still adjusting

•October 30, 2013 • 7 Comments

Two energetic, almost pixie-like women in their mid-50s sit beside Z at the table, playing and occasionally giggling while encouraging Z to eat her largely untouched lunch. It’s a welcome change from the coaxing that’s usually my job. Trying to make food fun. Ensuring that she gets enough calories, enough protein and iron. Hoping to fill her little belly so she’ll keep gaining weight, so she’ll sleep well. So we’ll all sleep. Trying not to make it feel like work for everyone. This is my job, 3-5 times a day. Always, really.

Today, however, we’re gathered in a small office to talk about Z’s progress over the past few months, since she began receiving services to address delays due to her prematurity. Our caseworker convened Z’s incredible team of talented and dedicated therapists to discuss Z’s diagnoses and how she’s been responding to various forms of therapy.

When Z turned 18 months old (adjusted age) and was not yet walking steadily or talking much, I knew it was time for an evaluation. Yet I was shocked by the cost of HMO co-pays and uncovered services, even for evaluation and testing. Most therapy would not even be covered unless attributable to medical rather than developmental concerns. So our outrageously expensive out-of-pocket health plan would not cover the recommended services (speech, occupational, physical and feeding therapies).

Z is now two years old and her original due date just passed, so we no longer “adjust” for age. By any measure, she is still small and behind, yet catching up. While Z’s cognitive ability and comprehension are outstanding, there is still great frustration when she is misunderstood. Her ability to communicate has vastly improved, yet many words still come out in a jumble in her mouth. Though she can now run and even climb, her core strength is still developing. She faces sensory and motor planning issues that render unfamiliar situations challenging, to say the least. Feeding has been a challenge since day one, though she is eating more and more. Sometimes. Everything just involves a bit more effort.

A friend referred us to a regional center, through which we were eligible — based on the extent of Z’s delays — for services through the federally-funded Early Start program. Thankfully, these services are at NO cost to us. For about the past five months, Z has had three appointments a week, including an hour each of speech and occupational therapy, where I’m also offered tools and tips to help her. Z attends a small play group in a preschool setting for an hour with the most amazing special-ed teacher (for 35 years), wonderful aides, and other kids with similar delays and more severe conditions. The kid to teacher ratio is often 1:3, plus parental involvement. There they encourage kids to communicate and socialize, exercise fine and gross motor skills, and enjoy music and snack time. Plus she sees a physical therapist monthly to check strength and progress.

Z has an unbelievable team of women working with her. Seriously, to work with pre-verbal babies and toddlers with limited language skills and achieve the progress they do, well they are just phenomenally skilled. They incorporate play to engage her. They help set expectations and boundaries. They help Z find her words and navigate through instability and uncertainty. These wonderful women are some of the only other adults to which Z has truly bonded. In effect, they are laying a foundation to help Z to achieve independence in the world.

Z is eligible for services through this program until age three. After that services may be offered through the state Department of Education, yet the school district is unlikely to approve more than limited speech therapy after age three except for kids with greatest need. At age 2.5 (next spring), Z’s team will begin to determine whether she should be eligible for services through the school district after age 3, and if so prepare an IESP (individual educational service plan) to guide the provision of services until no longer needed.

Are you still reading this? I know. It’s not really what I expected either. I figured she’d just catch up in her own time, that she was just shy, slow to warm, a picky eater, a mama’s girl. But it’s far more than that.

It’s amazing how much you can learn in a few months, how quickly we can become advocates when we’re mere students ourselves.

In truth, I am beyond grateful for these services. At the same time, this schedule complicates important things such as child care, preschool, work and travel. The therapies should better prepare her for a school setting when she’s ready to transition, or when I return to work more than a few hours a month. But the truth is, I can’t even consider taking on more work right now. I need to be the one to hear the therapist reports at each hour’s end. I need to participate to learn the tools and tips to aid Z’s development. I want to share her little victories. For better or worse, the services will end. So this is not forever. For now we’re lucky to have the benefit of early intervention to give Z the tools she’ll need to adapt. Everything else is temporary.

Already her progress gives us hope. Yet the road ahead is still long.

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•August 29, 2013 • Enter your password to view comments.

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breakdown, breakthrough ~ part two

•July 22, 2013 • 11 Comments

For part one (breakdown), read this. This is a long one.

