Nighttime Ninja

             

            Ben and I have always been like peas in a pod.  Despite this, I was adamant that I would maintain my own sleeping quarters.  I've heard of too many parents who let the kids come and sleep with them as babies, never to be free again.  I am single and have no social life, so I was not preserving a sanctuary for adult activities.  Mainly, I just wanted my own space, a retreat.  It swiftly becomes obvious when you are a new parent that nothing – and I mean nothing – is really yours anymore.  Oh sure, you can set boundaries.  You can even install locks.  I actually have no problem keeping the kids out of my room when I am not in there.  They don’t want my stuff…they are after ME.  Parents can try to maintain a sense of Me in their heads, but your children look at you and all they see is MINE. 

            I was able to work around this at bedtime with Ben.  We would read together and then I would stay with him for a short time while he fell asleep.  I would then sneak out of his room and go back to my room for the night.  Ben even confronted me one day, but I stuck to my guns and told him Mommy needed a good night’s sleep in her own bed. 

             Before traveling to China to get Evan last summer, I congratulated myself on having the foresight to invest in bunk beds when Ben outgrew his toddler bed.  Mind you, this was years in advance, so somewhere in my heart I had known that I would add a sibling for Ben some day.  When Evan’s arrival was imminent, Ben called the top bunk, as any big brother would.   I envisioned that our bedtime ritual would not change all that much.  I would read to them; maybe Ben would come down to the bottom bunk for the story and then go back up.   I planned to stay in the room just long enough to put my little angels to bed, and then go back to my room.    Ben and I spoke of this in detail before Evan came.  I worried that Ben would feel left out, but Ben magnanimously suggested that Evan should lie on the bottom bunk with me because he would perhaps be afraid in his new home. 

           

            We followed this plan for the first few nights at home.  Evan had a lot more energy than I could have envisioned, so it took a lot more time for him to settle down.  My role quickly went from maternal-comforter-in-the-dark, to Nighttime Guard to make sure Evan didn't take it upon himself to wander down the hall or up the ladder to bug Ben.  Things got even more complicated not long into our cohabitation as family when one night a small voice rang down from the top bunk:

            “Mommy…”

            “Yes, Ben?”

            “I’m lonely.” 

            Truth be told, I knew it was only a matter of time.   I missed Ben terribly, too.  He was my little snuggle buddy.  Evan wasn't all that sweet in the beginning.  And he feared nothing.  He regarded me more as an inconvenience, the foil to his plan.  It was more of a contest between us, to see who could remain awake – and in control – longer. 

            “Alright, Ben, come down.  There’s room for three here.”

             The bottom bunk is full-sized, rather than a single like the top bunk.  Still, it was tight, even with three relatively compact bodies across.  Thankfully, we are all short.  We decided we should sleep horizontally. 

            Now, before I go on, you must picture this.  I assure you at 45; nowhere in my rational mind did it occur to me that I would find myself sleeping sideways between two small Chinese boys.  My position is in the middle out of necessity.  You might think this is so that each of my sons can be next to Mommy, and this is one reason.

            This is not where I start out every night. Each night Evan begs to sleep next to Ben.  In fact, while I am brushing my teeth, he switches our pillows and plants himself next to his brother.  Then, he throws himself into the middle position and looks at me with a Cheshire Cat grin, batting his eyelashes at me when I enter the room.   This is not a move he makes out of fraternal love.  Evan knows, as do I that this is his last stand of the night; his last chance to harass Ben.

            I sign to Evan, “Move over.”

            Evan flattens himself, sinking all of his weight into his pillow and the mattress. He grins up at me and signs emphatically, “PLEASE.”  

            I sign, “Move!” 

            Evan wags his head side-to-side, smiling hard and signing, “PLEASE.” 

            Ben groans.

            I sign to Evan, “If you bother Ben, you and I will switch.” 

            Evan quickly signs, “I know. Ok.”

             This does not mean, “I will try to be good.”  It really means, “I hereby accept and expect my fate that I will sleep on the end, but thank you for this final opportunity to deeply annoy my dear brother Ben.”  He is gleeful. 

