Not much to see here. Just another first day of school post. First day of dropping off my oldest babies, one just barely three and one almost three, at the door and, deep breath, driving away. First day of leaving them anywhere with anyone ever except for safe in our home with our trusted and adored sitter.
One day a week. Three short hours. Barely enough time to have coffee with a friend, grab some groceries, hit the post office and give the baby a snack, my accomplishments yesterday morning. One day a week when someone else will discipline, praise, regulate, watch. Does that specific fact, that another will parent my children for a short time, make other mom's hearts jump like it does mine, I wonder, or is my fixation on it a result of my attachment fears, my deep insecurities about the bond linking my daughter and I.
I've read quite a few touching first day posts. A part of me longed for the same kind of story to recount. A brave adventurer with little cracks in her armor. A sweet love story, with mom the worse for the experience. The bittersweet dichotomy between letting them fly, all we are really here to teach them after all, and keeping them close, to snuggle and protect and baby for as long as we can. That part of parenting, that sweet baby dependency, is fulfilling in such an all consuming way that it's a rending shock to let it go and let them go.
Those aren't my stories though. Those aren't my sweet kids, caught between baby and child. My big girl and big boy heard the words 'school' and 'by yourself' a few weeks ago and they talked of nothing else.
Momma will leave? That's right, Ess, but I'll be back to get you for lunch. Uh, huh, you're going to leave, and we'll stay at school. That's right. Biting my lip, to hide my chagrin at her unadulterated joy. We'll go to school all by ourselves. That's right, Gee. There's lots of toys and other kids. It will be fun and then I'll pick you up and we'll have lunch. Yeah, and we'll go all by ourselves. Sigh. That's right.
And I'll be, not quite all by myself, but for three short hours I can pretend I'm that mom again. The one that I was for one short year. The one that can handle any errand, one amiable baby in tow, the one who can get in and out of the car in one minute, instead of ten. The one who can drop by a friends house with Starbucks for both of us and have a delightful conversation. (An actual honest-to-goodness conversation, the joy.) Having Cue only was practically all by myself, considering my usual state.
All of us. All by ourselves. I might feel like a better mom if I could tell you that they cried or showed fear or hesitation even. The only jitters were mine.
We entered the quiet, lovely basement room of the small in-home preschool and they made little new-toys-that-aren't-our-same-boring-ones squawks of joy and flew, flew, from my side. I stood there blinking, catching my breath, alone. I quietly watched Senora Barnes deal lovingly with the little boy sobbing in the fetal position on the floor, his security blanket clutched in his white fist. My eyes wondered to the wide-eyed little girl in the corner, crouched as far as she could get from the teacher and my sensory-overloaded little ravagers.
"Ess, Gee," I said softly, "I'm leaving. I'll be back for you after school and we'll have lunch." Ess yelled "bye mommy" without pausing in her exploration. Gee gave me a brief wave, possibly of farewell, but it looked more like dismissal. They didn't look up again, so I quietly exited.
In the van outside, the sun warm on my face, the baby sleeping in his car seat, I breathed deeply, and let my fears and the trying first year with our adopted children seep through me. Those sneaking demons of toddler adoption flooded me. Is she attached to me? To our family? Does she know that mother is different from teacher is different from friend is different from orphanage nanny? Does she? Does she understand that I am forever? We are all forever. Can she, given what we all went through. Because, it wasn't forever for her older brother, despite all of our well-intentioned promises.
My small daughter learned in the first months of her life what most children are eight or nine before they first grasp. Adults can be wrong. They are not infallible. Parents can disappoint. No one is perfect. We have worked so hard together to forge different patterns in her still developing brain. Patterns that recognize warmth and security and love instead of just instinct and survival and fear. We have rocked and hugged and held and cuddled and talked. We have done all we can, I know that, but moments like this, I travel back and I am afraid. Does her confidence mean that she knows that she will never again be dropped off at a building with other children and left forever, or does it mean she doesn't care?