By the time we reach the car, I’m still wondering how to handle this. What caused this outburst? What’s going on in our daughter’s little head and heart? What, if any, are the consequences? How can we avoid this again?

But she’s got a swim lesson in 20 minutes and I have to decide whether she can still go. I don’t want to risk her getting hurt at the pool. Yet take her home and she might just explode in fury or collapse in sorrow. A moment ago she was out of her mind. Now she’s asking about swimming.

I take a deep breath before opening the car door. Once more I explain that such behavior is unacceptable. I ask why she’s acting this way. I don’t know, she says. I don’t know why either, but we need to figure it out together.

By this point I’m on the verge of tears myself. The intensity of the outburst mixed with her rage and my exhaustion leave me unsettled. I make her look me in the eyes as I tell our daughter there is nothing she could do or say that would make me stop loving her. Ever. But you can not act this way, I tell her. We don’t use our words or hands to hurt people. We need to be safe with our bodies and with others. You know this.

She seems surprised to see a hint of tears in my eyes, and I tell her yes, that’s right, you hurt me and it’s not okay. Why were you doing those things, I ask again. I don’t know, she says. And I believe her.

Once more, gently. What are you upset about, honey? Did something happen at school? Is something bothering you? Is something making you sad? Do you feel angry? Are you frustrated about something? Can you tell me, baby? Mama’s here to help you find your words. Leaving plenty of space for her to begin to talk, I tell her again how much I love her, how much we love her. I tell her that talking can help make us feel better.

Jaye, are you sad about something? Are you angry?

I don’t know, she says. Maybe

It’s OK to be sad, I tell her. It’s OK to be angry. It’s not OK to hurt people because you feel that way. We need to think about how you feel and talk about why. Mama and Dada are here to help, honey. We’re here to help figure things out. We love you and nothing you can do or say will make us stop loving you. We need to talk about why you’re acting this way though. You can’t do this, sweetie. Mama loves you so much, but you just can’t do this.

Why were you trying to hurt Mama? Again, I ask if something is making her sad or angry. I think so, she says. What do you think it is? I don’t know, she says. Is that why you were doing those things, because you feel angry or confused about something? Sometimes, she says, my brain tells me to do things, “bad” things. Deep inside I begin to worry. What kind of things? Why do you think your brain is telling you to do them? I don’t know, she says through tiny tears.

I really don’t want to pressure her. She’s still distraught, though calmer now. Still, I can’t let her go swimming until I know she will listen and be safe. She tells me she will, but I don’t know that yet.

I buckle the carseat, hug her tightly and tell our daughter she is not a bad person, that we love her even when she does things we don’t like. I tell her we’re here to help her become the amazing awesome person she is. I tell her again that it’s OK to feel sad or angry, that she might feel better if she can talk about it. Mama and Dada may not have all the answers, I tell her, but we will always listen and try to help. We will always love you no matter what.

Then she tells me how a boy at school upset her and that’s why she is sad. But I know that’s not it. What else then?

Her rage was directed at me, which tells me something. If she was upset about something concerning her baby sister, her target would have likely been different. She has acted out that way before, like many siblings. This is not merely some form of rivalry, not this time.

I think I need to back off a bit. So I get in the car and begin driving slowly. It’s about an 8 minute ride from preschool to the pool, with our house on the way. She thinks we’re going home and she’s upset. She tells me she’ll listen to her swim instructor, that she just didn’t want to listen to Mama. I explain that’s not how it works.

As we’re driving, our daughter tells me what I assume she thinks I want to hear. She says she was upset all day because she missed me, but that when I came to pick her up she didn’t want to go, so she felt confused. Intuitively I know this is not the case. Her teacher said she was fine all day. Until I got there. Yet there is something in her words. She says she was missing something.

Part of me thinks I need to pursue this, yet maybe I should let it go and not push, not this time. I wonder if I should just say that Mama and Dada will figure out some appropriate consequences for her behavior. But it doesn’t feel right. What are the consequences for such an emotional outburst? No, she needs help sorting through her emotions. Clearly she needs a way to process (and release) her feelings. She needs to know that we can work through whatever it is, that we’re here to support her.

I’m trying to be a good parent here, yet I’m perplexed. I want her to feel love, yet I know she needs firm boundaries. While I don’t intend to engage in a battle of wills with a 4yo, she will push. She will test me. I am safe. Still, while I know not to take it personally, I am devastated. A bit of my heart broke with her hurtful words, and when I saw that look of rage in her eyes. Yet I know it is she who must be hurting to act this way. This was not just a freakout over preschool pickup.