            I lie down on the end. 

            Within seconds, “Moooooom, Evan hit me.”  Or touched me. Or has his foot on me.  Or poked me in the eye.  Or threw his book on me.  Or breathed on me.   

            I sit up.  I sign, “Switch.” 

            Evan signs, “No! I’m Sorry,” and shakes his head, laughing.   I know Evan is not sorry.  Evan knows I will make him move. 

            I grab an arm and a leg and drag him out of the middle spot. I switch our pillows.  I lay down and tell Evan to lay down.    Ben turns away from us and goes to sleep.  I know I cannot go to sleep until Evan settles down.  I lie there, between my boys like the Great Wall, protecting Ben from Evan the invader. Evan gradually settles down, but not before he makes a few ill-fated attempts to reach across me, likely designed to annoy me more than Ben, who by now has succumbed to the sand man.

            I admit Evan outlasts me most nights.  Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, or have two children to keep up with, or because I get up farmer-early so I can have a couple of hours of peace in the morning.  I don’t stay awake long enough to retreat to my own bed.

             At some point in the middle of the night, I usually awake with a foot in by back and then it is time to escape.  This is not easy.  I first must assess the situation.  There in the dark, I take inventory of the legs and arms that entwine mine.  The stakes are high.  Evan has two speeds – on and off.  Getting him to go back to sleep is no easy task.    I have to extract myself from the middle as gently as possible. 

            Evan is sensitive to vibration. Jiggling the mattress or shaking the bed can be really bad.  He may not wake up, but he will reach out and sling an arm or leg over me like a caveman trapping his woman.

  Seeing as I am a lady “of a certain age” and not an Olympic gymnast, my first impulse would be to lean to one side or the other and prop myself up.  But I cannot go sideways too far without causing disruption.   If the boys are snuggled close to me this is really tricky.  One night, (I am not exaggerating), out of desperation I grabbed the frame of the bunk above us, swung my legs over my head and did a backwards somersault out of the bunk.  This was not as graceful as I am hoping you are imagining it, and my landing would have lost me all points. 

            On a positive note, Evan couldn't hear me when I cursed a blue streak as I landed on the Legos spread out over the floor like thumbtacks to prevent my escape.  Ben only let out a small whimper, cracked his eyes open, and shut them again as if it was quite natural to see his mother splayed out, limbs akimbo, on the floor. 

            Most nights, I eventually make it back to my bed, if only for just a little while.  I know the day will come where the boys will want their own space. Perhaps I will be wistful then, and long for the togetherness of these nights.  For now, if I seem tired and need extra concealer to hide my dark circles, you will know why. 

           

            

Ben's 7th Anniversary - Red Thread

            Seven years ago this week, for utterly selflish reasons, I flew across the globe.  I had spent the previous eighteen months filling out paper work…medical, financial, immigration and social worker paperwork.  I had a photograph of a small boy with a round face and big eyes on my refrigerator.  I kissed that picture every day and said, “Mommy is coming.”  It felt surreal.  Even when I stepped on the largest plane I had ever been on, with a back pack filled with toddler-sized clothes, it did not seem real.  I was alone on this adventure of a lifetime.  I wasn’t sure that I was sane.

            After a couple of brief touring days in Beijing, I boarded a smaller plane to Nanjing.  I was happy to leave Beijing because the air pollution kept me continuously nauseous.  In Nanjing, my guide Jane (provided in each city by the adoption agency), met me at the airport.  She spoke English very well and commented that she almost missed me because I am small and dark, like the Chinese.  When she left me at my hotel, she told me to meet her in the lobby the next morning at 9:00 am and we would go and get my new son.  Even though I already had the itinerary printed out, and I certainly knew why I was there, hearing Jane say this felt like a surprise – so soon??!!  Wow!!    

            I remember trying to sleep that night thinking, “My life is about to change forever.”  I stared at Ben’s picture.  I wondered how he would handle all of this. Other families had told me to be prepared: He might be really scared. He might cry for days. It will take time.  Certainly, some children made the transition more easily than others. 

