Perfect Moment Monday is about noticing a perfect moment rather than creating one. Perfect moments can be momentous or ordinary or somewhere in between.
Once a week we engage in mindfulness about something that is right with our world. Everyone is welcome to join. Details on how to participate are at the bottom of this post, complete with bloggy bling.
Please visit the links of the participants at the bottom.
Here's a perfect moment from my week. I hope you'll share yours, too.
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I accomplished something big (to me) and I'm feeling pretty good about it.
There's a book title that's been bandied around in Adoption World, a book with a mystique and a message that not everyone in Adoption World wants to hear or is ready to hear.
I asked Adoption World to read the book with me and have a dialog about it. It was risky, I knew. Flames could erupt, bloggy b0mbs could go off, feelings could get hurt, flying monkeys could be sicced (no offense to Flying Monkeys) if people assembled troops and defended their territories.
But with the help of somerespectedvoices, as well as from the 40 participants who have been very generous with their thoughts, so far the tone has been respectful, the discussion illuminating. The book is The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child, and if you have any interest in adoption at all -- if there's someone in your life involved in adoption -- you may wish to read what adoptees, firstparents, adoptive parents and pre-adoptive parents have to say about the impression the book made on them. See participants from Day 1, Day 2, and Day 3.
And read what author Nancy Verrier herself has to say next week, as she answers some of the questions we posed to her. Subscribe if you want to be notified when her responses are posted.
This book tour was a LOT of work to put this together. My hat is newly off to Melissa, who has run 2 dozen book tours over the years, and whose idea I shamelessly stole borrowed. I will not take her role in them for granted again.
Sigh of satisfaction. I'm in need of a short bloggy break.
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I am very excited to be hosting my very first bloggy book tour. Well, my alter-ego, the Open Adoption Examiner is.
Our first selection is The Primal Wound: Understanding the Adopted Child by Nancy Verrier. I and my fellow Book Tourists -- adoptees, first parents, adoptive/adopting parents -- spent November (Adoption Awareness Month) reading this controversial book that was originally published in 1993 -- the early days of the open adoption era.
My take on it? Between the nodding of head and the shaking of head, my neck got quite the workout.
The premise is that a primal wound exists for every baby/child/teen separated from his/her biological mother. This includes not only adoptees, but also babies placed in incubators, children born via surrogacy and children placed in day care. The thesis continues that such a primal wound leads to issues that "center around separation and loss, trust, rejection, guilt and shame, identity, intimacy, loyalty, and mastery or power and control..."
There is a LOT of insight in this book, which was written by an adoptive mom and therapist whose daughter was in deep pain. I think it's well worth a read, especially at this stage of my children's lives (they are 8 and 6).
When my children were babies, I would not have been as open and receptive to Verrier's thesis as I am now. During the baby years, I felt there was no question that my children had bonded with me. With my first, I was in a state of euphoria -- after years of drought, I was finally a mom! We had reached the happily-ever-after and because of what we'd been through to get there, the rest was to be a piece of cake. With my second, the attachment took a bit longer, seemingly on my end. I was certain, after we morphed into a tightly knit family, that happily-ever-after had resumed.
But babies don't stay babies. They grow and individualize and wonder and work things out. Issues arise. Some are overt and I can help with them. Yet other deeper issues may exist beyond my ability to reach. Reading this book extends my abilities by giving me insight into what might be going on as my children grow -- what to watch for what emotions lie beneath the behaviors, and what I might be called on to do or to allow to play out.
Children with a primal wound, according to Verrier, tend to be either highly controlling or highly compliant, as a result of a pre-verbal assault on the rightness of their world, of the utter lack of control during this defining episode of their lives. "Having been manipulated at the beginning of their lives makes some adoptees manipulating and controlling."
Children who become compliant, according to Verrier, may become highly responsible -- not because they are healthy and well-integrated, but as a response to that initial rejection. "As Rick said, 'I knew I had to be a better person than the one who was given away.'"
Children with a primal wound, according to Verrier, tend to have difficulty in relationships, with intimacy, due to this early break. They often pre-emptively push away people (and jobs) to avoid being hurt again. "Being wanted by my adoptive parents doesn't compare to being unwanted by my birthmother. -- an adoptee."
