In many ways I can relate to the thoughts and emotions that Amy recounts.  While it is true that the realities of Down syndrome and adoption/foster care do not equate per se, I am convinced that adoptive and foster parents can relate to and learn a lot from what Amy shares about her expectations, her hopes and dreams and ultimately her view of God in the midst of brokenness.

There is much I could say here, but I would only be getting in the way.  Amy has said it far better than I … so I hope that you will take a few minutes to read her article and then reflect.  Allow her perspective to challenge you, and also encourage you. 

Many adoptive and foster parents are all too painfully aware that our children are not “perfect.”  And I am no less painfully aware that I am not “perfect” either.  But in the midst of all this imperfection, hope and healing can be found as we live and love the way our perfect God intends.

Take this morning for example. Mornings before school can be dicey in general, but for the most part we have our routine down and we’ve learned – parents and kids alike – how to make things run smoothly. Every once in a while, however, someone decides to mix things up. Maybe it’s because the kids went to bed late or one of them isn’t feeling well. Or maybe it’s for no reason at all, as was the case today. Whatever the reason, my kids need a father that can handle whatever they throw his way. I want to be that kind of father. Not some of the time; all of the time. But today I wasn’t. Today, I was the problem.

It started simply enough – Amy asked Grant (our 9 year old) to take his medicine. It happens every morning. It’s no big deal. But today he didn’t want to – and he made that clear. That happens. I know it shouldn’t, but it does. So I heard what was going on and decided to get involved to “help out.” But somewhere along the way I lost my focus…and then my perspective…and then my way.

In my response I wounded my son’s spirit and damaged our connection. In my attempt to stop disrespect, I was disrespectful. In my attempt to respond to a fear-driven response, I responded in a way that brought about more fear. In my attempt to thwart my son’s bid for control, I was controlling. In my attempt to stop the yelling, I raised my voice. Who am I kidding – I yelled. In my attempt to keep things moving forward, I caused us all (as the other kids watched on) to take a huge step backward.

There is no doubt my son was wrong, but that’s really not the point at all. My litany of wrongs didn’t make his wrong right. Instead, my behavior made everything worse. I was the problem today – and if I am honest, this wasn’t the first time and, sadly, it won’t be the last.

And I know I’m not alone. None other than the Apostle Paul had this very same problem – no, not as a parent, but my real issue is not limited merely to being a sorry father. My issue is that I am imperfect, woefully so at times, and I live in a world that is imperfect and made up other imperfect people. It is the age old problem of sin and the brokenness that sin has created.

Paul talked about this very plainly in his letter to the church in Rome: “I’m full of myself—after all, I’ve spent a long time in sin’s prison. What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So if I can’t be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it, it becomes obvious that God’s command is necessary. But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can’t keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don’t have what it takes. I can will it, but I can’t do it. I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time. It happens so regularly that it’s predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up. I truly delight in God’s commands, but it’s pretty obvious that not all of me joins in that delight. Parts of me covertly rebel, and just when I least expect it, they take charge. I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn’t that the real question?” (Romans 7:14-25, The Message).

But Paul was not without hope – and neither am I. He continues, “The answer, thank God, is that Jesus Christ can and does. He acted to set things right in this life of contradictions where I want to serve God with all my heart and mind, but am pulled by the influence of sin to do something totally different. With the arrival of Jesus, the Messiah, that fateful dilemma is resolved. Those who enter into Christ’s being-here-for-us no longer have to live under a continuous, low-lying black cloud. A new power is in operation. The Spirit of life in Christ, like a strong wind, has magnificently cleared the air, freeing you from a fated lifetime of brutal tyranny at the hands of sin and death.” (Romans 8:1-2, The Message).

The hope of this truth is that by God’s Spirit I can be empowered to become the kind of father that I long to be…the kind of father my kids need me to be. Because of what Christ has done and is doing, I have access to the source of strength and power that can equip and enable me to handle this and every situation in a way that shows love, builds connection and leads my children in the way of the Master. So this is the hope that I find comfort in today, even as I wrestle with the guilt and shame that rolls over me like waves.