In my mind I start to go there. Is she really old enough to begin processing what it means to be an adopted child? I believe our daughter is now beginning to feel what that means for her. She’s just four years old. Four seems about the age when questions begin, though more comprehensive understanding of her adoption is unlikely for a few years. Yet here in this car, I feel my child’s heart is aching. She can’t articulate why she’s sad or angry, but she is. I don’t want to presume or put words in her mouth — or ideas in her head — yet I want to help her connect with her feelings, whatever they are. By naming her emotions she may begin to feel some control over them. I don’t really want to lead down this road just yet, but if she’s already there I want her to know she is not alone. So I need to go there. My baby is hurting and while I may not be able to fix it, I need to be there, even if it means being her target, her trigger. I need to help her find ways to deal with some overwhelming and likely confusing thoughts and emotions.

She says she is missing something. She says she feels sad and angry. She doesn’t know or can’t say why. You said you missed Mama today, honey. Do you miss Dada when you’re at school too? Yes, she says. Do you miss other people we don’t see so often, like (naming her two closest grandmothers)? Yes, she says, I do. And other people too, she says (naming her closest cousins who she longs for when they’re apart, a new friend she wants to play with, and more members of her birth family). And Kaye, I ask? Yes, she says, Kaye too. Now I’m watching in the rear view mirror as she’s nodding, like she’s relieved to have said it, or at least that’s how it feels to me. Oh sweet girl, of course you do. I miss her too. We all love Kaye so much and we miss her when we don’t get to see her so often, I explain. Kaye is a very special part of our family. It’s OK to miss her, I tell her. It’s OK to love her so much, like Mama and Dada do. All the while, she nods through soft tears.

My heart is breaking for her, with her. Yet I’m so grateful for what feels like a significant breakthrough.

When we park in front of the pool, I look to the rear view mirror and into her eyes and tell our daughter how many people here on earth love her so, and how we’re all here to help her grow into the amazing girl she is inside. I tell her once again how we all became family the day she was born, joined together by so much love. I tell her that even though Kaye isn’t with us every day, she is still such an important part of our family. I’m your mama, sweet girl, and Kaye is your birth mama and we both love you so very much. We all love you so much. Too much to count.

I think she hears me. I think she’s listening.

I know this is just the beginning, but for the moment, she seems content.

Can I have my swim lesson now, Mama? Yes, honey, yes. Let’s go.

breakdown, breakthrough ~ part one

•July 18, 2013 • 19 Comments

Life as a mama with two young ones has not been easy these days. It would take more time than I now have to explain, but let’s just say my hands are quite full and most days end with me sinking into an immovable heap on the sofa.

Our big girl turned four and is truly a marvel to behold. Every day I am awed by her uniquely creative and wily imagination. She builds complex structures and makes elaborate art projects (she can create just about anything with paper, scissors, tape and ribbon). Her memory is especially remarkable (she can remember details from before she was even two). And oh, the questions. It’s wonderful, really, her innate curiosity. We read books and tell stories and she learns new things every day. Yet she craves more and has an uncanny ability to figure things out. Her logic and analytical skills are developing right before us. She is unbelievably amazing, our big girl.

Sometimes I forget that she’s only four. Her language is so developed and she is so articulate that sometimes we have to remind ourselves that she’s still a preschooler. Like most kids her age, she gets frustrated and overcome by emotion, and sometimes can’t find her words. She still has tantrums. Epic fucking tantrums.

While we were preparing to build our family through adoption, I was cautioned by several people (including a family psychologist and other parents) not to attribute every troubling behavior to our child’s adoption. I took this advice to heart as it made good sense. Sometimes a toddler is just being a toddler. Most teenagers pass through a phase when they don’t like their parents (to put it mildly) or want to run away. So as we’ve struggled to deal with a tough phase of troubling behaviors that include the most challenging parenting moments I’ve experienced to date, I didn’t want to make any unwarranted assumptions.

Often there are clear triggers for the types of behavior I’m talking about. Hungry or tired children, for example, are more prone to tantrums. You can see it coming, sometimes. But that doesn’t make it any easier if you can’t avert the situation. If such behaviors persist by the time a kid gets to school, the child may be diagnosed with some behavioral disorder. Yet I’d go crazy if I thought about how this may unfold over the years. This could just be a phase. And I can only deal with the here and now.

