Patience

Patience 

N. just celebrated his fourth birthday. Already he has been part of our family for two years and it's incredible the changes we have seen in him. In fact seeing him today and comparing him to two years ago it is like looking at two completely different boys. N. today is bright, intelligent, playful, meticulous, affectionate and his eyes shine with life. When he first came to us he was withdrawn, angry, isolated and you could sense that he wasn't behind his eyes. He had locked himself somewhere deep inside. He went through the motions of a hug, but you felt the ragdoll arms just going along with what you requested of him. Today he squeezes the breath out of me.

So... a lot changes with time. And this is where patience comes in. And hope. And love. And hard work. And commitment. But what we don't often hear about is the other side we don't want to admit. The doubt. And despair. And fear. Yes, these two years were filled with a lot of emotion to bring us to where we are now. 

Chosing to adopt a child through youth protection, you have very little illusions of what might await you. In fact, the social workers drum this into you before you even sign the foster parent agreement. And if you are at all like me, you've also read everything you can get your hands on about adopting children and all about THE word in the adoption field: Attachment. So based on what you have read, you are prepared to hold on for 6 months to a year for attachment to work its magic. You know the "tricks" that will help it along. But what you aren't ready for is how hard it can be as you wait. And how much you actually do while you wait. And how much you forget to be patient.

With our first son, K, he came from a very loving foster family experience. The house was filled with kids who adored him so we worked through the loss of his foster family as he transitioned, but he was very well primed for attachment. N., on the other hand spent a year in foster care where he was under-stimulated. His basic needs were met, but the "extra" was missing. 

As we worked to engage with him the first few months, we noticed things that troubled us. The first was that he didn't grieve his foster family. Or at least, not in the way K. had done. There were no tears, tantrums or any signs of upset at all. The first night he slept over (which we were primed for after K.'s hysterics) he just said, "good night" and rolled over. No tears, no asking for foster family. At bath time he wouldn't sit in the water. He stood up with his arms raised as if ready for just a quick scrub. At the park, I needed to show him what to do. As for hugs, the rag doll was what we got. 

We knew we were dealing with a child who hadn't been sufficiently stimulated, but as time went on we wondered what else might be going on. Knowing a bit of his mother's past there was a suspicion of fetal alcohol syndrome, though he didn't exhibit any physical signs at birth. As time went on and there were no real improvements, a continued lack of empathy, no improvement in his speech, continued aggression, we wondered if he might be autistic. Every little sign and symptom was read into. He walked on his tip toes, he didn't like to be held, physical stimulation bothered him, he displayed rigid, compulsive behaviours. 

As we brought these up to the social workers, new information about him and his development was discussed with us that confirmed our worries. We felt that this had been held back from us so that he would be placed. Our trust in our workers was shattered and they weren't able to give us any concrete help. 

N. was violent at times with K. Hitting, spitting and biting. He wouldn't answer when we called him. He would be sullen and withdrawn. At the dinner table it felt like there was the three of us and him.

We wondered if we had made a mistake.

This was really hard to admit and also part of the reason why I didn't write much about his transition to our family. I couldn't light-heartedly joke and write about what was happening. I just felt a sense of dread and fear of what our family was to become. 

Given that we didn't feel our social workers were much help, we reached out other ways. We spoke to our pediatrician. I got a session booked with a psychologist to look at what might be going on. We fought to have N. assessed for autism or other developmental delays. What came up was a severe lack of stimulation and significant speech delay. But in the light of little development despite our attempts, we still wondered what to do.

Truth be told, I had to do a lot of work on myself to be a good dad to him in this time. I had to work on the hurt of giving as much love as I could only to be rejected and having it thrown back in my face. I was starting to lose my empathy for him and this scared me. We were almost a year in the process and though we were still moving towards adoption, we had second thoughts: maybe we weren't the right family for him.

In one critical therapy session I actually got to the point where I verbalized this clearly and took in the implications of what this meant. I had to get over the guilt and shame of feeling this to actually have this truth out in the open. And having said it, I saw what I would need to do. I felt horrible, but at peace in a strange way. I finally had admitted to myself that I was not able to love this child the way I thought he needed. I was ready to let the workers know that we would work to find a better fit for him. But as I left the therapist's office and started my way home, I imagined what the house would be like without him. And I couldn't.  

The brief relief of thinking he would be in a better family was replaced with a sense of loss. And a better understanding of the pain he had been through. The reason why it was dangerous for him to love, and why he needed to reject my love to stay safe. I saw how I was imposing my love on him and working hard to get him to conform to my idea of family. In the hopes of forcing attachment, I wasn't letting him be. 

So I shifted. Internally, a new place formed where I could accept who he was and what he was living with. My love for him changed to no longer work to compensate what he lacked, but to just be present with him and to wait. I resolved to be patient. 

That very day as I walked in the door was the first time he ran into my arms to greet me.

From that day on, he would approach me. I quietly let him get to know me. His fingers would tentatively stroke my face, he'd look into my eyes with questioning. I simply would remain with him. I no longer tried to force the attachment by doing things for him and have him learn to depend on me. I let him try things on his own until he got frustrated and he'd ask me for help. I simply stopped trying so hard and let things unfold.

It seemed to work... today I can say it worked wonderfully.

He is now a secure little boy, filled with wonder at the world and quick to laugh and smile. He sings the alphabet and counts the steps on the way to daycare. He hugs his friends (when they don't try to take away his toys) and is loving. He trusts adults again and feels safe to be in the world.

So yes, hard work and time made this happen. And yes, we did fall into the "time delay" I had read about in those attachment books. But I had lost hope and patience. And a year to work on attachment is one thing to read, but when filled with endless minutes of heartache is difficult to bear. So I write this for other adoptive parents who might be feeling lost and overwhelmed and afraid to admit this to themselves. On the other side of all that pain, dread and hopelessness is family. Hold on, be patient, and get support. There is a child in there that will astonish you.