Springtime at the Orphanage

Tra la la…”Sweet lovers love the spring…”*

Tra la…

Let’s see…

This time last year, we were in discussions about a possible 504 Plan** for Z. The year before that, we sought attachment-disorder-specific therapy for a situation that was spiraling out of control – and out of the range of bearable.

This spring we are facing a renewed cycle of tantrums and other behaviors, many of which have lain dormant since as long ago as, well, last spring. I’ve had to write Z’s teacher several times explaining that she had not had breakfast due to a meltdown; now I know to pack extra snacks – stuff like that.

While Z sometimes says things she intends to be very hurtful (a wee bit embarrassingly for all, these things often seem funny to adults in the vicinity: “You stupid poopoo mother I will hate you forever and kill you With! This! Doll! And then I will never! Ever! Eat the BAD, DUMB dinner you cook again!”), she more often proceeds directly to the pre-verbal, with growls, shouts, kicks and screams prevailing.  We’ve come to understand that this regressive behavior demonstrates Z’s ongoing need to be nurtured as (if she were still) a baby.

The cycle of the seasons clearly has deep meaning for Z.  The merry infant who smiled back at us from her taken-in-February referral photo had, by the time we arrived in China in July (this was as fast as the process allowed) to bring her home, seen and felt things no child should endure. I cannot say whether Z endured any definite abuse. We were not allowed to enter the orphanage in Fuzhou (Jiangxi province). Certainly there was a significant level of neglect, and, judging by how skinny Z was -- and how voracious – a bona fide shortage of food.

Z’s orphanage experiences are still reverberating in her body and mind in ways unfathomable to those of us who at the very least had adequate food and some constant presence in our infancies.

Sure, we’d all like to have been loved unconditionally and to have known we came first to our parents and maybe some of us didn’t get that and yeah, that sucks. No, it really does. And we - some of us - do have cavernous, terrible, enduring holes inside where that love should have gone. But anyone privileged enough to be reading (or writing) this blog probably had their most basic needs met. Z didn’t. She’s traumatized. It comes out in the spring.

As the years have gone by and we have been able, with the help of our therapist, to identify this pattern, it has helped all of us feel less hopeless. It’s given us some context, rather than leaving us flailing in the dark as our family degenerates, seemingly out of the blue. I can say to Z, “Springtime is sometimes hard for you,” and that might let her know both that she is accepted and that this, too, shall pass.

We are not alone in having a child who hits a rough patch in the spring (or in some other cyclical context). Whether through embodied trauma, allergies, transitions…certain times of the year can trigger strong, often unhealthy behaviors and feelings.

This spring, partially to address these issues and partly because we’ve put our house on the market, we embarked on The Deep Cleaning of the Bedrooms. While each child cleans his or her room weekly, with some help from Mama, this was a whole different endeavor. I swear, between recycling and straight up trash I hauled several hefty bags out of each child’s room.

G’s room was a giant mess, but Z’s room was a project. A certain kind of masterpiece, actually. Millions of tiny twists of paper had been squirreled away in every possible crevice. There were a lot of unfamiliar (to me, anyway) toys, and pieces of candy and candy wrappers and Oreos (Oreos??!) in hidey-holes and in bags within bags (whenever I come across a snazzy second hand purse or am given one, it goes straight to Z). 

Progressing from irritation to wonder, and back and forth again, I stood in awe at the complexity and skill of Z’s hoarding.

When we were done (after many, many sensory breaks for all) and we’d dealt with the garbage and recycled the recycling, Z was as happy as I’ve ever seen her. You could actually see how light she felt, how purged. Without prompting, she expressed her desire to “be really peaceful all the time now!” and to “draw instead of ripping and hiding things!”

Nice ideas. Let’s hope they work, at least a little. Spring cleaning is traditional in many cultures and maybe there is a deeper source to this impulse than just the practical, cleaning-cleaning part.

In any case, I do believe we will aim for a Deep cleaning every Spring from here on in.