Usually our daughter knows her actions will have consequences. She doesn’t like it, but we hope this helps her learn about responsibility. Love and logic. We try to empower her to make choices and be accountable for them. But in these moments, in the midst of an epic tantrum, there is no logic. The best approach seems to be ignore the behavior, if she’s safe and not posing danger. Ignore, and don’t engage.

This time it’s preschool pickup. She sees me coming but isn’t ready to leave. She’s outside playing and upset as it’s time to go. But that’s not it. She looks sort of angry — furrowed brow, pursed lips — and she starts acting out. It begins with leading two friends in a round of pick-your-teeth-with-wood-chips, and leads to drinking dirty water after looking right at me. Then she howls when I take it away. As the screaming begins, her friends gather around. She is out of control now and saying hurtful things. I calmly yet firmly tell her to stop and b r e a t h e, say it’s time to go, we’re not doing this now, we’re leaving. I begin the countdown, which usually is surprisingly effective. 5-4-3… She approaches me and — using her force, and wow is she strong — she hits my leg then tries to push me away. She screams at me to go. She is about to spit. Her eyes are faraway.

It’s hardly the embarrassment that bothers me, though I am mortified. This violent outburst is deeply troubling. While not the first, it does seem to be the first time that I am the trigger. I am the target of her rage. And that look in her eyes — it’s a look I never thought I’d see until she was at least a ‘tween.

I take a deep breath myself. I know I need to remain calm. I know she needs both love and boundaries. I know she will test me, challenging me to both continue to love her and keep her safe. But right now? Right now I too want to cry and scream and ask for help. But right now it’s just me, just the two of us, and we need to find our way through this. Here and now.

Does she know why she feels this way? Did I sense sorrow too, or just anger? Can she identify the source of her rage? She’s just four years old. She’s not yet equipped with the tools a bigger kid (hopefully) learns to deal with overwhelming emotions. She’s not likely capable of processing and articulating all she’s feeling. While I can’t presume to know what that is, I do believe she needs help grappling with some complex emotions that appear to be simmering at the surface, some gentle guidance and support as she begins to explore what she’s feeling. If I can help her articulate why she’s acting out, maybe she’ll begin to feel some control over her emotions and actions. Maybe.

Is she just upset about leaving her friends, as she has been before? Is she mad at me for pulling her away? Or is it something far deeper? Is she feeling some sort of profound sadness or confusion about herself or how she came to be in our family? (At one point she said I was making her sad but she didn’t know why.) Has she simply eaten too much sugar (which absolutely affects her behavior in this way)? I wonder if and how we might get to the root of the problem. We may never know, or we may need help. I’m grasping here, a mama desperate to help her flailing, hurting child. I’m trying to hold it together for both of us. I’m really hoping I don’t screw this up.

She is still wildly out of control, and I need to do something. She’s not listening. She’s not being safe with her body or with others. She’s being mean and hurtful. She’s trying to hit me again.

Clearly she’s hurting inside.

Holding her baby sister, I take my big girl’s hands off me and tell her once more that we’re leaving, and I begin to walk away. She follows now but is still fighting. As we walk, I tell her that her behavior is unacceptable. She starts talking about something else, then I refuse to engage until we’re outside, alone. We make our way to the car, yet I know she’s only coming so willingly because swim lessons are next. She really wants to go and I’ve already said I don’t think she’ll be going. There’s no way I can let her go if she’s not being safe, not listening, not talking.

I take another deep breath — letting go of my own issues and insecurities. (How the hell do you parent through these episodes? what are appropriate consequences for a raging aching heart?) As I exhale, I make room for peace and calm. I create space for whatever will come next, and I open the car door.

This is hard.

Continued in part two…

four

•May 30, 2013 • 14 Comments

Minutes before the day is new … midnight ~

Four years since the day she was born just after dawn ~ not yet ours though our hearts burst with love for this unbelievably magnificent child, and the amazing young woman who brought her into the world.

Four years ago we welcomed our daughter as a universe of love surrounded her. We were forming a new family ~ a beautiful one that defied and yet would be inextricably linked by blood, one that was chosen.

Four years ago I became a mama when this precious child was entrusted to our care ~ and every day since I have felt such enormously humbling gratitude.