Once we both calmed down, Grant and I were able to begin to repair our connection before he left for school. And frankly, I cannot wait to get home today to continue that healing process. I think maybe we will take a walk after baseball practice and I will explain to him (again) that I love him deeply, even though I make mistakes and don’t always show it like I should. I think I will ask him again to forgive me for each offense – my anger, my yelling, my frustration and disrespect – and ask him if we can start over. And I know what he’ll say. After all, we have lots of experience with second chances and trying again in our family.

Grateful to Share My Mother’s Day

Tears flowed down my face today as I sat in church listening to our pastor read the most sincere and sensitive prayer I’ve ever heard offered on Mother’s Day. He started his prayer with thanksgiving to God for welcoming us into His family through adoption by the miracle of grace. He then continued by praying  for all mothers, specifically mentioning adoptive moms, those whose heart longs to become a mother but are experiencing infertility and those who don’t know their biological mothers. 

As I sat between my two oldest sons, each holding my hands, I couldn’t help but think about the mothers who gave them life and changed ours forever. These women, whom we hardly know, have never been more real and more close to my heart than they were today as I thought about their love, courage and selflessness. I wondered if they were thinking of their boys today. I wondered if their tears flowed and if their hearts ached. And I wondered if I might ever be able to fully express the depth of my love and gratitude for them, at least this side of heaven.

As the pastor prayed and as we continued to worship, I spent a few moments lifting each of them up in prayer. I prayed that our God of all comfort would continue to heal their hearts and give them a peace that assured them their children are deeply loved, and so are they.

For some adoptive moms it isn’t easy “sharing” Mother’s Day with our children’s birthmothers. But far from taking away from my role as my children’s mother, including their birthmothers in my thoughts and prayers on this special day somehow makes it and me more complete. I am my children’s mother and I forever will be. But as I was reminded recently by my six-year-old daughter, I am not the only mother they have, and if they have room in their hearts for more than one mother then so must I.  

I may not be my children’s only mother but I am the only one they can hug, give a homemade card to and say “I love you” to on this special day. So I will choose on this day (and in the days that follow) to pray and even let me heart ache a little for their other mothers. I am grateful for the gift I have been given — the privilege of loving and caring for the children God has blessed me with. My gain could not exist but for the loss that is always a part of adoption. So while this special day is about me, it is not “all” about me. I share it with a grateful heart with the women who allowed me to celebrate this special day with the children that we love.

Amy Monroe and her husband Michael serve on Tapestry’s Leadership Team. Amy contributes to the Tapestry Blog regularly in her column, A Mother’s Heart.

For example:

“I want my hair long like Mommy’s!”

Awww, how cute. But it doesn’t stop there.

“He has a big tummy!”

That one is a little awkward, but we can laugh it off. And then there’s this one:

“She has a big bottom like Shrek!”

Oh dear.

Clearly, physical appearance is becoming part of my daughter’s world. She’s discovering all kinds of things — marveling at my arm hair and lingering in front of reflective surfaces to study her facial expressions. Soon, she’ll discover race and ethnicity, and then it’ll be on.

Of course, we’ve already been talking to her about being born in Vietnam through books and songs and casual conversation. But even though she can repeat the phrase “born in Vietnam,” we know it doesn’t mean anything to her just yet. And at two and a half, it just can’t mean anything to her yet.

In the meantime, it’s undeniable that she has started down the road of discovery, and it feels like we’re doing what we can to provide her with a bunch of puzzle pieces — pictures, books, and vocabulary. When she starts to put those pieces together, things could get interesting.

Honestly, thinking about it makes me anxious. I start thinking, “What if she feels angry? What if she feels alienated? What if she acts out or tries to bite me?” I’m the kind of guy who likes things to be serene and non-confrontational, so I don’t love the idea of some potentially difficult conversations on the horizon. But there’s no denying that our family has started that journey. I guess we’ll just have to work through it as a family.

And if we ever need to ease the tension, maybe we could giggle at people with large ogre bottoms.

As an adoptive dad I’ve come to the place that I can readily acknowledge that all of my kids are little different in some way or another. Different than what, you ask? I’m not entirely sure, but I know that they are different.