Ouch. What a powerful statement. We parents are wise to listen.
There are more indications of the primal wound, all worth knowing about, if only so that I can recognize what may (or may not) be happening for my kids as they become tweens and teens and adults. In my opinion, knowing is almost always better than not knowing -- hence my advocacy of open adoption and open records.
The head shaking came from the anecdotal nature of the evidence. When dealing with human subjects, it is impossible to isolate variables. Some adoptees are controlling. Some adoptees are not controlling. Some non-adoptees are controlling. Some non-adoptees are not controlling. A causal link has not been established because of the inability to isolate adoption as THE factor in a personality.
Many of the noted issues -- "separation and loss, trust, rejection, guilt and shame, identity, intimacy, loyalty, and mastery or power and control" -- perfectly describe ME. My own parents say that *I* am controlling. I became overly responsible and strived to be perfect. I have had trouble with abandonment. I have felt unworthy. I have felt I don't fit in with my own family.
I was separated from my mom at age 5 by an oxygen tent, so maybe I *do* suffer the primal wound.
But is it possible that perhaps these issues are maybe somewhat universal?
I addressed this conundrum on this post (about a comment from Melissa's post on Adoption Chiasm), excerpted here:
Me: Anonymous, I gather, suffers from a Primal Wound.
"I was adopted as an infant, I have a great adoptive family that I love very much. I was not abused. I got everything I ever wanted, went to college and have had a good life. I would give it all up to have been raised by my 17 year old emotionally immature birth mother. I would give it all up to experience what it would be like to grow up feeling normal, like I belonged and happy."
In essence, Anon asserts that the road not taken (the abstract) is superior to the good life s/he has had (the concrete).
The appeal of that road is that it is a fairy-tale road. There are never any potholes, and the sun always shines, but not too hot. It's a smooth, gently sloping road with bounteous apple trees adorning the sides. In short, it's the angel you don't know compared to the devil you do.
No one can ever prove or disprove Anon's notion that a life with a not-ready-to-parent biological mom would have been better than a life with those who parented her. Because we each get just one road.
This is the crux.
The comment started a new train of thought about roads not taken, which, as Melissa pointed out to me, is not just part of the adoption experience. It is part of the human experience.
On to my three chosen questions, asked by others touring with me.
Verrier presumes that most adoptive parents are ill equipped to handle the emotional complexities experienced by adoptees. Did/do you feel well prepared to address the sense of loss that your child might experience? How did you prepare yourself? How do you help/plan to help your child resolve his/her feelings about his/her adoption? I went into parenting realizing that I was unprepared for both the parenting part and the adoptive parenting part, and also knowing that I would do my best to figure it all out.
To prepare myself, I have read lots and lots of first-person accounts of adoptees, running the gamut from happy to angry, which are very simplistic labels for very complex people.
I listen to what they say. I try to grasp what I can do to help (for example, keep communication open), what I should refrain from doing (for example, put the children in a position to divide their loyalties), and to also know when I cannot help -- when I must simply abide with my children while they work things out.
And I ask for the wisdom to know the difference.
How do you think open adoption changes the feel of this book? If you don't feel it changes it in any way, why? If you feel that it changes everything, in what ways? If you fall somewhere in the middle, how do you explain what does get changed and why other things are left unchanged? I think open adoption does change the situation. I don't think it ameliorates it, but it does go a ways in relieving the tension of all that not-knowing.
I have two main concerns about our open situations:
Our daughter, in a fully open adoption with both first parents, has enough information on how her life would otherwise have been to build an idyllic picture in her head about it. She can see the grass on the other side of the fence, but it will never be her yard. Yet her older bio-brother gets to play there all the time (source).
Our son's is an open door adoption, meaning his first parents are welcome in our lives if they want to knock on the door. In meeting the needs of our daughter, are we making it more difficult for our son? One of our parenting challenges is to deal with the differing levels of openness our two children have. I am hoping that Ms Verrier will address this situation when she answers tour questions on the Examiner page (subscribe if you want to make sure you see it.)
As far as openness being an improvement over closed adoption, the proof is in the pudding. My children will be the final arbiters on this question as it pertains to them, in about a decade or two.
