My Overthinking

Philly Area mom, Life forever changed by adoption

Celebrating Chinese New Year

It’s the single most important holiday of the entire year there. Businesses close and trains literally overflow as people all over China journey home for Chinese New Year or Spring Festival. Despite the rising number of Starbucks scattered about big cities and iPhones all over, traditions not all that different from stockings hung by the chimney with care still abound.

In the weeks leading up to Spring Festival, families clean every corner of their homes to rid them of huiqi or unclean spirits that may have collected over the year and prepare for a new start. Bright red scrolls printed with poetic couplets about luck and fortune are posted proudly beside front doors. The sound and smell of fireworks to frighten evil spirits fill the air. Families gather together around the table for long noodles symbolizing long life and round dumplings shaped like the full moon symbolizing the family unit and perfection with a finale of a whole fish symbolizing abundance which is fully prepared but is not meant to be eaten.

Both families who are actually living in abundance and those who are not give special gifts packaged in 红包 or hongbao, a decorated red envelope. Anywhere between a few yuan to hundreds of yuan are put in these envelopes in lucky even number increments and given as sacrificial gifts typically from older people to younger ones. The recipients gather all their envelopes, put them under their pillows, and open them all 7 days later.

For 15 days centered around February 8th (where it falls this year), about 1.4 billion people (20% of the world) put everyday life on hold. The poor, the migrants, the businessmen, the party members, the students, young and old…it doesn’t matter who you are. The celebration of Spring Festival softens lines of distinction.

From where I sit right now, typing my thoughts from my favorite chair, I can see toy horses that my daughter carefully set up to stand together as a family. Her older brother seems to have a hobby of tripping over them, while her sister complains that they look like they’re staring at her. But, there they remain, none of us willing to break up the equine family. A child’s rocking chair sits closeby with a blanket piled up below it where she was snuggled up yesterday. I can see our family picture framed on our shelf—a mom, a dad, three white kids who will be taller than me by next week, and Lydia, our Chinese daughter.

Some years, our home has been seemingly covered in red paper decorations and all sorts of festive stuff in my efforts to pronounce Xīnnián kuàilè. I’ve made 4-foot long dragon cakes and sheep/goat/ram cupcakes (all with loads more sugar than the Chinese like). With a lot we have going on right now, I’m not sure how many lanterns and scrolls I’ll end up hanging. And, I can’t even wrap my head around making some sort of monkey-themed dessert this year. But, I’ve come to understand that celebrating Spring Festival in America as Americans who have a Chinese daughter doesn’t have to look like a Pinterest-worthy party. When we adopted our daughter nearly 6 years ago, we promised that we’d honor her history, a promise we take to heart; we did not promise to make dragon cakes and give out red envelopes to her first-grade class. There’s nothing wrong with those things; they can be ways to honor her history but so could reading a children’s book together and simple conversation.

I can’t give my family a Spring Festival experience like one they’d get in China. And, honestly, I don’t know if I’d entirely want to. But, as we eat Chinese takeout with chopsticks or read a silly picture book about a runaway wok, whatever pomp and circumstance we end up with for Spring Festival this year, I will be saying these words to my daughter:

You are Chinese. We see that. We know that. We love that about you. We are not Chinese. But, we love all things Chinese not because of loud fireworks or envelopes with money but because of you. You are what makes us love Chinese things. And, we’re so glad you are a part of our family.

Lydia with tiger hat

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“Be irrational today!”

You may not realize it, but today is a big day. It’s January 14th, a somewhat normal Thursday. Doesn’t seem much like a big day. But, today means that we’re officially 2 weeks into the new year which means that workout centers will start to clear out starting today and donut shops start picking up business again. Resolutions die today, at least according to popular research.

For some reason, many of us still feel compelled to make one—I’m going to read more this year, workout three times a week, drink less coffee, organize my life. We put our foot down and resolutely say, “This no more” or “This going forward.” But, only 2 weeks later, we start to drop the ball on whatever we promised as we watched the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. I’ve found myself there before though it usually took me a few more weeks to notice my feebleness, shrug my shoulders, and say “nevermind.” This year, I had none of that—not because I’ve got resolution superpowers. I just didn’t make any conscious resolutions at all.

But, I read something this week (note to self: be careful what I read because I will be challenged and compelled to respond which means lots of discomfort and unrest which seems to be my modus operandi as of late). It was from the well known psychologist Urie Bronfenbrenner famous for getting the Head Start program going in 1965 and for demonstrating the importance of connection.

In order to develop normally, a child requires progressively more complex joint activity with one or more adults who have an irrational emotional relationship with the child. Somebody’s got to be crazy about that kid. That’s number one. First, last, and always.

kids in a rowI read it and then I read it again. I want to love my kids like that.

It makes sense. We all need that. We long to be loved with a crazy kind of love, a love that defies reason, a love that doesn’t make sense, a love that says that nothing you do could make you loved any less or any more. That’s the kind of mom I want to be, for those children born to me and the one who was born to another. I want to be an irrational mom.

But, I’m so much more comfortable in the rational world. I like A + B = C. I like the comfort of predictability. Reason is my friend. And, yet. I know I need to let that go. Relationships require me to let that go. The hearts of my children require me to let that go. Reasonable love simply does not suffice. When he pushes me away and slams his door, I still love. When she yells and screams and refuses to listen, I still love. When he won’t put his shoes on or forgets his folder again, I still love. When she sulks and avoids eye contact, I still love. It’s not easy. I don’t know what that looks like all the time. It stretches me, demands practice, is easier with the help of a partner, and keeps me very aware of my own frailty. It’s where I need to be.

