Is it because he is adopted?

Last Tuesday was a hard day.

It started with (yet another) email from Brae's kindergarten teacher.  He was acting out in school.  Again.  Throwing things.  Being "mean" to other kids.  Acting silly.  Obnoxious.

Tygh and I were discussing appropriate consequences just as Brae was walking through the door.  I opened his backpack to discover (yet another) note from Brae's extended kindergarten day teacher about more unacceptable behavior.

I about lost it.

Not angry. 

Sad.  Disappointed.  Embarrassed.

We don't model this behavior for him.  We don't teach it.  We don't preach it.

So why is he acting out?

Nothing has changed at home.

I went for a walk to clear my head.

That's when the small nagging voice that creeps up in moments like this began to get louder.

Is it because he is adopted?

I cried.

No, I reasoned.  That's not what this is about.

Right?

In my non-teary-eyed, logical state, I know, intellectually, that it is absurd to think that Brae's kindergarten behavior is because he is adopted.  Brae knows he is adopted.  We've never kept that a secret.  He sees his biological family once a year, and we stay in regular communication with them.  It's a beautiful, open relationship.

So I know that the "is it because he's adopted" inquiry is not grounded in reality.  Instead, it is rooted in insecurity.

My own insecurity that I'm not doing a good job at being his mom.  That, somehow, the fact that it is not my blood that runs through his veins is the cause of any misbehavior.  That, somehow, because I did not give birth to him will be the direct cause of him failing in life.

Absurd.

Crazy.

Illogical.

But, still, it's a thought that creeps up in my moments of weakness.

When I got back from my walk, Tygh came up to me.  He had news.  He and Brae had a talk.  Tygh was trying to get to the bottom of his behavior.  Why was he acting out at school?

As a 6-year-old, Brae didn't have a lot of answers.  He couldn't really explain his behavior.

As a parting question, Tygh asked if there was anything he could do to help him - with anything.

Brae looked up at him with big, doe-eyes, and said, "Daddy, I can't read.  Other kids in my class are reading big-kid books. I can't."

My heart sank all over again. 

I knew he had been struggling to read.  I didn't know that he felt an inferiority because of it.

Insecurities flooded me all over again.  But, this time, I knew this couldn't be explained because he was adopted.

It's explained by him being just a little boy.  A kid.  A competitive kid.  In a high-performing school.  Coming face-to-face for the first time with a feeling of peer inadequacy.

I cried all over again.  Because, as his mom, adoptive mom or not, I cannot protect him from this feeling, or feeling it again.

This is life. 

And it's hard.

A Great Idea.

I saw another adoptive mom post on her Facebook page today a truly great idea.  I was so inspired, I literally put my blow dryer down, and walked out to the computer, hair still wet.

This mom set up an email account for her daughter.  She is going to give it to her, and the password, when she is 18.  From now until then, she is going to send emails to her daughter.  On her 18th birthday, her daughter can read these memories, some 17 years in the making.

I was inspired.

I immediately set up accounts for Brae, Sienna, and Graem. 

Then, I sent them their first email:

Hello Brae, Sienna, and Graem!

I hope this email finds you well!

Mommy is starting a little adventure. I've created these email accounts for you.  On the day you move out of the house and start your own next chapter of adventure, I will give you these email accounts, along with the passwords.

Over the next many years, I'm going to be writing to you.  So, if you look in your inbox right now, you should have many, many, many emails from me over the years.  Every time I've wanted to write to you, I did, sending you an email.  It's my way of speaking to you over the years, and sending you photos, etc.  I hope you will treasure reading these emails as much as I know I will sending them to you.

I'm so excited for this and I want you to know YOU ARE LOVED.  By the God of the Universe, and by your Mommy and Daddy.


xoxoxo

Private Pain.

At church, we are going through a series about social media and its role in each of our lives.

This series has re-opened my eyes to the deluge of social media in my life, and caused me to wonder a little more about the person behind all those "selfie" posts.

I don't take selfies.  Or, at least I don't consider them selfies.  Someone else takes the picture, so it's not a selfie, right?

I used to be someone who basked in the limelight. Loved attention.

Not anymore.  Perhaps it was the pain of infertility for so many years, or perhaps it is just the maturity that comes with age, but I'm much more introspective than I used to be.  I've retreated from the limelight for the comfort of a more subtle glow. 

I prefer to be the observer than the observed now.

I have hundreds of friends. At least according to Facebook.

In reality, I have a handful of friends I feel truly comfortable around.  Who know my joys, my sorrows, my fears, my delights, and who have walked beside me in my private pain.

Infertility being the biggest private pain I've ever suffered.

Sure, I've been very open and very public about our infertility.  But, unless you've been through it, it is still a very private, raw, deeply personal pain.  I'm not even sure my husband could relate to the vacancy I felt when I was in the throws of infertility.

I'm not even sure I could recognize today the person that I was then.

I can look back at pictures from during that time.  Pictures of me, with a smile on my face.  Hiding a broken heart.

I know I'm not the only one who has concealed private pain behind a beautiful shade of red lipstick.

In fact, I'm pretty positive that when I pull up Facebook tonight, I'll find a dozen other "friends" who are masking their own private pain.

I may never know exactly who they are at any given time, or what exactly they are hiding, but there are some things I can do to connect with them in their time of distress. 

I can be real.  I can be honest.  I can share the joys of my world without bragging about them.  I can celebrate the goodness of life without acting like I'm the cause of it.

I can be grateful.

There is a saying that no one will ever remember all the things you said to them, but they will always remember the way you made them feel.

I try to keep that in mind every time I go online, and comment on someone's post or picture, or share a "status" of my own.

Humility.  Gratitude.  And most of all, a little sense of humor.

Even if I, too, am hiding some private pain.

Graem's 4 month checkup

I breathed a huge sigh of relief coming out of Graem's 4-month-checkup.

After a bumpy start to life, he is finally on par with other full-term babies.  He weighed in at 13.9 lbs (60th percentile, age adjusted), and is in the 75th percentile (age adjusted) for height at over 25 inches.

He also laughed the entire visit. 

He's not yet rolling over, which many 4 mothers are, so there is a bit of his prematurity showing there. 

The doctor gave the "go" for solid foods, and I headed straight to the grocery store.  I love shopping for baby food. 

We tried carrots first.  And, I think maybe he got a total of one teaspoon in his mouth. 

He's sleeping between 5-8 hours straight at night, and averages 4 naps/day.

He loves going on runs in the stroller with me.

He adores playing with his older brother.  Sienna still mostly keeps a safe distance from him.

He loves to be tickled on his inner thigh, and his collar bone.

He loves baths.

He is the kind of baby that makes you think you could do another 3 more.

Dot, dot, dot. 

Sigh.

Here he is on Halloween, wearing the same costume Brae wore home from the hospital.