Break My Heart

"I happy you my Mommy and Daddy."

Teshale has often shared that he misses his house and his family in "'topia." He seemed to really like his new home until his English expressive language developed to the point he could talk about his feelings, and likes and dislikes. "I no like this house," he would say as we would return home after school. "I want MY house." "MY house" means his house in Ethiopia. "I no like this house!" he would say at bedtime. "I want MY house."

For quite a while, he expressed his desire to go back to his family in Ethiopia. He seemed to like us ok, but let's face it; he knows he has a "real" family in Ethiopia -- "real" in the sense of the one he was born into. He remembers his siblings and his Gashe -- his uncle, and the woman he called 'Ama' -- mother -- quite clearly. And he misses them terribly. If someone plucked me up from my home in the northeastern United States and plunked me down with a family in Siberia with no hope of ever seeing my loved ones again, while the weather might have some familiarity, I would grieve profoundly. A day wouldn't go by that I wouldn't want to return to my family and friends.

Eventually he seemed to take stock of his situation, and he began to tell me, "I want Muse and Tafese live here." Muse and Tafese are his older brothers, who he admires greatly, especially Muse. "I want Muse, Tafese ride my bike and swim my pool and sleep my bed."

"That would be really nice," I would respond, hugging him.

"Muse and Tafese can live here?" would be the plaintive response.

These are the times that try Moms' souls. "No, honey, I'm sorry. They can't live here unless Gashe asks us to bring them here."

"Why? Why Muse and Tafase can't live here?"

"Because we can't bring them here unless we adopt them and we can't adopt them unless Gashe says he wants us to adopt them."

It's heartbreaking to watch your child's heart break.

With the distraction of the holidays and his birthday, the topic of wanting to return home to Ethiopia faded. A few weeks ago it came up again. "I want go to my faraway house and see Muse and Tafese," he announced.

"Some day we'll go back and visit," I said. It will probably be a long time before we can go, but we will go back."

"I want visit a long, long, long time." he said.

"I can understand," I said. "You want to play with your brothers and your little girl." He calls his sister his little girl. He doesn't remember her name, and insists that the name we were given is not her real name.

A few days later it changed to, "I want go back to 'topia." Again, I reassured him we would visit. "No," he said, "I want live there. You  and Daddy come visit me there."

People say I must feel terribly rejected when T expresses that he wants his first home and his first family. I don't. I understand that he misses his birth family and I understand that he wants them to be a part of his life.  It doesn't bother me that he has these feelings. I'm somewhat relieved actually to know that he's working through his grief. All I could do was to hold my little boy tightly and rock him, saying, "I know, I know. I know you miss Muse and Tafese and your little girl and your baby and Gashe and your ama. I know, I know."

I don't know if this was a watershed moment. Was he looking for validation of his feelings? Was receiving validation of his feelings healing for him? We've been living in a quieter place since then, for the most part. Mr. Generally Grumpy seems to have become Mr. Sometimes Grumpy. And a couple of nights ago he started talking about the "big house" -- his term for the orphanage where he stayed and where we brought him home with us from.

Somehow we got talking about the word "pop." He said, "Like I POPPED out of the room?" That's a line from his adoption story we tell him. "We got to the big kids' house and all the kids were saying 'Teshale, Teshale, your mommy and daddy are here.' And then a little boy POPPED out of the room!" He loves that line. He always laughs. This time he wanted to know how he popped. Did he pop out like a frog hopping? Did he jump really far? "No," I said, "You just seemed to suddenly appear out of nowhere." And I showed him how first there was no one there and suddenly a little boy appeared out into the courtyard, looking at us shyly and putting on his crocs so he could come to us.

"I happy you my Mommy and Daddy," he said -- the first time he's ever talked about how he was feeling back in our time together in the "big house." "And one day I waiting and waiting, and you don't come really long time," he said, remembering sadly.

It took me a while to figure that out. I thought maybe he was saying that he had to wait in the orphanage a long time before we finally showed up for the first time, but no, he was referring to our week there. Then I remembered Sean and I being sick with a stomach bug, first Sean for a day, then me. But still I thought that while Sean was sick, I went over by myself, and then when I was sick, Sean went over by himself. "Did all the other mommies and daddies go there but we didn't show up?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I sitting in chair and waiting and waiting and you not come really long time. I sad."

Oh, break my heart. Then I remembered that the afternoon after I'd finished vomiting hourly through both my mouth and nose and was resting and sipping warm 7-Up, Sean had gone to the Sheraton with a group to do some shopping. So neither one of us showed up at the "big house." And to be honest, neither one of us had the impression that little T would care one way or the other whether or not we came over, given that when we were there, he spent 95 percent of his time getting into things and having temper tantrums when we tried to redirect him. We really didn't think he liked us or wanted to be with us. I was convinced he had RAD. His interactions with us seemed to be a constant opportunity for him to challenge us, not to bond with us.

But, the afternoon neither one of us showed up, he missed us. And he was sad. Oh, break my heart. If I'd only known, I would have dragged my still slightly churning stomach up the block and been there for him so he wouldn't have been lonely and sad, and probably afraid we'd left him behind too, like his Gashe had done to him.

I wonder if his expressing that he was happy we came to get him at the "big house" to be his Mommy and Daddy, and that he missed us the afternoon we failed to show means he's dipped his toe into the "resignation" stage of grieving, after so long being stuck in "anger." Most people refer to this as the acceptance stage, but I can't call it that. To me the word "acceptance" infers some degree of agreement. When you accept an offer on your house, you're agreeing to the price the purchaser is willing to pay. When you accept a proposal, you're agreeing to the terms of that proposal. I don't think you ever agree to the devastating loss of your loved ones. You learn to give yourself over to it and stop fighting it; in other words, you resign yourself to it.

If he has dipped his toe into that stage, we are making important strides. Time, I suppose, will tell. In the meantime, it was revealing to peek a little bit inside his world and how he was feeling about us when we were all first getting to know each other. He was happy we were his Mommy and Daddy, and he missed us the day he waited a really long time and we not coming. I so want to reach back in time and hug that sad, frightened little boy. Oh break my heart.