Poking the Bear With a Stick

One would think this might be remembered as a happy time. 

Let me start out by saying it's not entirely my fault. For reasons I cannot fathom, T's class had a Thanksgiving party today.

Seriously? A Thanksgiving party? Because there aren't already enough crazy-making days in the school calendar? I'm thinking of getting a list of all the scheduled party days and keeping T home those days. Party days never end well here at home.

But.

As I flipped through the pile of papers he came home with -- that class must go through a forest a day -- I found an assignment he had completed about "Things I Remember."

"Write about a time with a family member that brought out strong feelings in you."

All older adopted child families are groaning with me right now. I understand the kids are learning to write descriptively, but we can't ask our kids to think about family and strong feelings without….getting strong feelings.

He had to name the family member, the activity, and how he felt.

He had listed:

My cousin, HBS. I went on a ride. I was so scared.

My Dad. We were running a race. I felt nervous.

My cousins. We go to the movie theater. I was thrilled.

Innocuous enough. Sounds like fun stuff. But note who is missing.

I wondered what notable memories he has of me. So I asked.

Yes, I poked the bear with a stick.

He remembered me coming to the Big House in Ethiopia and how strange I looked. He remembered that he didn't realize almost all the parents were not brown because they didn't let him out of the room when the parents came to get their kids. He didn't look out the barred window or the doorway because he was watching the TV all day.

They had told him someone was coming to get him. And when I showed up, he felt confused and scared. He didn't know how he was going to be able to talk to me, but now he guesses he's figured out how to talk English.

"Well, and we figured out some words when we were there," I said. "You taught us our first word."

"What was that?"

"Shuma," I said. "We were playing with you and all of a sudden you yelled 'shuma' and ran for the bathroom. Daddy and I were laughing and said we guess that meant you had to go pee."

"What was the next word?"

"Sunki,"(kiss) I responded. It was such a nice word to learn so quickly and to have retained over the years.

"Sunki!" he laughed. And laughed and laughed until it turned into a maniacal cackle. "You and Daddy sunki all the time!" Cackle, cackle, cackle.

"Yes we do, " I said, trying to hug him to stop the cackling. He squirmed away from me. "But we sunki other people too. The first day we were playing with you, when it was time for you to have your dinner, the nanny told you to sunk Mommy and sunki Daddy. And you gave us each a sunki." And I kissed him even as he attempted to dodge my kiss.

The dysregulation continued to ramp up. "I NEVER sunkied you or Daddy! Not when I was in the Big House!"

The cackling, the argumentativeness, the Popeye face all swirled around and around like a hot afternoon dust devil. Dysregulation decided to take off its coat and stay a while.

I spent an hour letting him play with my hair. That usually calms him. Dinner time arrived and he refused to eat more than a few morsels.

After dinner, I tried to lure him into reading with me. I had him snuggle under a blanket with me. Reading while snuggling him is usually calming. He told me he doesn't know how to read -- he who is reading at a mid-third grade level one-quarter of the way through second grade. He started to read finally, using baby pronunciation.

"Here, let me read to you, " I said calmly, and I took the book. I read for a while and then tried to hand it back off to him. He hid under the blanket and said he just wanted to listen to me. He repeated that he doesn't know how to read.

Sigh.

I just thought, since the other examples were of fun times, I might hear of a fun time he remembered spending with me. Maybe whale watching or driving to Cape Cod in the middle of the night or a birthday party at the zoo or going to the track for the first time or learning to ride his bike or skiing or hiking Adirondack high peaks or maybe even flying in the airplane. But clearly the only Mommy memories are ones associated with big loss, which bring out strong and scary feelings.

In the Jewish tradition, you die two times. One time when you leave your earthly body -- the other time when no one speaks your name anymore.

I would add to that the death you die every day knowing that you are a daily reminder to your child of everything you took him away from.