I’ve always suspected that when parents try to correct for the wrongs done them by their parents they probably will be causing equal yet opposite forms of wrongs to their own children. Butanyway, I try to work on the heart level too, because my generation is big on endowing our children with unconditional love.

Sometimes we have this exchange, which both children find quite boring:

FSM: “Do you know what is the most important thing on earth to me?”

Children: “We are.” (Ho Hum.)

FSM: “Do I love you completely in every way no matter how you act?”
Children: “Yeeees.” (With ennui.)

FSM: “What do I think you are?”
Children: “Marvels.”

Marvels! The great cellist Pablo Casals said this about children:

Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children.

Pablo Casals (1876 - 1973)***

Springtime at the Orphanage might’ve been terrible, but, here, it’s got marvels too.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

* "It Was a Lover and His Lass"

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

It was a lover and his lass,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

That o’er the green cornfield did pass,

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

Those pretty country folks would lie,

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

How that a life was but a flower

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,

   With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

For love is crownèd with the prime

   In springtime, the only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

** 504 Plans relate to a wide range of “impairments” to learning, the variety of which may or may not fall under “Special Education” criteria. Z’s disruptive classroom behavior -- which stemmed from her attachment disorder -- was impairing her ability to learn as well as disturbing her teacher and fellow students.

Here is a good definition of a 504 Plan from http://specialchildren.about.com/od/504s/f/504faq1.htm :

Question: What Is a 504 Plan?

Answer: The "504" in "504 plan" refers to Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act and the Americans with Disabilities Act, which specifies that no one with a disability can be excluded from participating in federally funded programs or activities, including elementary, secondary or postsecondary schooling. "Disability" in this context refers to a "physical or mental impairment which substantially limits one or more major life activities." This can include physical impairments; illnesses or injuries; communicable diseases; chronic conditions like asthma, allergies and diabetes; and learning problems. A 504 plan spells out the modifications and accommodations that will be needed for these students to have an opportunity perform at the same level as their peers, and might include such things as wheelchair ramps, blood sugar monitoring, an extra set of textbooks, a peanut-free lunch environment, home instruction, or a tape recorder or keyboard for taking notes.

*** http://blog.gaiam.com/quotes/authors/pablo-casals/55416

Tools

…In which I expound, dear readers, upon a small spectrum of handy-to-la famiglia FSM tools that might be useful and/or laughable in your rainbows.

The “My Bad”

We all aspire to the wielding of copious quantities of positive tools like respect, patience, unconditional love and consistency.

My favorite progressive tool, though, is more negative.

My mother’s generation – whether traditional or hippie-mama – often felt pressure to act as if mothering felt happy and easy at all times, as if motherhood was totally fulfilling and came naturally to all mothers. Parents, especially fathers, were deemed omnipotent and all-knowing.

As our culture has become – however incrementally – more open and less sexist, we have gained some additional tools at our disposal. We are now free to admit to each other that parenting is sometimes hard, and often baffling, and that – even as we fiercely, fully love them Every Second -- we sometimes don’t entirely like our kids at a given moment.

It may be even more important that we are able to admit to our children (friends, family, partners…) that we ourselves are human. So, I celebrate the following three phrases:

“I don’t know.”
“I messed up.”
“I ‘m sorry.”

The use of these phrases demonstrates that parents (friends, family, partners…) are fallible human beings who will try to figure stuff out and do better next time. Just like kids can be – if shown the possibility.

The “My Bad” is liberating, but by no means a license to ill. At its best, though, it offers possibilities of redemption, learning, healing.

The “Locked” Door

Among other things, Z’s agenda includes using the stovetop and oven at 2am. Because of this, I have had to confine her to her room until I officially get her up in the morning. This involves keeping a chamber pot in her room and my “locking”[closing] the door every night after I put her to bed. Somewhat paradoxically for Miss Independence – but well within guidelines set by the aforementioned therapist -- this has been a very comforting process for Z herself.

