Kangees are trouble makers. They need to be scolded frequently. There are two kangees, a boy and a girl. They push C over. They do everything he is not supposed to do. Their form is evolving–sometimes they are little kids, sometimes they are monsters. Their name is still called frequently when C is upset or frustrated, but they also are becoming more of a regular imaginary friend.
adoption
Creating security
We’ve been trying many things to improve bedtime around here. It’s going better. That’s all I will say because I fear jinxing things. I did want to share our latest addition to the bedroom, an attempt to create a better feeling of security for C now that he’s out of the crib.
John and I worked to build these bed tents for the kids this weekend. I had to talk C out of solid black fabric at the fabric store. Ha! It seemed 1) hot, 2) depressing to look at, 3) dark. I’m glad he chose this happy golden yellow in the end (though he claimed later that he had really wanted the purple).
Tonight is the first bedtime C will have his tent. He lost the privilege yesterday, so we’ll see how this goes. So far he loves it! Let’s hope the fun of it doesn’t sabotage him. The goal is security…with a little fun too.
Sweet moments before bed
Even though bedtime is often stressful, we still get, sometimes, very sweet moments of time together during our bedtime routine. Tonight we had a late evening because of swimming and then needing to pick up a car at the shop. We got home late, dinner was late, everyone was hungry and tired. I thought for sure we were heading for a meltdown.
But, no. The bedtime transition went well, with a few of the usual shenanigans but nothing epic. C was being very cute while I helped him with his teeth and whatnot. When I went to put his nighttime diaper on, we realized we were out of diapers, and he had a long discussion with himself and with me about wearing underpants for bedtime.
Then we got upstairs and he told me he wanted to sing “the Isaac, Isaac song” while he put on his pajamas. I said okay, and he proceeded to sing a somewhat tuneless, but not unpleasant, song involving much repetition of “morning, in the morning.” He sang it a few more times, once at the top of the stairs, sung down to Daddy and E below. Another time he sang it to all of us while we lay in the big bed together and he added, “Ahhhhh-mennnnnn,” at the end.
E asked if she could sing a song too, and of course we agreed. Her song was quiet, about birds and how much she loves them. C then asked to sing another song, which was more rollicking, and was about birds going chirp chirp. I said, “Wow! That was really energetic.” He said, in a no-nonsense way, “It was faster.” Man, he was killing me tonight.
Finally, we were able to read books together, and though it was hard for him to restrain from singing more “Isaac, Isaac,” he did manage to make it through both his book and E’s (which is rare these days). Then we all offered a bedtime prayer. The words the kids spoke were perfect capstones to a nice family moment, so I’ll share all of our prayers here, as best I can remember them.
The whole day was not a happy, joyful, perfect day. We had our moments. And C is still working on falling asleep, 1.5 hours after climbing into bed. But still, we are thankful. I’m finding these summer days particularly challenging. We’re busier than I expected. C’s behavior is difficult and often unpredictable. E is moody. I’m tried and grumpy. The kids bicker and I grow grumpier. But in the midst of the hard moments are sweet, sometimes joyful and sometimes tender, bits of life that feel so precious I want to remember them forever. I try to hold on to the feelings while we experience them, but so often the float away quickly and are erased by another round of fighting from the kids, or hours of bedtime nonsense, or yet another appointment across town that makes us pile in the hot car. I guess that’s just how summer is. That’s just how life is.
E: Dear god, thank you for this food [the kids always start this way…groomed on mealtime prayers, I guess!] and for Lisa and Marky [two people C usually says thank you for in his prayer]. And thank you for silly words and silly noises. Amen.
Mama: Thank you for the time we had together today on this beautiful day. Thank you for the breeze in the trees and the lovely smell of E’s dinner cooking, and the smile on C’s face while he swam today. Amen.
C: Dear god, thank you for this food and thank you for E cooking dinner and for me trying my food. And I was nice. And I didn’t throw. And I love to snuggle. I’m going to snuggle mama. Amen.
Daddy: Thank you for our family and that we can share nice moments together. Amen.
And amen.
Intake
John and I are meeting with a possible counselor match for C tomorrow! It feels miraculous. She takes both of C’s insurance types. She does play therapy. She has availability (but also seems busy, which seems like a good sign). The only drawback is that she is located in a town about 45 minutes away from us. But at this point I am willing to make the trek because I am just so happy to have found someone.
Tomorrow’s meeting will be an intake appointment to find out if she is a good match for our family. I’m hopeful!
I’m able to take a few minutes to write this post (on my phone…grrrr…) because C is actually napping. For a while bedtime sleep was elusive but he was napping reasonably well. Lately things have devolved into no naps and hours of bedtime nonsense. The last two days he’s taken only 10 minutes or so to fall asleep at nap, so I get about 30 glorious minutes between him falling asleep (we sit by his bed at nap and bedtime) and when E’s rest time is over. Another miracle.
