What I'll Say When You Say

I want to start with a disclaimer. The following is not aimed at anyone in particular. If you are reading this, it is likely you are a personal friend of our family and have kindly taken time to read about what’s going on. Maybe you played a part in bringing our children home. Maybe I see you on a regular basis and you love me and my family. Maybe we are simply acquaintances, but you are invested in this adoption in some way or another. If so, you may see yourself reflected in some of the descriptions below. 
It's not you. This is the most 'it's not you, it's me' post there will ever be. I do not mean any of the following as a condemnation, criticism, or even correction. If anything, it is an explanation of the pause, or the fluttering eyelids, or the nervous laughter you might receive when you ask how things are.
I have a second disclaimer. What I write below should not be taken as a request for you to stop asking. When you ask how we are, how the children are, or how things are going, I appreciate that you want to know. I appreciate that you care. And I appreciate that that is the only question available to communicate kindness and concern in the moment. So please don’t stop asking. Just know the answer is…complicated.

Kind, well-meaning friend: How’s it going?

My brain to me, going a million miles an hour, trying to answer honestly/briefly/kindly:

- Say it’s going well because compared to six months ago, it is.

- Say the kids are amazing - all of them - because they are. Our no-longer-orphans came from not even knowing what a family was to eating strange food, sleeping in strange beds, and learning a new language and new rules. They handle it as best as their trauma-informed brains can. They have to work at trust, and we mess up enough to un-earn it over and over. Our bio kids roll with it, taking some bumps and bruises along the way, asking WHY? a LOT, but overall trying as hard as their kid hearts can try to love these abused and abusive strangers.
So, just say they are amazing and smile.

- Say it’s going okay, even though this morning two people in the house got new bruises from the tragedy, anger, and frustration that comes with living post-trauma with freakishly strong little fighters. But the battles have gone from hourly to daily down to weekly. That’s a big improvement. Hugging outweighs punching now (although kicking is still the champ).
So, just say it’s going okay.

- Say it’s really hard, even though at this one moment they are all smiling and getting along; they're holding your hand or sitting quietly. Those are signs of nervousness that mommy is talking to a stranger, but they look like contentment, so go with that.
- Or say it’s really hard because as much as you WILL yourself to feel the same affection and closeness to your adopted kids as you do with your biological kids, you still have to push your heart toward them and fight the recoil response that was built in by months of little arms and frowns and Satan's lies pushing back against you.
- On second thought, don’t say it’s really hard. Because then you’ll have to explain why it’s hard, and this is clearly a five-minute conversation, not a five-hour pity party.


Kind friend: We should have a play date!
Or
We would love to have *child’s name* over to play. He/she is so sweet.
Or
Claire invited *adopted child's name* to her birthday party. I hope he gets to come!

- My brain: Say thank you and hope no definite plans are expected right now. Every day is a toss-up of emotions for everybody. Current morning prayer is basically a quieter version of Press Your Luck, "No whammies! No whammies! No whammies!" Sending the bio kids off anywhere still freaks the littles out. Or causes them to act out because, yet again, it looks like the bios are getting special treatment. Or causes them to act our because it's different, and we don't handle different very well. Not yet.
- My brain: Just say that sounds great or you hope so, and walk away. You have no idea how to explain that a play date - the thing that every mother wants for her child for a million reasons - can send the whole family into a death spiral. The niños aren’t ready to go on one. Well, they are. But they aren’t. Not yet.
Can they play well? Yes...sometimes.
Can they follow examples set by peers? Usually.
Is it safe or good for them to play unsupervised? Nope. And all of us moms know that one of the best things about a play date is sending your child off with a friend to...not bother you for a while. 
Do they still resort to kicking and hitting when frustrated? Yes. Mostly they play like four and five year olds. But they are exceptional due to their early childhood traumas. So the tiniest thing can trigger a feelings tsunami.
Can I adequately prepare or explain what the supervising adult can do to calm my child? Nope.
Can I anticipate the activities or circumstances that might result in a meltdown? Nope.
Can I provide an adequate translation dictionary to account for the speech impediments and language barrier so that if my child is in distress, scared, nervous or hurt, they can express their needs? Nope.
Should I make a sign that says "Colita = I want a band aid"? Even though that is not the word for band-aid and they probably don't actually need one?
Maybe.
Not yet.

Did I cry when we got our first birthday party invitation for a niño? Absolutely. 
I RSVP'd yes, but I didn't tell him about it. Then, when the day came, it was clear that our emotional state was approaching non-friendly and non-functional. I had to cancel. I wanted that so much for my boy. 
Not yet.
Would Andres or Sara have a blast at your child's laser tag / pottery painting / trampoline park birthday party? Yes. For about 15 minutes. Then their cortisol (stress hormone) level, which already hovers at a high rate (for reasons) would kick into overdrive. Chica would either hide or look for some things to destroy. Chico would rub his shirt collar against his cheek and back into the corner. And from there, who knows what "fun" direction the behavior would take. It's an exciting wheel of mystery that I would never put upon another parent to spin.
Me, silently to myself: 
Some day. Lord, how I long for that day. Not just for me, but for my children. They see their siblings go play at other houses and sleep over and attend camp. They know. We tell them so often that they are loved, beloved, precious, special. Ours. But in the ways that matter to them, the measure they use to compare, what seems like "fair" to them - in those ways, we can't prove it to them. Not yet.

Me, in response to any of these: Much better, thanks! Or Sounds great!
Because that is the best I know how to answer.

I would not leave you here thinking we are hopeless. We aren't. 
Impatient? Yes. Tired? Of course. Yearning? Every day.

Here are some other things we are: 

HOPEFUL - (Lamentations 3:21) But this I call to mind; therefore I have hope: The Lord’s loyal kindness never ceases; his compassions never end.
CALLED - (2 Timothy 1:8-9) Therefore do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord, nor of me his prisoner, but share in suffering for the gospel by the power of God who saved us and called us to a holy calling, not because of our works but because of his own purpose and grace, which he gave us in Christ Jesus before the ages began
KEPT - (Jude 1:1) To those who are called, beloved in God the Father and kept for Jesus Christ...
ADOPTED & LOVED - (1 John 3:1) See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. 
I really think that last verse merits an explanation point. But having it tattooed on my arm will have to do.

Well, you made it to the end of this emotional ramble. That sounds like a t-shirt I should definitely own: Caution, Approaching Emotional Ramble.

Thank you for asking how we are, praying for us, loving us so well, and encouraging us. I want to leave you with a glimpse of the good.
Last week Chad and I were able to leave the house for a full three hours, kid-free! Chad's mom babysat while we went to an early dinner. We tried this once before, earlier this summer, and the niños put Gangee through quite a wringer. It. Was. Rough. 
But this time, they played well, and when we got home and put them to bed, all went well. This was a huge milestone and PRAISE. Imagine going eight months (or more) without that kind of one-on-one time with your spouse (before dark when neither of you is completely exhausted). It was a huge deal, and it rejuvenated our hope for how things can be one day.