From brand newborn to adorable baby and curious toddler, now in preschool and next year Kindergarten, our sweet girl is growing into such a marvelous little person ~ smart, clever, funny, creative, kind, sweet and strong. It will always be my privilege to share this life with her, to help guide her to become the person she is.

IMG_4627Anyone who remembers Jaye’s birth story may remember a labyrinth or two. Here’s Jaye at the middle of her own.

Happy 4th birthday, sweet Jaye ~ you make the world a brighter and more lovely place. We love you forever and ever and always!

open hearted open adoption: book tour

•May 9, 2013 • 11 Comments

Welcome to my stop on the book tour for our own Lori Holden’s book, The Open-Hearted Way to Open Adoption.

I sang the book’s praise when it first arrived in the mail last month, with a certain thrill and sort of fear at seeing my words in black and white, on paper, when I flipped the book open to chapter one. By chance I landed on a page containing an excerpt from I post I had written over four years ago, just before our daughter was born, before she was “ours.” It was about letting go of fear and insecurity and embracing possibility and vulnerability. Ultimately that post was about opening one’s heart.

I wish I could explore all of the questions proposed by participants on this book tour. Though I planned to answer more, I only had time for two since my answers are long! Click through to see what others are saying about Lori’s book.

Holden encourages adopted parents to embrace an and/both mindset instead of either/or thinking, through a careful process of fostering connections of an adopted child to both first parents and adopted parents. Why do you think this approach helps a child “grow up whole?”

Excellent question. While I’d love to speak with authority on this one, our child is not even four years old and is only now beginning to ask questions about her story. But this approach just makes sense. Lori repeats in the book her fundamental premise: that adopted children grow up with a split between their biology and biography, and that openness can help heal that split. Openness in spirit — i.e., talking about adoption, celebrating the child’s origins, embracing their first families, acknowledging loss, etc. — can help a child integrate these two inherently different aspects of themselves.

A child is born into one family, then raised by another. The child remains part of both families. Yet there’s a disconnect. The child’s first/birth family is still very much a part of the child. And the child is still part of that family, even though s/he’s not there. At the same time, the child is embraced into his/her new family and loved and cherished. Yet all the love in the world can’t make up for what the child has lost — i.e., the opportunity to grow up in his/her family of origin. It’s the one thing I can’t give our daughter, that experience. As full as her life may be, something is inherently missing. But I can help facilitate a connection to that sense of herself. When I embrace our daughter’s first family into my heart, I’m loving a part of her. When we embrace them into our lives, they become our family too.

My daughter didn’t choose to be adopted. The rest of us made that choice for her. She shouldn’t have to choose between her two families, where to place her love or loyalty. She shouldn’t be forced to feel a split in her identity, divided. She is not either part of their family or part of ours. She is both. Always both.

Of course I’m her Mama. And I can’t say it won’t hurt when she tells me I’m not her “real” Mama. But she has another Mama, too. That bond never ends, the love never stops. No one wins if we force her to choose, to pretend she exists in just one family. Most of all, she loses an important part of herself. She is both the result of her nature and nurture. We can help integrate these two vital parts of her identity. Openness takes away nothing from me, once I acknowledge there are certain things I simply cannot provide. Yet it could mean everything to our daughter, in that her first/birth family is a fundamental part of who she is. By embracing her birth family as extended family, our daughter shouldn’t ever have to choose between us. She may feel loss, but she should never feel split. Her love should not be divided but rather multiplied. Love is not finite or limited. There is enough to go around. She has a right to feel and express it all, and it’s our job as her parents to provide those opportunities.

As Lori wisely says in a recent post, shifting to a “both/and” paradigm properly puts the child first. “We encourage them to claim all pieces of themselves, those from biology and those from biography. We enable our children to be claimed by both of their clans.” An adult adoptee friend puts it more simply: “Not half and half…both things. The two parts are not mutually exclusive nor inclusive. Not 1+1=0…but rather 1+1=1.” She further illustrates the point with this example: a mother with two children is not half a mom to each, but a full mom to both; similarly, adoptees exist in both families at once.

Adoption was once associated with secrecy and shame. Like a dark secret hidden from view, negative emotions can fester beneath the surface which can cause problems later. As Lori writes, openness can help shine a light on that darkness, calling it out, validating those feelings and naming them. Trust and open communication about adoption can help a child approach his/her parents to discuss tough issues in a safe and supported setting, rather than feeling stifled. While we can’t take away or “fix” our children’s negative feelings, we can hold them close and affirm them and help them release those feelings so they don’t insidiously gain power and influence over their hearts and minds.