Most of the time I don’t really think about my kids being different. It’s just who they are, and a part of who we are. And as I listen to dads who don’t share the adoption or foster experience, I realize how normal being an adoptive dad is. I can relate to almost everything they talk about because I’ve experienced it myself. But I know that there are things about my experience as an adoptive dad that these other dads can’t relate to. I am generally ok with that, but every once in a while I notice it, and it can leave me feeling a bit misunderstood— even isolated (except among other adoptive dads). 

“Typical” seems to have replaced the word “normal” in the world of adoption and foster care. This is probably for good reason. Children that have backgrounds involving trauma, abuse, abandonment and institutionalization aren’t abnormal, but they often don’t develop in the same way and at the same pace as a “typically developing” child. And as many adoptive and foster parents have discovered, they generally don’t respond to the “typical” parenting strategies either.  But that’s an entirely different conversation.

In many ways my son Carter is a typical six year old boy. He loves to play sports, ride his scooter, fight with his brother, bother his sister, act silly, give a good hug and eat as much candy as he can. But in other ways he is anything but typical, at least if your reference point is other “typical” kids, whoever they are. Because of his history, Carter faces many challenges that most typical kids don’t. Many of those challenges he has already overcome. Others he and we are still working on. But I can tell you that this atypical little boy has already learned a lot of valuable life lessons. He’s taught me a few as well.

Carter is not typical for other reasons too. It’s all too easy to look at him and some of his lingering challenges as a glass that is half empty. But on those days when I slow down enough to take a step back and look at the entirety of the picture that is my son, I realize that his life is already, at the young age of six, a glass that is full and overflowing.

Typical kids don’t experience the series of hurdles that life’s circumstances have thrown his way. Most typical kids wouldn’t survive his start in life. Typical kids don’t endure the years of illnesses and surgeries and bounce back in record time, every time. Typical kids don’t go to countless therapies, refrain from eating most of the foods that kids love, take all kinds of medications and supplements, and on most days without so much as even a whimper. Many typical kids don’t have the same spunk and love for life.

Don’t get me wrong. I know that some children face far greater and graver challenges than my son, and I hope it doesn’t come across as bragging when I say that he is one amazing and resilient kid. I just know this kind of proud dad talk doesn’t seem to fit when I’m at the water cooler talking with dads who have typical kids. Their kids are soccer stars or geniuses, or so they are convinced. Imagine if I chimed in “Oh yeh? Well Carter scored a goal in his soccer game and his therapists say he is rock star at speech AND occupational therapy.” See what I mean? I suspect I would be left standing there with my coffee as everyone suddenly looks at their blackberries, realizing they’re all late for a meeting.

Loving this atypical son of mine can be very challenging and extremely humbling. More often than not, however, it reveals far more about my shortcomings and flaws than it does about his. For me to love him well I must learn to be anything but typical myself. No, I don’t need to be some sort of super-dad or become a child rearing expert.  But neither can I put things into default mode or on cruise control. I need to constantly meet him where he is, even as he takes two steps forward on some days and one step back on others. I need to remember and celebrate how far he has come. I must always be willing to kindly and firmly take him by the hand and walk with him side-by-side in the direction we need to go.

I am realizing that I cannot have Carter and have a “typical” son. Far from being any sort of sacrifice, this reality is a blessing from God, for which I am forever thankful. As this atypical son of mine continues making me, day-by-day, into a rather atypical father, I am learning how much I still have to learn. And yet, I clearly see all that he has already taught me.

So maybe next time I hear dads start to brag about their kids I should weigh in about my atypical son.  Or maybe not. I’m not sure they will understand why a six-year-old boy from Guatemala is, in many ways, a hero to me. After all, heroes are supposed to be strong and courageous; they are supposed to inspire you and be larger than life. My point exactly.

The kids were home for Christmas break and one son in particular was being more than a handful.  This was very uncharacteristic for him.  The first day we thought it was simply childhood Christmas excitement.  By the second day, we were beginning to lose our patience.  By the time I arrived home this day she was almost at her wits’ end.  Nagging, whining, crying, bugging siblings, arguing, you name it.  But why?  Didn’t he know Christmas was almost here?  Had he forgotten that Santa was “making his list and checking it twice?”  Wasn’t he aware of how much mom and dad had to do in order to get ready for Christmas?  For so many reasons, now was not the time for him to be acting this way.

