Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Left out (not).

     I write my blog for a lot of reasons.  The biggest is probably because it helps me process what my God is doing in my family, my life, my heart.  The second motivation is to give a real, transparent look at adoption after the casseroles stop coming and the ink has dried on the post-home study.  I don't write to complain or to be a martyr.  I write because I love my life, the chaos, the messiness and the grace. I also write because I love moms.  Moms are amazing and I am called to serve them in many capacities.  Blogging being one of them.
     That said, today has been one of those days where it feels like I am watching myself from the ceiling each time I respond to Etienne.  Thinking, "Really? Really? I just told my kid not to pick up furniture?"  Ryan said something about how it feels like we are constantly correcting him or responding to his actions.  Tell me about it, dude.
     I found some kid sized Birkenstocks (I swear, this midwife did not ever buy a pair, EVER) in one of the closets.  It's normal to find unbeknownst items around here all the time.  I called to Zeke to come check them out.  Etienne came running down the hall, shorts around his ankles, in the midst of using the restroom, calling "Can I? Can I?"
     33 months.  33 months of being forever home in a family.  Months filled with lots of one-on-one, special mama/daddy time; not to mention the constant behavior that results in negative attention anyway.  Before he did this today, his morning had been filled with tutoring alone with Grandma and playing in a park alone with Mama.  33 months and he is still fearful of being left out or behind.  This is what it looks like.  The kid knows that running mid-poo into the hall is going to get him in trouble.  In his little head Mama calling to Zeke may mean he is getting left behind and that fear is greater than the consequence of a mess in the hallway.
     I don't know what mom isn't heartbroken by this.  Sure, it angers me to no end to clean up after that debacle.  I am tired by his constant need to be included, seen, heard, recognized.
     So my anger is a little bit lessened.  I know that at this  boy's core, he is still a hurt orphan looking for love.  Whatever the cost, whatever the effort, whatever patience; I will take a deep breath.  Try to proof my love again.

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