My mind traveled back to rough times a year ago. Times when she would refuse my comfort and deliberately look for another woman to hold her. Any woman. Times when I lost tentative friendships because I insisted, gently, but constantly, that no one pick her up but me despite her begging and screaming. Times when she would threw massive tantrums when I wouldn't let her make pretty eyes and play coquette to anyone anywhere with food.
When will these doubts ever just be buried, lie down and die already? Will I ever enjoy a milestone like this without these thoughts sniping at my heels? I want to savor it. Live it without the fear. I don't want all of their firsts marred and overlooked by my adoptive mom's issues and fears.
They were joyous at pickup. They flew to me, babbling their happy, baby chatter. A dog, a duck, snack, the potty, they got stickers, they got smarties, Madison cried, they were good, they sat at circle time. They couldn't tell me fast enough. We all hugged and kissed. Ess planted a hard smack on my lips, like she always gives me.
"Ouch, momma, not like that," she scolded.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"You hurt my nose."
"Don't kiss like that, momma," Gee joined the reprimand.
"I didn't mean to. Try again." Another smack, without the nose bump this time.
"That's right momma. That's how you do it, " I was gravely informed.
And they were off, my bossy, independent twins.
I stood in the sun for one more moment, watching them. For today, I thought, I'm going to banish these demon maybes for all the other possible maybes. Maybe it's genetic, not all children are shy or have separation anxiety, some are outgoing and bold. My attached, biological son is outgoing and bold. Maybe it has nothing to do with adoption or attachment or negative brain feedback loops (sigh, too many books, too many therapists). Maybe it's because they have each other. A secure, familiar anchor when in doubt.
Or maybe, just maybe, I've raised secure, confident, outgoing, adventurous toddlers. Children who don't think to question whether mom is coming back. They just know. Children who are so firmly attached and grounded in their family that they handle new situations with ease. Maybe, (is it so hard to believe?), I've taught them not to fear, but instead to experience with joy. Maybe just for today, the gap between the mother I long to be and the mother I am isn't quite so wide. It just may be. I'm going to choose to believe it, for today, anyway.
One day a week. Three short hours. Barely enough time to have coffee with a friend, grab some groceries, hit the post office and give the baby a snack, my accomplishments yesterday morning. One day a week when someone else will discipline, praise, regulate, watch. Does that specific fact, that another will parent my children for a short time, make other mom's hearts jump like it does mine, I wonder, or is my fixation on it a result of my attachment fears, my deep insecurities about the bond linking my daughter and I.
I've read quite a few touching first day posts. A part of me longed for the same kind of story to recount. A brave adventurer with little cracks in her armor. A sweet love story, with mom the worse for the experience. The bittersweet dichotomy between letting them fly, all we are really here to teach them after all, and keeping them close, to snuggle and protect and baby for as long as we can. That part of parenting, that sweet baby dependency, is fulfilling in such an all consuming way that it's a rending shock to let it go and let them go.
Those aren't my stories though. Those aren't my sweet kids, caught between baby and child. My big girl and big boy heard the words 'school' and 'by yourself' a few weeks ago and they talked of nothing else.
Momma will leave? That's right, Ess, but I'll be back to get you for lunch. Uh, huh, you're going to leave, and we'll stay at school. That's right. Biting my lip, to hide my chagrin at her unadulterated joy. We'll go to school all by ourselves. That's right, Gee. There's lots of toys and other kids. It will be fun and then I'll pick you up and we'll have lunch. Yeah, and we'll go all by ourselves. Sigh. That's right.
And I'll be, not quite all by myself, but for three short hours I can pretend I'm that mom again. The one that I was for one short year. The one that can handle any errand, one amiable baby in tow, the one who can get in and out of the car in one minute, instead of ten. The one who can drop by a friends house with Starbucks for both of us and have a delightful conversation. (An actual honest-to-goodness conversation, the joy.) Having Cue only was practically all by myself, considering my usual state.