It instantly occurred to me that somehow I managed to have the only elementary school-aged child in all of America who actually hates Christmas.  But I quickly asked the obvious question, “Why?”

What I did next doesn’t come naturally to me.  Try as I might to ‘practice what I preach,’ I admit that my default reaction to situations like this is to ‘lay down the law.’  But something told me that there was much, much more going on than simply bad behavior.  Call it what you will, I like to think of it as my God-given “adoptive dad instinct.” So I said to my son, “Let’s go for a walk.”  And after a little cajoling, he agreed and so off we went.

We walked for a while engaged in nothing but small talk.  Eventually I changed the subject.  “So what’s going on?” I asked. 

“Nothing,” he answered. 

“Of course,” I thought sarcastically to myself.  But I persisted.

“Mom says you’ve really been acting up the last few days,” I continued.  He nodded in agreement.  “That’s not really like you.  Is something wrong?  Are you worried about something?  Maybe upset about something?”

This time he shrugged his shoulders and just kinda hung his head and shook it side to side, ever so slightly.  I’d seen that look before.  It told me I was on the right track.  And then he gave it away. 

“Do I have to tell you?” he asked.  This is the tell-tale question he always asks when he has something he really needs to talk about, but is a little afraid to bring it up.  More often than not the subject is adoption-related.  So I gave him the response I always give when he asks me this question.  “Of course you don’t have to, but you know I always want to hear what you are thinking – no matter what it is.”

And then he practically blurted it out.  “Dad, Christmas just stinks!” he exclaimed.  “I know I am supposed to love it and be having fun, but I just hate it.  I really do.”

It instantly occurred to me that somehow I managed to have the only elementary school-aged child in all of America who actually hates Christmas.  But I quickly asked the obvious question, “Why?”

“Because it makes me really sad,” he said. “It makes me think about my birthmom and my birth family.  I wonder what they are doing.  Do you think they think about me?”

“I bet they do,” I replied.  “No…I am sure they do.  And did you know something else?  You’re not the only kid that thinks Christmas stinks because of that very same reason.”

“I’m not?” he said, finally slowing down to look directly at me. 

I grabbed his hand and we continued.  “No.  You know Ms. Melanie who was adopted when she was a little girl?” I asked. 

“Yeh,” he replied. 

“She’s told me a million times that lots of special occasions, like Christmas, birthdays, even Mothers Day and Fathers Day, are really hard for her.  She even has a special name for those times that make her kinda sad and make her think of her birth parents and her birth family.  She calls them ‘trigger moments.’  This happens a lot for people who were adopted, and not just when they are kids.  She says that even though she is an adult, it still happens for her sometimes,” I explained.

I’ve always heard the expression “the weight of the world being lifted off of your shoulders,” but I don’t think I’d ever literally seen it happen until this moment.  It was though he realized in an instant that everything he had been feeling and thinking was not only “ok,” it was also very real and quite normal.  And the fact that I was understanding, even if it could not fully understand – that was all he seemed to need.

Our walk lasted over an hour as we continued talking about what he had been feeling and processing over the past several days.  We talked about how it was “ok” to feel these things, but it wasn’t “ok” to act the way he had been acting.  Instead, he needed to find a way to talk with mom or me about it.  As important, I assured him we would do a better job of being available for him, especially during times like these.

I can’t honestly say that I truly understand all that he must have been feeling or processing in his little heart and mind.  And frankly, the connection between all of that and his behavior still somewhat alludes me.  But I know that his feelings are very real.  Amidst all of the tinsel and lights, and despite the excitement of being out of school and the anticipation of the gifts and fun of Christmas day, the reality is my kids – not unlike other kids who were adopted – still have profound losses that cannot be erased and must not be ignored.  And sometimes, even against their own wishes, the realities of their past and what they have lost comes crashing in.  Even at happy times like Christmas.

In the face of all this, my job – whether at Christmas, on birthdays, on Fathers Day or whenever – is to always be available for my kids.  To be open and willing to listen and talk, and allow all of who they are to become part of our holidays and special occasions.  As we do this, I realize more and more that rather than taking away from these happy times, embracing them and all of their past allows them to be more fully present – and allows us, as a family, to be more connected as we move forward. 