To me, that’s how openness helps heal. It broadens our definition of family. It places the child first, always, even (especially?) when it pushes us beyond our comfort zone. It supports our children as they work through what it means to be adopted. It helps them claim their full identity, as part of both families. And it means they never have to choose.

Lori talks about her journey as an adoptive mom from initially feeling threatened at the prospect of openness to embracing it as a way to help her children be whole. How important do you think her experience during adoption school (when she was ‘the baby’) was to her process?

The short answer: a little empathy can go a long way.

I can’t speak to Lori’s process, but I can imagine that in those moments — where she imagined what it was like to have been “the baby” separated from the only mother she ever knew — engendered great empathy. Lori’s heart was open enough to get outside her own skin and limited experience, to ponder the heart and needs of the baby. And that’s how we put children in adoption first. We focus on their needs, from before they are born and throughout life. [EDITED to add: Of course all parents ideally do this, adoptive or not. Yet parents through adoption have an unique set of complex issues and relationships to navigate in parenting, which warrant special attention and care.]

I know during our process, my heart opened to embrace openness farther and faster than I could have imagined before. Yet there is a difference between approaching openness objectively — i.e., envisioning it in theory — and subjectively — i.e., living it daily. I can be logical and analyze why openness would be beneficial, but nothing could really prepare me for those intimate moments, sitting with my daughter and telling her how she came to be ours. That’s not to say I shouldn’t have prepared for those moments — because I did, I practiced and started telling her story long before she could ever understand, for instance. Yet in those moments, looking into her bright eyes and feeling the weight of her body against mine as she seeks little bits of information, only that which she is ready to hear and saving the rest for another time, in those moments I want to hold her tight and wipe away the hurt, even the hurt she might not yet feel because the magnitude of her story has not yet been processed. But I know I can’t.

Instead, my job is to hold that space for her to feel and process whatever emotions arise. It’s acknowledging that the day I gained a daughter, she lost a mother. Even as her birth mama remains an integral part of her life, our daughter lost the chance to grow up in the same home. Loss is loss. Acknowledging this validates her experience.

In those moments, I am so grateful for the relationships we have with our daughter’s first family, and I hope and wish and pray they remain strong for her sake. I wonder how accessible her birth mama will be as our little girl grows up and her questions (and understanding) grow more complex. I think about her biological father’s side of the family, and I wonder whether there will ever be more, and quite honestly, I worry about it either way. I think about how one day, she will explore such profound questions and deep issues so core to her very identity. I try to imagine her head and heart trying to grasp the reality of having been adopted, of being adopted. And all I can do in those moments is remember to breathe, open my heart a little more, and let it grow to make room for all of it.

Empathy above all is a quest for understanding. While I can never truly understand what it means to be an adopted child, I can seek understanding by opening my heart to our daughter as she discovers and experiences what it means for her. When I focus on her, everything becomes more clear. This is true now, just as it was before she was born. When I could set aside my longing to become a mama and focus instead on the well-being of the child yet-to-be-born, her interests and needs came first and it became clear what I needed to do. I can only hope the same internal compass will guide me as she grows, along with her understanding of her own story.

18 months, adjusted

•April 17, 2013 • 8 Comments

I suppose it’s no surprise that I’ve found it so difficult to write about my girls here. What once began as a blog about infertility and loss sort of shifted to adoption, parenting and openness, then morphed into unexpected high-risk pregnancy and life with a preemie and now as an older mama of two amazing children with their own individual stories, which I try not to share here.

Like our girls, I suppose this blog has its own unique story, too.

It’s not that I don’t want to write about my kids, really. While I know that some passing through on their journey might find it difficult to read about parenting — I know I did, at times — I’ve always known that I needed this space to process my thoughts and experiences, and I’ve tried to be sensitive. It’s partly that I’ve tried to respect my family’s privacy by not sharing too much, especially the parts that are not mine alone. Plus I have a far too neglected family blog at which I can share stories and photos for loved ones, though I haven’t updated it in ages (because I’m a bad blogger). And let’s face it, I’m pretty exhausted from caring for a high-needs infant and very energetic preschooler at age 43 (almost 44!), while trying to make room for a few hours of work when I can get it.