What signs did you see in your child that support the concept of a primal wound derived from separation of mother and child in the process of adoption? I have what you might classify as a controlling child (I prefer to say assertive and spirited) and a compliant child (I prefer to say resilient and cuddly).
When we were going through reunion with my daughter's first father, I did also notice a push/pull as she was simultaneously drawn to Joe and also needed to know she was firmly rooted with us:
One afternoon we had an out-of-proportion argument over chores. She went from zero to steam-coming-out-the-ears in a flash. Her eyes a-blazing, she hissed, "And if I don't, are you going to send me to Joe?"
Whaaaaa?
Sudden flash of insight: she wasn't JUST worried that we would keep her from meeting Joe. She was ALSO worried that we might abdicate our place as her parents. This thought, I believe, filled her with terror. Like an earthquake was about to hit.
While I don't take it as gospel, I do recommend The Primal Wound for adoptive parents and pre-adoptive parents. Further, I recommend that the book be read periodically as the child grows and experiences different stages of cognitive development. It is also helpful to listen to the voices of adult adoptees -- for me, anyway.
To continue to the next leg of this book tour, please visit the main list at The Open Adoption Examiner.
A few years ago I was teaching World Geography to middle school kids. We'd done a unit on the phenomenon of genocide, and at about the same time Paul Rusesabagina came to our city for a speaking engagement. I organized a field trip, and we all heard the first person account of the hotel manager who sheltered Tutsis in Rwanda in 1994.
Truly, his story is remarkable. At risk of his safety and that of his family, Paul Rusesabagina (played in the film Hotel Rwanda by Don Cheadle) used his connections and wiles to save more than a thousand refugees. Think the Schindler's List of Africa.
The audience was full of gushing praise for him. Each person who got up to ask a question at the end of Paul Rusesabagina's presentation began with some version of, "You are extraordinary." or "You are exceptional." or "You are amazing -- I would never be able to be so brave."
With each of these proclamations, I saw Paul Rusesabagina slump a little. Each time, he protested, "No, I'm not. My point is that I am just like you -- in extraordinary times, we all can be extraordinary. We all have it in us, and I am proof of that."
Still, the audience continued to set him apart.
I left the auditorium that day feeling sad for Paul Rusesabagina, who looked a bit lonely, a bit defeated in the way his message had been received. Who, as if to make my point, titled his book An Ordinary Man.
But. And I say this with great affection. Some of you missed the point. The conversation I had with Tessa was not the result of me being an all-wise mom (I'm not). Or because I am more mature, thoughtful, ego-less than the average Jane (most definitely not).
It's just that in one moment, I stopped long enough to tune into deeper wisdom. I lived from my heart, not my fears.
And you can, too.
Don't tell me, any of you who are or will be parents, that you wouldn't run into a burning building to rescue your child. Don't tell me that you wouldn't jump in front of a bus to prevent your child from being hit. We say it all the time -- this type of love transcends all. And in a moment where you're called on to do something heroic, you would not think twice.
So why would you react any differently with the relatively minor thing of resolving your own fears and insecurities for the sake of your child?
Maybe the way I handled Tessa's question was incredible, extraordinary, remarkable. But, over and over again, incredible, extraordinary, remarkable things are done by ordinary people.
Tessa was distraught, after a Halloween party, for not getting the nod for a sleepover at her aunt's house. The excitement of the kid-oriented haunted house, the disappointment about the sleepover and a sugar high made for a meltdown.
I got her into the car and she continued to wail about how mean her dad and I are. Roger and Reed were in the other car (long logistical explanation), so Tessa and I had some rare alone car time.
The wailing changed tone as we headed home.
"Why can't Crystal and Joe be my parents!? I have never even been with both of them at the same time!"
Whoa.
I silenced the GPS lady so I could focus. Here's a slowdown of my processes during moments like this.
1. Calm, center, open. Breathe, and be aware of my breathing. 2. Listen. Let her do most of the talking. 3. Assess. What is she really saying or asking? 4. Trade places. What might this look like, feel like, to her? 5. Abide. Give her space to feel her feelings. 6. Speak. Equal parts head and heart
Following are the salient parts from the ensuing conversation, which lasted about a half an hour and culminated while we cuddled in her bed.