What’s a Kangee?
When C gets upset or is tired, he often starts speaking in nonsense. He does this to be silly too, but we’ve noticed a definite pattern with stress resulting in silly talk. The word he says most often is “kangees.” I’m not sure how to spell it, obviously!
The other day after breakfast we were all still sitting around the table and C started talking about kangees. I asked him, “What do kangees look like?” He didn’t answer at first, but once I offered a few ideas for descriptors of a kangee he answered, “It’s slimy.” The full description I got was that kangees are slimy, slippery, and purple. I drew a little unhappy slug and said, “Does this look like a kangee?” That was rejected and he told me it looks like a snowman–a slimy, slippery, purple snowman, I guess. So, I redrew it and C was more pleased with the result.
I wonder if the kangees will always keep the same form?
Endless referrals
I have a list of at least 10 people I have been referred to in order to find mental health care for C. Every person I call says they can’t help and refers me to someone else. The list grows and grows. So does my frustration.
I am starting to feel hopeless about all of this. My thought today was that by the time I find someone who does work with preschoolers, C will be old enough to not need a preschool-specific clinician.
Meanwhile, the bedtime antics grow worse every night. Tonight John is sitting in our guest bedroom with C in the pack and play. I can hear him screaming and am trying not to panic about all of it. I feel like I have no answer to this problem. And no one else does either. Is it just going to get worse each night forever and ever until we end up just driving around in circles to make C fall asleep like he’s an infant?
I feel like a broken record here, which is why I haven’t been writing much lately. Also, I broke our recently purchased computer by spilling water on it in the midst of bedtime bullshit. The hard drive instantly corroded, apparently, and even the specialty data retrieval place couldn’t help. I had to redo a bunch of my schoolwork and we lost three months of pictures. A three months that happened to include C’s adoption, baptism, and fourth birthday. I will get some replacement photos from family, but there are videos and other shots I know are gone forever. It hurts my heart. And it means I have to type my complaining posts on my phone or iPad, which is annoying too.
The feelings wall
E came up with this idea on her own. She said, “I’m making a feelings wall. Whenever you feel a feeling, you put a sticker there!” I love this idea. She made this during a rather emotional day, so I thought it was telling that the majority of her feelings were negative ones. I had to ask her to add “happy” or “content” so I could mark my emotion after she was done. We’ve since added more stickers. C has put a few on “sick,” though he isn’t sick that I can tell. He chooses that one when he’s upset. Actually, so far, I believe he’s only chosen negative emotions–“mad,” “frustrated,” or “sick.”
Of course, as E was hanging her paper on the wall C insisted on making his own version.
I love my sweet, sensitive girl. It’s no wonder guidance time was often her favorite class of the day at school this year. I hope she continues to feel free to share her emotions with us, and that we can be just as clever as she is in coming up with ways to help both kids identify what it is they’re feeling from day to day.
Added to the list of things that DON’T WORK
Pre-bed pillow fight to rid ourselves of extra energy and anxieties and maybe work out some frustrations. Doesn’t work. Or at least didn’t tonight. Although it was fun!
Bedtime. Again.
How many depressing bedtime posts can I write? Apparently there’s always room for one more.
I can hardly even write this post, honestly. Bedtime is so difficult right now. I can’t even come up with the words to explain what insanity we are dealing with every night. All of us are suffering for it and it scares me, honestly, that this is the new normal. Our life will forever be this way. Never again will we be able to tuck the kids in bed, say goodnight, and go on about our evening. Every night will be tantrums before bed, chaos in the bathroom while preparing for bed, fits of rage (on everyone’s part) while putting on jammies, then endless chaos and destruction of our bedrooms come bedtime. I am so worn down by all of it and I feel like now we are in a self-repeating cycle. It’s been this way for so long that C’s anxiety ramps up the minute dinner ends, simply out of some sort of Pavlovian response.
I am desperate for help. I have been calling around for therapists for what feels like forever. This person doesn’t take our insurance, the other one recommended by three sources has closed her practice, that organization has an endless waiting list, these numbers are out of service. It’s like we live in a black hole of mental health care. Or maybe that’s just the entire United States.
I did finally get us on the wait list at an organization that provides clinicians. Supposedly someone will call me back within a few days (it’s been three already) and then the wait list shouldn’t be too long (I’ll believe it when I see it).
Not that therapy will be a quick fix by any means. But I know it’s clearly needed–not just by C, but by all of us. And there is no quick fix to this problem. It hurts to see C like this. And it hurts to feel so helplessly worn down by it. I feel like a failure most nights. Why can’t I help him settle down? What am I missing?