I bailed on a resolution this year. I probably was too busy being rational to make one. But, I’ve got a new word now that I’m shooting for as we head into the remaining 50 weeks of 2016—irrationality. Yeah, how’s that for my one word? Everyone else is picking words like strong, commitment, freedom, purpose, intentional. I may be the only one wanting someone to make me some hand drawn word art to hang by my desk that says “Be irrational today!” But, that’s my desire. That’s what I want my kids to say about me at the end of the year—my mom? she’s kinda crazy. she doesn’t get it right all the time. in fact, there’s a lot of things she could have done better when I look back on this year. but, she is crazy in a good way about a lot of things and she’s crazy about me. 

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Therapeutic mistletoe

She used to not like babies at all. She would say it was because they put everything in their mouths—I think her words were literally, “because they bite everything.” There was no ooo-s and ahh-s at teeny bundles of cuteness from her. She was perfectly content to let other people take care of all that, as long as those other people didn’t include me. On the rare occasion I would be holding someone’s baby, Lydia would freeze and stare then say something like, “Mama, when you gonna give dat baby back?” I learned to ask her permission before opening my lap or arms to another baby even when she was long past babyhood herself. Most of the time permission was granted; sometimes, it wasn’t. And, I respected that.

At the ripe old age of 6 (and a half), she’s moved past all that. But, as we opened our home up to host a little one over Christmas this year—at our children’s urging, mind you—we wondered if we might see a little bit of her insecurities rise up again.

There’s a conversation we’ve had nearly daily around here over the last two weeks that has been some variation of the following:

[While I’m holding NJ or admiring his preciousness from afar]

Lydia: Mama, who is cuter, me or NJ?

Mama: Definitely you, Lydia. No question. You are so so cute. Definitely the cutest.

[Mama tickles her. Lydia eats it up then walks away content and ready to conquer the world.]

She’s one smart girl, you know. She may not be able to articulate all that’s going on in her heart, but she manages to ask for exactly what the needs. And, I’m happy to give it to her in abundance. When she isn’t asking but feels a bit needy of some reassurance, I can usually find her right here with her Ren Ren in hand and up close to her face like so.

Lydia under mistletoe - 1 (1)

 

Lydia: Mama….Mama….Mama….ummm….hi…do you notice anything?

Mama: Why yes I do…

[kissing fest ensues followed by voracious giggles and the filling of two heart tanks.]

 

Lydia under mistletoe - 1 (2)

Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe help to make the season bright. But, our family knows that same mistletoe helps to make our hearts right too. Maybe we’ll just make it a permanent fixture.

mistletoe - 1

 

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Your permission slip

When I asked you how things were going, you started to cry. Through your tears, you told me how great your new son’s eye contact is, how he likes to be held, how he lets you know what he wants. You told me how everything is really so good, so much better than you were prepared for. But, you were still crying when you said that.

I imagine you were your social worker’s dream family. You dotted all your Is and crossed all your Ts. Not only was every form filled out completely and perfectly, but you didn’t fuss about any of the training required. You were your agency’s star student, soaking up every minute of every training with paper and pen in hand, taking notes lest you forget something. Every recommended book is now part of your library with broken bindings and yellow highlights throughout. You can channel your inner Dan Siegel and Karyn Purvis and explain the attachment cycle and define time-ins to any captive audience. You’re it—the well-prepared, ready-to-go adoptive mom equipped with a full holster of every attachment-building tool there is.

And, then you adopted your son.

You remind me a little of that friend we all have, the one who went to Lamaze classes or the like and somehow heard the message—or simply chose to hear it—that if you learn all the breathing tricks and positions that labor and delivery would be relatively painless, that somehow her own learned skills and oxygen-inhaling prowess would trump the reality of biology.

Yeah…it doesn’t that work that way.

Here’s what just happened. You and your husband, quite comfortable and relatively confident in your parenthood experience to the one biological child you already had, grew your family again. That’s always hard. And, since you did that through this incredible adventure of adoption, you multiplied that hard exponentially. While it’s normal for a mom to feel overwhelmed and tired and totally consumed by her new child who needs her all the time, you feel all that and your new child is not a sleepy infant and your child doesn’t understand English and you are scared to death that all the anxiety and growing sense of oxygen-inhaling failure on your part is going to break down whatever foundations of attachment have been built and that your adoption fund is going to be replaced by a therapy fund to pay for all the additional trauma you are going to bring into your child’s life.

{take a deep breath right about….now}

A look back at when we were just starting

A look back at when we were just starting

All those rules and tools you’ve studied and prepped for—the babywearing, the cosleeping, the skin-to-skin contact, the commitment to be the only one to meet his every need, the keeping him within several feet at all times, the cocooning, the intentional regression—they are not the end all; rather, they are the means to an end with that end being relationship. That’s the most important thing. If those good rules and tools are so binding to you right now that they are actually hindering relationship, you have the permission to step away from the books and the blogs and the webinars and experience freedom as the mother God’s called you to be to your son. It’s not forever, but for now, find what it is that you need whether that is grocery store runs sans anyone under 3 feet tall, a break to go have coffee with a friend one afternoon, going back to your weekly women’s group with a sitter in your friend’s basement, or something else entirely different. Find what it is that you need so that you can get on track with building a relationship with your son rather than falling into a pattern of going through the motions that you think you need to do but growing seeds in you of fear, questions, and resentment—all of which are enemies to relationship.

Friend, this is hard, yes. But, you can do hard; you were made for hard. You are exactly what your son and your daughter need right now—in your frailty, in your weakness, in your tears.

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