The first (initially) unknown-to-me reader of FSM -- and someone I think of as a real live guardian angel -- has degrees in Education of Young Children, Child Assessment and Development, and Psychiatric Social Work (with specialty in the field of children and families).  She also has decades of experience working with children. She keeps me on track and within the bounds of my knowledge while still tolerating, even celebrating, my flights of fancy. Any errors, of course, are all mine.

She recently asked me,  “How do you as a mother create a safe home for Z while still feeling your home is as you want it to be?” My answer was…I don’t. I used to wear a lot of jewelry, for example, until some of my most precious pieces disappeared. Some did reappear, only in different and unsalvageable forms.  Now my jewelry is so hidden away that just getting to it is way too much trouble for a busy mama.

Some other nighttime concerns, besides stove on-house fire-gas explosion and jewelry-ruined-gone include:

food-hoarded-infestations-grody stuff-smears-rot-botulism

lotions/creams/polishes-ingested-poisoning thereby

pets-tied up-enslaved

Z has her own jewelry and creams and an array of dolls and stuffies, but they are never quite enough. Her night machinations made this very clear. Admittedly, with her high level of competence we might teach her how to use the stove, etc. in the not-so-distant future.  Until then, we say that Z “isn’t ready to get up on her own.” We try to meet her where she is on the developmental spectrum, protecting and nurturing the baby inside, while allowing for her exceptionally high acumen on mental and physical spectra by essentially baby-proofing the house for a really, really advanced baby.

Oppressing Z was a concern, but her “locked” door liberated her from her compulsion to do verboten “projects” in the night and allowed her to sleep soundly, thereby enabling her to not only feel better but to feel better about herself.

Humor

Also from my children’s therapist-angel reader came the suggestion to use humor. She reasoned that with all the progress Z had been making I might begin to use wit in our interactions. Instead of sticking firm and strong to my “put the dish in the sink” order, for instance, I might -- according to therapist-angel -- say, ”Put the dish on the floor.” Essentially, I should continue to contain Z's actions -- but with a light touch.

Yeah, I am not ready for that yet. The therapist Pardner and I go to who specializes in attachment disorders suggested the same thing. He thought, for example, that when Z looks at one of her adoring aunties and haughtily points to her plate to indicate that more food must be provided I should say “Oh…is that a plate?” I told him,  “Please. Just tell me one thing to say for all situations. Funny is too confusing. In those moments I can’t remember more than that.” Someday I do very much want to be funny. For now, I aim for functional.

Ripping Bag

Z likes to rip. She likes to rip Everything. She rips paper into tiny strips, all of a size. She rips clothing -- seam from seam, or expanding upon a pinhole or snag.  She rips horns off beloved childhood unicorns saved especially for my some-day daughter. (I’m not bitter about that one.)

One day, after yet another ripping disastrophe, it occurred to me to fill a bag with stuff that Z not only could but Should rip. It was a great success and has substantially reduced free-form ripping.

Feel free to riff on this: what about a smashing bag? A coloring-on box? A food-hoarding bunker?

One Battle a Day

G has the typical aspergian penchant for obsession. Pokemon has been a focus for almost six years.  In order to make time for other activities and foci, such as eating and sleeping, we have devised a system in which we have one extended, all-out Pokemon battle a day, after which we have some time for discussion. A potential additional benefit to this system is that G begins to get the notion that other people have interests of their own.

When he raises the subject I can say, “Is this Pokemon time? Oh, you want to talk about Gyarados’s hit points? Good. We’ll talk about that during Pokemon time.” Ideally in this context, I don’t squish G’s interests, just corral them.

One battle a day is enough for anybody.

You flick, I tick

From time to time, G begins to develop a tick. The latest has been a sort of flicking of his fingers that seems to happen when he gets excited or anxious. Hoping to help him (and not his neurological hiccups) be the one in charge of his body I started a policy of “you flick, I tick[le].” That is, whenever he starts flicking his fingers, I tickle him. 

It is probably somewhat annoying, although he tolerates me.

