means no battle over when it's time to turn it off.

Essentially, when our children leave a society which functions at the time of the birth of Christ -- at least Mary and Joseph had a donkey -- all my son's family had to get around with was their feet -- and arrive in the 21st century -- we bring them to a place teeming with things to do battle over. For the first time in their lives they have the chance to attempt to exert some control, and we have so many choices -- choices they will want to make, and so many rules -- rules they will not want to follow, because there really never were rules before, or at least not very many. We have rules for everything. No running in the house, no jumping on the couch, no pushing buttons on the tv, no climbing up the stove, no rummaging through your sisters' stuff, no jetting out of the house without asking first, no riding your bike without your helmet and knee pads, no touching things in stores, no riding in the car without being buckled in your carseat, no running into the road without Mommy or Daddy saying it's ok -- and this is just the tip of the rules iceberg.

For instance, a child who never experienced a parking lot before doesn't understand the necessity of the rule of holding Mommy or Daddy's hand. When was the last time they were required to hold an adult's hand in Ethiopia? Ever? We had many parking lot battles -- and those fall into the category of ones you need to win. One trick I learned to use to some success was to tell him before we got out of the car, "I know you're going to be grumpy walking through this parking lot holding Mommy's hand. So I need you to get out of the car, sit down right here (next to the car as opposed to the middle of the aisle, which was his usual sitting spot of choice) and get your grumpies over with now." Generally he refused the offer to be grumpy, and then would be cooperative walking through the lot. By giving him permission to have a "I don't want to hold your hand" battle, I took the wind out of his sails. Usually.

It can be exhausting even when you have learned to choose your battles, and to only choose those you can win. Keck and Kupecky, authors of Parenting the Hurt Child recommend picking five battles in any given day -- but winning those five -- over picking seventy and only winning thirty. I agree one hundred percent with them, but still, I'd like to see them deal with The Battle of the Turtlenecks.

The Battle of the Turtlenecks came about as we prepared to go snowshoeing on a six degree day. As we were getting dressed to go out in the bitterly cold weather, I asked him, "Which turtleneck do you want -- gray or red?"

"Green," he responded.

"You don't have a green turtleneck," I said, "You have gray and red. Which do you want?"

"Green."

"You don't have green, you have gray and red; which do you want?"

"There's green right there," he said, pointing into his closet.

"That's a fleece," I explained, "You can wear that over your turtleneck. But you need a turtleneck to keep your neck warm. So which do you want, the gray or the red?"

"Brown."

He keeps me on my toes, this one.