After learning from my son why Christmas stinks sometimes, I no longer look at Christmas quite the same as I once did.  But of course I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For further reading on this subject (sometimes referred to as “traumaversaries”), read this article –  Traumaversaries: Lessening the Impact of Adopted Children’s Annual Triggers.

Kristin expressed sympathy and Gracie moved on to the next thing, but the image of her palm and of her sad mime tears had burned into my memory. I felt I had utterly failed as an adoptive parent. We’ve talked a lot about color in our home. We’ve read books, talked about color in terms of flavor, and discussed (sometimes at length) what flavors and colors and shades of brown each of is. But this was the first time my adopted daughter expressed sadness because her skin was a different color.

At the young age of three, she’s already processing complex emotions and trying to make sense of the differences she notices between herself, her sisters, and the rest of her family.

At first I was troubled. I felt a bit intimidated by the comment. I wasn’t sure how we should respond. I was also a little hurt. We’ve done a lot of work over the past several months to build a stronger connection with Gracie. I interpreted her comment as a failure on my part and that stung. Honestly, I was kind of scared too. In the two seconds it to to drag her fingers down her cheek, my little girl exposed an ocean of grief and confusion I feel unequipped to help her navigate.

Slowly, my sadness turned to gladness. Hearing my daughter express these feelings is a good thing simply because she’s expressing them. Sometimes I forget that. At the young age of three, she’s already processing complex emotions and trying to make sense of the differences she notices between herself, her sisters, and the rest of her family. If her mom and I are too timid, hurt, or scared to listen and dialog, it’s then that we fail her.

I feel sad when my daughter says she feels different from her family. I’m sad that she longs for a fuller sense of belonging. But I’m really glad she feels like she can tell me about it. I want for her to always always always tell me about it.

We talk about adoption in our family quite a lot.  Not in the “let’s sit down and have an important talk” kind of way.  It’s simply a part of who we are as a family – our past, our present and our future.  So naturally the topic comes up not infrequently, and when it does we talk about it.

As a result, I like to think that there aren’t many adoption questions or topics that surprise me any more.  So imagine my shock the other day when my six year old daughter, Kate, asked me out of the blue, “Daddy, how much did I cost?”  Wow!  I wasn’t expecting that one as I sat minding my business reading a book.

Her question truly caught me off-guard.  I believe my response was along the lines of “Uh, do what?”

“How much did I cost?  You know, how much did you pay to adopt me?” she asked again.  Recognizing that she had caught me without an immediate response, she began to smile and continued playfully, “Did I cost . . . $1,000?”  Oh for the days when $1,000 was truly a LOT of money.

She really did just ask me that, I thought to myself.  Immediately I recalled one of those terrific ‘textbook’ answers.  You know, the answers to adoption questions that are virtually certain to be so profound and multi-faceted that they leave the questioner both perplexed and satisfied, all at the same time.  So I trotted it out like a pro.  “Oh sweetie, you were priceless.  You are worth more than all the money in the world,” I replied.

“What does that mean?” she immediately retorted.

“Uh-oh,” I thought.  So much for that approach.  By this time her eight-year-old brother had joined in on the action and was pressing for an answer to the same question.  As I soon found out, they had been drawing pictures and making some sort of craft and had gotten into a conversation about – you guessed it – how much each of them cost.  Not a typical conversation among most siblings, but a perfectly understandable one between a brother and sister who were both adopted and know enough about adoption to realize that there are many aspects to the adoption process, including the financial cost of it.   And once again I was reminded that being an adoptive parent brings with it all of the “normal” joys and challenges of parenting, as well as some equally joyful and challenging ‘extras.’

“Guys, do you want me to explain why we and other parents have to pay money in order to complete an adoption?” I asked.  They nodded ‘yes.’  So I spent the next five minutes having basically the same discussion that we’ve had with hundreds of other people as we explained the basics about adoption and the financial cost that goes along with it.  I explained that parents do not ‘buy’ children (“that would be illegal and not right”), but rather they pay for services and other costs that are a necessary part of completing an adoption.  I explained that those services and costs include things like a home study (“to make sure that Mommy and Daddy would be good parents”), medical costs, legal costs, travel expenses, agency fees, court fees and on and on. 