“You flick, I tick” is also related to my “you flap, I clap” policy, for when G starts flapping his hands compulsively. These are intended as neither punitive nor judgmental; they should be merely observational. And, as I tell him, hey, if you love to flap, just keep on flapping…and I will keep on clapping. I like to clap -- and I love to tickle.

Tickling seems to be a good tool, also, when either child gets Stuck in a mood or thought process. Of course, this assumes a certain base level of receptivity to being tickled at a given moment.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could tickle ourselves out of being stuck?

 

And, finally…

The “Mombulance” (also available in “Dad” and “Person” models)

“Wheee-oooh, Whee-oooh…” You hear the siren in the distance. It approaches…closer and closer. To your surprise, it pulls up outside of your door! You venture onto your stoop. A hunky paramedic steps out (gender – up to you).

“Ma’am,” s/he orders, “Step away from the residence. Put down the crayon, computer, dishcloth, phone and banana peel.”

Several other paramedics roll a stretcher toward you. As you climb onto it you note that a nanny and several fun, inclusive kids are headed toward your house, loaded with healthy, delicious snacks, games and educational yet entertaining dvds.  You see a special caddy full of trashy magazines affixed to the side of the stretcher. You wave sweetly to your children, who don’t even notice you are leaving. As you are rolled into the ambulance you see that you are surrounded by clean, uncluttered, chic-yet-soothing décor.

Hunky Paramedic hands you a beverage, informs you that en-route massage is available by request, and closes the back doors of the Mombulance.

You are All. Alone. Ahhh.

Ok, I made that one up.

If anyone has suggestions about moderating random sounds that seem to sound good to G Inside his head but sound really bad to those Outside his head and/or on curbing jewelry appropriation and repurposing please to inform.

Love,

Full Spectrum Mama

Control and Therapeutic Parenting

Maybe it was the “vacation” weekend on the Cape when I spent two out of three nights in the car with Z because she refused to stop screaming and was keeping other motel guests awake. And didn’t care. At all. Didn’t care about her crying, sleep-deprived big brother, or even the entreaties of her beloved “Papa” (I believe her exact words were, “Shut up, Papa!” {NOT standard words in our family}).

Or maybe it was when we were in the car and I had a migraine and Z was having a tantrum and I got her attention by explaining very, very quietly, that Mama had a migraine and that “every sound out of her mouth felt like a knife in my brain”…and then she got very, very quiet, took a deep breath, leaned forward and yelled as loud as she could into my ear.

In any case, at a certain point, my partner – who grew up oldest of eight and is, I assure you, unflappable – got the name of a therapist who specializes in children who were adopted and have associated concerns.

In Vermont, heck, in standard liberal parentland everywhere, we like to Respect our children, right? We talk to them about things, reason with them, offer them Choices. In previous generations, this might have been viewed as permissive or, um, irrational, but we are Modern Parents, Enlightened Parents and we know that our children are Human Beings.

I had noticed pretty early on that Z seemed to really like choices. She would think about them and weigh them and often contribute her own additional option. In fact, she liked choices so much that her choosing had become an exhausting element of my life.

For example, if I suggested that Z go upstairs and get ready for bed (pajamas, brush teeth, toilet), she would typically ask, “Can I pee downstairs?” Well, sure…why not? "Can I choose a goodnight book first?" "...OK"

Or if I let her choose toys for the bath, she would choose an entire bathtub full (many of which I had previously told her couldn’t get wet), so we’d have to go through a long negotiation process.

Or –- and this was my stock story whilst commiserating with other mothers of daughters – if I would ask her to put her dishes in the sink, inevitably she would respond, “Can I put them Next To the sink?”

Everything was open to negotiation. Still, this felt progressive to me, especially as compared with other elements of our life together (many of which felt challenging and disconnective). So even though I sometimes wanted to say, “Just do it! Because I said so!” I didn’t.