"Tell me more," I said while driving home.
"If they got together, maybe they would LIKE each other. And then..."
"And then...?" (pause) "And then they could be your parents?"
"Yes." (pause) "But Joe is married, and Crystal has L---." (pause) "They will never be married, will they, Mom?"
Now, the best thing I did here was not personalize this and make it about ME. Her words, and the thoughts behind them, had NOTHING to do with her feelings for Roger and me, her attachment to us, her love for us. The best way for me to help her find resolution about having two sets of parents, and about her own road not taken is NOT to pretend that one set of parents doesn't exist, is NOT to feel bad that I can't be everything to her, is NOT to "fix" it for her by pointing out all she does have.
It's by giving her space and support to find her own way.
"No, Sweetheart. They were together many years ago, but they were not a good match. You know, don't you, that they both love you?"
"Yeah, I know that. But why aren't they my mom dad?"
"Would you like me to tell you the story again? After we get home we can cuddle and talk."
"Yes!"
10 minutes later we pulled into the garage. Tessa got on her jammies and brushed her teeth. We climbed into her bed, about an hour past normal bedtime.
"Crystal and Joe were very young. Twenty may not sound like young to you, but it's a time when some people don't have a lot of skills in dealing with other people, with being frustrated. You know that class we took together, Taming the Anger Monster? Well, at that time, neither Crystal nor Joe had learned how to tame their anger monsters.
"They broke up because they were hurting each other. With words -- you know that words can hurt. And as much as they both loved you, they knew that neither one was able to give you a stable home, a calm home. At that time. You needed a forever family then, though. And that's what you got. Daddy and I will always be your mom and dad, no matter what.
"The Crystal and Joe you know now are different from who they were then. It's OK to imagine what life with them would be like. What do you think?"
"Well...I would have an older brother from Crystal. And a younger sister from Joe. I'm not sure if we would live at Crystal's house or at Joe's house. And I would probably go to a different school. One I don't even know. I might not even know Reed. Or Grandma and Grandpa. Or the OTHER Grandma and Grandpa. And all my aunts -- I wouldn't have any aunts! That would be weird."
"It would be very different, wouldn't it? You can tell a thousand stories of what your life is not. And only ONE story of what your life IS. This is your life, Tessa. Lots of people around who love you now and forever, including Crystal and Joe, daddy and me. All of Crystal's family, all of Joe's family, all of our family."
"Mama," she said sleepily, the anxiety and sadness gone for now, "I love you."
"I love you, too Tessa."
*****
There probably were wiser words I could have said, and things I shouldn't have said. I'm putting this out there because in this space I try to share (within the limits I've set regarding Tessa's privacy) as many facets of open adoption parenting as I can. It's important to know that "open adoption" isn't just something you do when you exchange photos, send emails, have a visit. It's something that can come up even when you have other plans.
My friend Crystal offered to have my children come play at her house for a few hours. Rob had been out of town, and some down time for me sounded reealllly good.
It was a no-brainer. Responsible child watcher? Free time? Of course!
But I had to stop to think a moment.
Because Crystal is Tessa's firstmom.
"Is this weird?" I thought. "It doesn't feel weird. It should feel weird. Other people would find it weird. But I am definitely not sensing weird." The thoughts chugged through my head as I searched for some rain on my parade.
Since day one in the birthing room, we've embraced Crystal as part of our extended family. At first this was merely because we'd planned a fully open adoption. But by about, oh, day two, it was clear that we'd be friends because we liked each other. Six years into the adoption, Crystal attends birthday parties for both our children, school events, and dance recitals, averaging about one visit a month. But, until now, I'd always been part of the get-togethers.
Was I worried that I'd be usurped as Mom? (No.) Could Crystal handle both my children, in addition to her own? (Yes.) Might my son feel left out? That last question was easily dismissed. Crystal has always shown her love for Reed. In a way, she's served as a surrogate birthmother for him, since contact with his own has faded. And Reed adores Crystal's 10-year-old son and three-year-old stepson.