Sometimes though, it’s because I can’t find the words. Or I’m not ready to utter them. Or I haven’t yet processed the thoughts to articulate the words and commit them to writing.

Today Baby Z is 18 months old, according to her adjusted age; she is actually closer to 20 months, given her birth date. I still balk when someone asks how old she is, not knowing whether to explain the fact of her size or abilities for her age. Sometimes when I share her actual age I add “she’s small” or  “she was early” and sometimes I don’t. Eventually I won’t feel the need to.

Like her big sister, Baby Z is an amazing light force in our family. Her eyes smile when she’s happy, her laughter is infectious, she is affectionate and adored by all who meet her. I can’t even explain how this experience has affected me — i.e., this privilege of having a second child after giving up all hope of a sibling for Jaye, and a chance to do it again. It is beyond measure, how blessed I feel to have this baby in our lives.

Yet she is also what we’d call a “high-needs” baby. She has never been a good sleeper, though thankfully she wakes less often now than before. While she is now on the charts for size, she has never been a great eater, to the point where she begs for snacks after meals, refuses to eat foods that touch each other, and wakes hungry in the middle of the night. Her cries are more like urgent demands and can be tough to soothe. If her routine is upset, so is she. She is super sensitive to different touches and textures (see also picky eater). And oh, is she stubborn. Not that we expected anything different, under the circumstances. This last trait she shares with big sister too.

As can be expected with a preemie, she has experienced some developmental delays. While we’ve been extremely fortunate that she hasn’t had major issues with lungs or eyes or other conditions common to prematurity, some delays have posed certain challenges. She was slow to roll and sit and didn’t crawl until nearly a year. Her crawl is really more of a “scoot” and has been for about 8 months. So while her muscle tone seems OK, her core is underdeveloped which impacts her ability to stand or walk for any length of time. Only now at nearly 20 months has she really started trying to walk, and she’d rather scoot as she can move quickly that way. And while I do love holding this baby — and I do love how long she’s been a “baby” — it really is time for her to start getting around on her own better. Her lack of mobility has fostered a strong dependence.

Her speech too has been delayed. Unlike big sister who had a substantial vocabulary and was forming sentences by this age — not that comparison is valid, given that each child is different and they don’t even share genetics — little sister barely has a handful of words and she doesn’t really use them. She mainly communicates using a few signs, by pointing and vocalizing, and by crying and screaming. Her reception and comprehension are just fine. She understands a lot. But her expressive abilities are limited which causes frustration for everyone.

While I’d been worried about the lack of progress, I told myself there would be no real cause for concern until she turned 18 months. Some doctors said she should be caught up by one year, others said two. So I went with 18 months, a milestone age for walking and talking. And yes, I know some kids don’t talk until age two, but given her history I was concerned and early intervention is best. So, 18 months. But which 18 months? Actual or adjusted?

Our girls have twin cousins who were born just days before Z. Our niece also had a high-risk pregnancy and we texted and chatted during our bedrest. We each delivered by c-section just three days apart. Her twin girls, born at nearly 37 weeks gestation, were bigger than Baby Z at birth (who was born at 33w3d). These girls have been walking since 9-10 months, which is literally half of their short lives. I know that’s early, but still. We had the pleasure of spending the girls’ 18 month birthdays together, the first time all four girls met in person. We had a blast, yet it was interesting to note the stark differences in the babies. When we came home I was resolved to get Z the support she needed and after her 18 month check-up I made some calls. The result: four appointments in a one-month period including three evaluations (speech, PT and neurological) and an assessment by a wonderful local agency that would provide services at no cost if she qualifies based on the extent of her delays.

Already I’m relieved that she has made so much progress walking since that first phone call and evaluation. She seems stronger every day and better able to take those first confident steps. The physical therapist gave us some tips to strengthen her weaker side, as well. We haven’t had as much progress on the language front, however. On one hand she seems sort of stalled in her ability to sign and speak and I was concerned about regression. Yet she continues to learn new words every day and her comprehension is remarkable. And we’re getting good tips from the therapists, even though we’re only in the evaluation stage.

I would like to believe that Baby Z is merely experiencing a normal delay, that she will get support and catch up and eventually be just fine. Yet I know there is a possibility for some long-term effects or some more insidious problem. Either way, she is an incredibly resilient child, not surprisingly. And I suppose we’ve grown pretty strong too.

So there it is. I imagine we’ll know more soon. Time will tell.

 
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