All of us. All by ourselves. I might feel like a better mom if I could tell you that they cried or showed fear or hesitation even. The only jitters were mine.
We entered the quiet, lovely basement room of the small in-home preschool and they made little new-toys-that-aren't-our-same-boring-ones squawks of joy and flew, flew, from my side. I stood there blinking, catching my breath, alone. I quietly watched Senora Barnes deal lovingly with the little boy sobbing in the fetal position on the floor, his security blanket clutched in his white fist. My eyes wondered to the wide-eyed little girl in the corner, crouched as far as she could get from the teacher and my sensory-overloaded little ravagers.
"Ess, Gee," I said softly, "I'm leaving. I'll be back for you after school and we'll have lunch." Ess yelled "bye mommy" without pausing in her exploration. Gee gave me a brief wave, possibly of farewell, but it looked more like dismissal. They didn't look up again, so I quietly exited.
In the van outside, the sun warm on my face, the baby sleeping in his car seat, I breathed deeply, and let my fears and the trying first year with our adopted children seep through me. Those sneaking demons of toddler adoption flooded me. Is she attached to me? To our family? Does she know that mother is different from teacher is different from friend is different from orphanage nanny? Does she? Does she understand that I am forever? We are all forever. Can she, given what we all went through. Because, it wasn't forever for her older brother, despite all of our well-intentioned promises.
My small daughter learned in the first months of her life what most children are eight or nine before they first grasp. Adults can be wrong. They are not infallible. Parents can disappoint. No one is perfect. We have worked so hard together to forge different patterns in her still developing brain. Patterns that recognize warmth and security and love instead of just instinct and survival and fear. We have rocked and hugged and held and cuddled and talked. We have done all we can, I know that, but moments like this, I travel back and I am afraid. Does her confidence mean that she knows that she will never again be dropped off at a building with other children and left forever, or does it mean she doesn't care?
My mind traveled back to rough times a year ago. Times when she would refuse my comfort and deliberately look for another woman to hold her. Any woman. Times when I lost tentative friendships because I insisted, gently, but constantly, that no one pick her up but me despite her begging and screaming. Times when she would threw massive tantrums when I wouldn't let her make pretty eyes and play coquette to anyone anywhere with food.
When will these doubts ever just be buried, lie down and die already? Will I ever enjoy a milestone like this without these thoughts sniping at my heels? I want to savor it. Live it without the fear. I don't want all of their firsts marred and overlooked by my adoptive mom's issues and fears.
They were joyous at pickup. They flew to me, babbling their happy, baby chatter. A dog, a duck, snack, the potty, they got stickers, they got smarties, Madison cried, they were good, they sat at circle time. They couldn't tell me fast enough. We all hugged and kissed. Ess planted a hard smack on my lips, like she always gives me.
"Ouch, momma, not like that," she scolded.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"You hurt my nose."
"Don't kiss like that, momma," Gee joined the reprimand.
"I didn't mean to. Try again." Another smack, without the nose bump this time.
"That's right momma. That's how you do it, " I was gravely informed.
And they were off, my bossy, independent twins.
I stood in the sun for one more moment, watching them. For today, I thought, I'm going to banish these demon maybes for all the other possible maybes. Maybe it's genetic, not all children are shy or have separation anxiety, some are outgoing and bold. My attached, biological son is outgoing and bold. Maybe it has nothing to do with adoption or attachment or negative brain feedback loops (sigh, too many books, too many therapists). Maybe it's because they have each other. A secure, familiar anchor when in doubt.
Or maybe, just maybe, I've raised secure, confident, outgoing, adventurous toddlers. Children who don't think to question whether mom is coming back. They just know. Children who are so firmly attached and grounded in their family that they handle new situations with ease. Maybe, (is it so hard to believe?), I've taught them not to fear, but instead to experience with joy. Maybe just for today, the gap between the mother I long to be and the mother I am isn't quite so wide. It just may be. I'm going to choose to believe it, for today, anyway.
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