These were my thoughts as I drove the kids to Crystal's house. I told Tessa and Reed to behave, reminded Crystal that she could call me, no matter what, and left, almost giddy at the open hours ahead of me.
When I returned to pick up the kids, Crystal had trimmed my daughter's hair (hairstyling is Crystal's line of work) and given her a pair of hand-me-down, purple boots. I told them how I spent my blissful hours of solitude (reading and writing), and they told me how they spent their loud hours of togetherness (running through the garden hose and eating). We were all fulfilled.
Now, let me expand a bit on my relationship with Tessa. She and I currently butt heads over everything from too-long showers to homework, from talking on the phone to doing her chores. I'm hoping that we will not revisit this tension during her teen years, because we'll have already been-there, done-that (please, don't burst my bubble). We each seem to "miss" each other often, and I am reminded of this post about an adoptee's feelings of being trans-familied. I am frustrated with our disconnect, and I imagine Tessa is, too.
When we got home, Tessa said, "Mom, I'm a new person!" I'm not sure if she meant the new hairstyle, the baptism-by-sprinkler, or what. But for days afterward, the fight in her was gone. The next morning, Tessa wanted to wear the purple boots to kindergarten. I said, "Those shoes are not appropriate for school. You do what you think will get you the consequences you want." I expected her to wear them to school, which would mean I'd have to throw them away as the logical consequence (items that cause disharmony go away).
But Tessa came to breakfast, smiling and cheerful, wearing her sneakers. I was so impressed with her out-of-character response that I brought the boots when I picked her up from school, so she could wear them to the dentist (not as inappropriate there).
After her time with Crystal, it's as if Tessa had been to the well. I realize that our temperaments don't always align--I'm orderly and analytical. My daughter is mercurial and playful--traits she shares with her birthmom. Maybe spending time with Crystal is, for Tessa, like sinking into a comfortable chair.
Should I feel hurt or threatened by Crystal's effect on Tessa? Here's why I'm not:
I don't know how to fix a tooth, but I can take Tessa to Dr. Jill. I don't like to play house for hours at a time, but I can invite Tessa's friends for a visit. I can't teach Tessa gymnastics, but she can take lessons from Miss Amber. And I can't fill a certain emotional need that Tessa has, but I can take her to the well.
.
In response to my triangle tangle, I'm getting a lot of empathy, for which I'm grateful, but not a lot of concrete advice. I believe this is because Open Adoption is still largely uncharted territory. And Crystal and I are like Lewis and Clark.
One person asked me privately if such a situation gives credence to Closed Adoption advocates. Or to anyone who judges one's parenting decisions from he sidelines. She says:
People have their own agendas, and validation of their beliefs may be one of them. (Especially if my practices differ from theirs.) And my children's behavior may be one of the indicators used in vindicating a cherished doctrine.
At first I thought she was talking about people who say "Told you it was a mistake to have Crystal in your lives," (which no one has said). But she continues thoughtfully with:
So I wondered if something similar may turn the heat up a little higher on you when these questions begin. And maybe cause you to read more into it than Tessa may have meant; maybe in this case it really WAS about the purse and keys. Maybe it's about wanting to feel grown-up.
Me, have my own agenda and need validation?! Oh, that damn ego again. No matter what happens, there I am having to deal with me.
So maybe, as my friend says, Tessa really just wants to carry my purse and keys and phone (don't suggest giving her old ones -- we've tried that and they must not be "me" enough for her because she still comes after my real ones.)
Maybe lipstick is just lipstick. Reframe the tangle as a parenting issue, not an adoption issue.
OR:
Maybe this is a problem with Open Adoption (not that I would throw out the proverbial baby with the bathwater). Tessa has enough information on how her life would otherwise have been to build an idyllic picture in her head about it. She can see the grass on the other side of the fence, but it will never be her yard. Yet her older bio-brother gets to play there all the time.
I am still wondering about a day at Crystal's or even a sleepover. Would either help to resolve the issue for Tessa, or would it exacerbate it? Would it help her to see that the grass isn't greener? Or just intensify a longing for that yard?
Someday I will know these answers...I'm thinking in about 16 years. For now I just try to lead with my heart and be aware of my ego's motives.