Support
John and I have been helping get a local support group going for foster and adoptive parents. I’m hopeful and excited about it. We’re meeting once a month, and have now had two regular meetings, as well as a couple of planning meetings. I like the group of people that has been attending so far, and I’m hoping that more folks join us. We invited the other couple from our church that’s fostering and they seemed eager to join in.
The two best things to come out of the group so far are a friendship and an email address. The friendship is with a woman I’ll call Ruby who lives in a town not too far from us. She is the woman I randomly met at the foster and adoptive parent conference for our state last fall. We were the only two people (well, along with her husband) from our district office to attend the conference and we just happened to sit down next to each other at lunch and start talking. I really like her. She’s a pretty no-nonsense person but also warm and relatable. Her family started the TPR process about a month after ours. They are still waiting for an adoption date.
The email address is one for a woman who works at the local university in a trauma intervention program. At last month’s meeting we had a woman come and give a presentation about trauma. The videos she showed us emphasized over and over how important evidence-based interventions are for children of trauma–and early intervention at that. Several people asked her how we can get help for our kids. We know it’s important, but it’s so hard to figure out where to go and how to get help. John and I have had this conversation many times about C. We desperately want to get him–and all of us–some good services to deal with his grief and anxiety. I asked Frank about it long ago and was met with basically zero help. Which is ironic, since the woman giving the presentation on trauma told us that the State is using a new approach of looking at all foster child cases through a trauma lens. Oh, really? I wanted to say. Has Frank gotten this memo, and does he even know what trauma is or what the best practices are?
Anyway, out of this rather frustrating conversation came an email address. Several people, experienced foster parents who’ve been there, done that with the State nonsense, recommended getting in touch with this woman. They were confident she could help. I emailed her last night and heard back from her this morning. She sent me a nice list of therapists who were trained in these evidence-based practices. I am eager to look more closely at who they are and how we can be seen by them. (She also encouraged me to share the info with our group, and said she would give the list to the head of the local district office.)
As I write this, I am sitting in the dark in our upstairs hallway, outside the kids’ room. C finally filled up his bed-boy bed chart. I took the rail off his crib on Friday night. The first night, he fell asleep in John’s arms in the living room while E was practicing violin, so we just put him in the bed and that was that. The second night he was up until 11:00 and then out of bed at 5:00 in the morning. Last night his shenanigans landed him in the Pack and Play, where he managed to empty E’s closet of all of her clothes (it’s a stand alone Ikea closet, and their room is so small we had to have the PnP pushed right up to it) before finally falling asleep around 10:00. Tonight, I told him he had one chance to stay in the bed. If he got out at all, I was putting him right in the PnP. So far, in the hour and a half he’s been in bed, he’s been crazy jumping around on his mattress (but, you’ll notice, not OUT of the bed), then quietly breathing heavily, then running the hard plastic eyes of his Elmo back and forth across the rails of his bed, then quietly yawning, then giggling and belly laughing, and now quiet again. He begged me to stay in his room tonight when I said goodnight, but I just can’t open that can of worms. Immediately when he asked that and I hesitated a bit, E said, desperately, “Can you sit by MY bed?” It perfectly illustrated why my being in there would not be a help. So here I sit. In the dark. Quietly. He thinks I’m downstairs. And I can hear his anxiety in all his ups and downs.
Tonight, before bedtime, while we were sitting at the kitchen table after dinner, C looked at me and said, “I’m a baby.” “Are you?” I asked him. He said, “I need to be rocked.” I told him I’d love to rock him–I’d even feed him a bottle (a sippy cup of water). So we did that. And I sang him a song that I used to sing to E when she was a baby. And he made mega-eye contact, I will note. And then Daddy rocked him and fed him while I rocked and fed and sang to E. It was sweet. And a little sad, thinking about the fact that I didn’t ever get to rock him, and he didn’t get much rocking when he was actually a baby, instead of a big boy who is feeling unsure about his place in the world and in our family.
It’s no coincidence that this time of rocking came after he found the keepsake box I use to keep his old artwork and birthday cards. He pulled it out and asked what it was (“It has my name on it? It’s for me?” he asked.) and I explained that there are keepsakes in it from when he was littler, and cards from his adoption day too. He pulled the top off and gently slid a card out from the box. Holding it up, he “read” it to himself, “Dear C, Happy Dock-shun Day.” He smiled and put it down carefully. “I didn’t wreck anything, Mama,” he told me, pride spilling out as he spoke. I watched him tenderly lift a letter from the box and study it with serious eyes, his brow furrowed.
There is so much to consider each day, so many questions to ask, so many wonderings to have. For anyone. But especially for this little boy. And for me as his mama. I hope I can continue to support him in his questions and wonderings and frustrations and his need for a gentle touch. What a responsibility it is to mother this child. And what a gift.
shaky hugs 