Meanwhile, Z’s tantrums and certain other habits – hoarding food, stealing, sneaking, lying, general mayhem and human enslavement – continued to escalate. Z seemed profoundly angry and, quite frankly, did not seem to be developing a conscience. I knew that while she might pretend to toe the line when I was in the room, she would do whatever she wanted the instant she was unwatched. I didn’t care so much about most of the basic practical aspects of this, such as spoiled food or ripped clothing (well, the theft and destruction of jewelry was problematic), but I worried about the implications for her later life - and I did worry about safety.

The bottom line was I had NO idea what to do. I had tried all the suggestions of friends and family and none of it had worked. Some of the things she did were developmentally appropriate but many were not. Even the developmentally appropriate things were, when done by Z, on a larger, more Machiavellian scale. The whole Z package was just so over the top: brilliant, adorable, charming…and so, sooo incredibly poorly behaved.

Full Spectrum Mama was accustomed to G, the first child, who lived to do the right thing. G’s very loving, stable start in life, coupled with his innate literalness and natural sweetness, had produced a child who was liable to happily do what was asked of him, so long as he didn’t get distracted en route. Lest you think G is Mr. Perfect Child, I should add that he does indeed get distracted, oh, say half the time – and let’s not get into multi-step instructions.

It seems to me that toward the middle of a Full Spectrum of Doing the Right Thing (according to parents, anyway), children sometimes do what is right and sometimes do not, in either case sometimes because they want to and sometimes because they feel forced. I had one child who was glad to do what FSM asked, basically at all times, because he genuinely believed Mama had her finger on the pulse of cosmic rightness; and one child who didn’t give a rip about right and wrong and only ever did what she was told when directly observed. And often not even then. Her urge to do or get what she wanted felt to her, I suspected, like a matter of survival.

Consequences – another tenet of Modern Parenting – meant NOTHING to her. I would start with the threat of reasonable consequences and sometimes, in the avalanche toward the ridiculous, end up going to extremes. A dispute over whether Z had done something with 2/3 of my $54 jar of Clinique Redness Solution – a huge, wedding-based splurge – resulted in absolutely no admission of guilt from her and my having to enforce no dessert for a month. Because, as you know, Consistency and Follow Through are further tenets of Modern Parenting.

I cajoled. I punished. I warned her. I gave her her own creams. She was invariably back in the medicine cabinet within hours.

Extrapolate from the medicine cabinet to almost every other area of our lives -- I was lost.

During our very first therapy session, the therapist taught me the single most important thing I ever learned as the parent of an attachment-disordered child: [in this context] “therapeutic parenting is control freak parenting.” It turns out that the main thing my daughter needed from me was to help her feel safe. And by what felt to me like honoring her as an individual – giving her choices - I was actually showing her that I didn’t have the answer! Z needed me to tell her what to do. What a revelation!

Have I mentioned I am an extremely controlling person by nature? Knowing this, I have always gone out of my way to Not be a controlling person. It’s not about power for me (as it somewhat is for Z) it’s about my part of the spectrum, self-diagnosed long ago (pre-G!) at being juuust at the tip of the autism range. I am very literal, and there are right and wrong ways to do things. In the abstract, I do know that other people have their own ideas about right and wrong and, in principle, I honor that. But, given half a chance, I could definitely be a total control freak. Drop the constant negotiation and lengthy discussions about every move? “I can do that,” I assured myself.

How could I have known that by allowing my child to make her own choices I was sending her into a tailspin of uncertainty in which she would constantly and anxiously feel the need to exert the control that I was apparently incapable of managing? I began to give her clear direction – and she began to heal.

I explained to G that different children need different rules sometimes, and I think he understands. His particular spot on the spectrum sometimes calls for extraordinary monitoring as well. Figuring out just how to balance control and respect in these relationships is an ongoing project.

In the meantime, as for everybody else, you, too, may put the dish IN the sink, goldang it! Except glasses. Glasses and other breakables Next To the sink, please. And silverware in that cup with the soapy water? Thanks.

Love,
Full Spectrum Mama