The other night our family went out to eat with a good friend, her 10 year old son, and her new boyfriend (who she was very excited for us to meet).
As always, being together was full of laughs and fun. The boyfriend, a charming, attentive and down-to-earth guy, passed muster.
After dinner, Tessa asked to speak with my friend and me privately. We three went outside the restaurant.
"So," she said, "what I want to tell you both is that it's time for you to switch."
My friend and I looked at each other, knowing what is coming and trying to figure out how to handle it.
"Mom," Tessa said, "It's YOUR turn to be my birthmom, and Crystal, I want to come live with you for awhile."
You've figured out that my friend, Crystal, is also Tessa's firstmom.
"Well, honey," Crystal said, "it doesn't work that way. I already gave birth to you and no one else can ever do that again. You're too big!" We all giggled, a bit uncomfortably.
"But I want to live with you, just for awhile," claimed Tessa, ever the persistent one.
"Why? How do you think life with me would be?" asked Crystal.
"We could play. I could have your purse and your keys and your cell phone and your lip gloss. All day!"
(See, I learned after the first time my keys got lost and I found my cell phone perched precariously over the toilet NOT to allow my children to play with these things. Tessa has always had a HUGE affinity for these accouterments of adulthood. Other people indulge her, but not me.)
"Oh, Tessa. It's not like that at my house," responded Crystal. "I work much of the time, and when I'm home, Tyler and I do a lot of chores."
Before long, Tessa brought Tyler out of the restaurant and into the conversation (I told you she's a pitbull), and he vouched for the fact that there's not a lot of play time in Crystal's household.
Tessa hung on to Crystal's keys, purse and cell phone for the rest of the evening. While out of Tessa's earshot, Crystal offered to have Tessa over for a day just to see what a "typical" day in her house is like. I can see this scenario going so many different ways.
Part of me (a big part) wishes this were just about the purse, etc. But I know it's really a deeper processing. Both Crystal and I have done our grieving and healing from the losses we endured. Now it's Tessa's turn. How do we help?
Any comments or suggestions from people not emotionally invested? I really welcome them.
A couple of weeks ago, I heard those words all adoptive parents dread.
With the kids in the backseat, I dropped off a bag of stuff at Goodwill. Among the things we gave away were some beloved purple sandals of Tessa's, who left them on the stairs when asked to clean up (we practice Love & Logic).
Tessa began to have a fit when she saw the shoes transition out of her life. Can I just say here that Tessa is the Drama Queen of Fits? Reed, always her loyal Knight, joined in with the wailing:
"You're a mean mom! We wish that our birfmoms and birfdads were our real parents!"
With Rob out of town and my temper rising to match the 100 degree day, I fortunately had the presence of mind to say, "We'll talk about this in a little bit."
Later, I gently asked Reed if he wondered what it would be like to live with his birfparents. He said no. I told him that I would probably wonder, and that it's OK to wonder.
That was the end. For now.
But not forever. I'm gonna need some more tools in my tool kit.
So I posted the situation on a couple of adoption bulletin boards. Here are some comments with great insight and strategies (screen names follow):
1. "They ARE your real parents, just like we are." Then have a conversation about the word real. (pnmomma)
2. "Tessa, your first mom, loves you very much and every good mom is supposed to teach you to be responsible, and I am sure that she would teach you this same lesson. Maybe you could call her and ask if she thinks it's OK to leave your sandals out and not take care of them." (Jensboys).
3. I always respond with a lick of the finger and an imaginary mark in the air and announce a point for myself for being one step closer to a perfect parent because all good parents are mean at some point. (Tudu)
4. Perhaps my favorite: "Well then you are in luck, they TOO are your real parents.. and the shoes are still gone. Maybe you should put them in your REAL closet next time." (CLB)
5. This blow-up is actually a good sign. If your kid feels safe enough to lash out, it means they are comfortably attached to you. Kids will find your hot buttons and push them. That's what they do. Think of them as small, very expensive personal therapists. You learn a lot about yourself in the process of raising them. (MomOf2)
I did cry myself to sleep that night, as Spyderkl thought she would.
Any other insights, suggestions, comments? C'mon, lurkers! I see you there on my SiteMeter.