Equally important, I went on to explain how adoptive parents sometimes don’t have all of the money that they need for an adoption, so they choose to trust that God will provide it.  This means that some people turn to their church or their friends and family for help, while some have a garage sale and others sell t-shirts.  There are so many different ways that God chooses to provide the resources needed for a family to adopt a child.

“So adopting a child is not like buying a car.  That’s why I can’t answer the question ‘how much did you cost’ because both of you are worth more than all of the money in the whole wide world.  There was a cost for the adoption process that we went through to bring you home – and Mommy and Daddy would do it all again.”

By the end of our short conversation I think they were both fairly satisfied with my answer.  Looking back I can readily understand where their question came from.  This conversation was yet another reminder of how important it is for me to always seek to understand adoption not just from my perspective as an adoptive parent, but also through the eyes of my children.  Viewed in that way, “how much did I cost?” is a perfectly logical question, and one that deserves more than a quick, ‘textbook’ answer.  It is important that my kids understand that no question or subject is out-of-bounds, and that if it is something they wonder about then it is something we will certainly talk about.

I’ve often imagined that one day, when my kids aren’t kids any more, we will sit around and talk openly and honestly about the realities of adoption.  I hope that day comes because I have a lot to learn and no doubt they, being experts on adoption because they have lived it from a perspective I will never be able to fully grasp, can teach me a great deal.  But I hope and pray that I have also taught them something along the way – including the fact that they are truly priceless.

Flemons explains in the article her initial aversion to Band-Aids given the tendency of many kids to over-rely on the simple first aid supply that lacks any real inherent healing characteristics. I can relate. However, as I continue to learn more about the important and complex subject of attachment, I have discovered that Band-Aids are actually a highly relevant tool – literally and metaphorically – for adoptive and foster parents as they seek to help their children heal from the effects of their past.  Writing about the experience with her 10 year old daughter who they adopted less than a year ago from Ethiopia, Flemons noted that she had learned two important things: “Children have pain beyond what we can see, and Band-Aids are not just physical objects.”

In fact, attachment researchers have concluded that the ability for a child to receive (and ultimately to give) nurture is an essential hallmark of healthy and secure attachment. Yet the abuse, neglect and other harms that scar our children’s pasts can impede and even prevent them from being practiced in this skill that is essential for building healthy connections. As Flemons wrote of her daughter, “[her] need for immediate healing has been a satisfying way to begin the slow journey of building attachment . . . The bandage does more than bond child to mother. It is also a way for the mom to apply herself to her child’s wounds, both seen and unseen. With our touch, we heal, protect, and connect.”

This profound insight was still fresh in my mind this past Sunday afternoon.  As I was watching another unforgettable pro football game on TV one of my boys passed by me on the way to bathroom.  Instinctively, I asked him “What’s wrong?”

“I have a cut on my finger.  I need to get a Band-Aid,” he replied.

“Come here, let me see it,” I said. He walked over and showed me what must have been a microscopic paper cut, given that I could not see anything even resembling a cut on his finger. My initial thought was to downplay the need for him to seek care for such a meaningless ‘injury.’  But I was also mindful of the hundreds of little “wounds” to his heart, mind and spirit resulting from his past, many of which are all too easy for me to overlook, dismiss or simply ignore. So in that instant I decided to resist my instinct to dismiss and instead rely on the healing power of a simple Band-Aid applied with love by the hands of a father who is learning what it means to become a Band-Aid Dad.

“Here, let me put that on for you. Should we put a little ointment on, too?” I asked.

“Ok, Dad,” he replied as I applied the first aid. “Thanks. That feels much better,” he said with a smile looking directly into my eyes.

“Glad to hear it.  You remember – any time you need something, whatever it is, you let me know.  That’s what I’m here for.  And one more thing – I love you,” I continued.

I am learning that becoming a Band-Aid Dad is a process. It takes practice and it certainly stretches me at times.  But the more Band-Aids I apply to my kids’ wounds – both seen and unseen – the more I am convinced that Band-Aids lovingly applied really can heal.