            The next morning, I gathered the documents that Jane had requested, and went to the lobby. I felt electric with excitement.  Was this really happening?  Was I ready?  Jane walked into the lobby.  She asked if I had remembered to bring all that she had instructed: documents, money, gifts for the ladies from the orphanage, the orphanage director, and the Civil Affairs officer?  Yes, I had it all.  We exited the hotel and got into the van.  The driver pulled onto the busy, eight lane road. 

            Jane said, “I think you will meet your new son very soon.  He is already there.”

            “He is??” I replied, incredulous. It was like I was in the middle of a dream.

            “Yes, he left the orphanage very early this morning. It is a long way from Wuxi.” 

            I took a deep breath.  Here we go!  The ride to the Civil Affairs office was very short.  In minutes, we pulled into the parking lot.  Truly, I felt a little dizzy. We walked into the building. There was a large sign indicating that this was the place for adoption and marriage.    Jane led the way into a small office to the left.  Immediately, I saw him…. A small boy, wearing denim overalls with a dog on the front.  He had a yellow long-sleeve shirt underneath, and he was wearing a neon multi color baseball cap. He was wearing small, girls’ shoes with a buckle.  He was running around the table, laughing, playing with the Ayi (aunties) from the orphanage. 

            I stood still staring at him. Upon noticing me, one of the ladies with him stood and took one of his tiny hands.  She gently turned him towards me, patted him on the back, and said, “This is your new Mama.”  

            I looked down at him and smiled. I hesitated to reach out, not wanting to scare him.  He was tiny – more like a two year old.  Twenty-six pounds. 

            Zhengzhi (Ben) looked up at me and smiled.  He said, “MAMA.” 

            Tears welled up in my eyes.  My heart exploded with a love I had never felt. One thought entered my mind, “Everything I do, for the rest of my life, will be for you.” 

            I knelt beside him and offered him a little truck I had brought with me.  He took it enthusiastically.  We played for a few moments.  I asked the Ayi questions about his routine.  Jane translated for us.  I signed papers and we took official photos.  Miraculously, Ben did not seem phased by any of this.  He smiled and held onto me as if he had just been patiently waiting for me his whole life.

            When all the official rigmarole was complete, my guide led us out to the van.  Ben was happy and excited to go for a ride.  I marveled at this small child who didn’t seem to be afraid at all.  To this day, Ben is the happiest kid I have ever met. 

            We arrived back at the hotel and Jane walked us to my room.  I was embarrassed to admit I had no Pull-ups for him.  Naively, I had thought at 3 ½ he would be fully trained.  Of course, institutionalization comes with delays.  She kindly went out and purchased some for me.  Then she reiterated his schedule: He will eat, then nap, then early bed time.  Then she left us. 

            I can close my eyes to this day and hear that hotel door closing.  I turned and looked at my new son.  I would be lying if I said there was not a moment of panic.  I am mom.  He is mine.  Oh, my God, now what do I do with him??  What was I thinking? 

Ben looked up at me, smiling. He was still wearing those little girl shoes that looked too small for him.  I remembered I had bought him sandals with flashing lights.  I went to my suitcase and took them out.  I held them up.  I tapped the bottoms to make them flash.   Ben’s eyes expanded like saucers.  He started to shriek, and hopped on one foot, practically hyperventilating.  I could not put them on him fast enough. 

            I cannot describe this moment except to say that I have never in my life witnessed such pure exuberance, excitement and appreciation for anything.  I put both of them on his little feet.  He ran over to the full length mirror and danced, shrieked, and ran in place for at least five straight minutes.  It makes me cry every time I think about this.

            Everything was so new to Ben.  He received any small gift with the excitement of a lottery winner.  It is an indescribable blessing to be a part of this.  We are all so spoiled with material goods in the States, from birth, that you really cannot find this here.   I only gave Ben a few small gifts in China.  You have to be mindful of the airplane baggage requirements.  Whenever Ben took a nap or went to bed at night, he had to lay his new belongings, including the shoes, on the bed beside him.  He would touch each one, over and over, as he drifted off to sleep. 

           

            I would lie on the bed next to him, and he would reach out and touch my face, too.  Ben would lovingly touch my hair, my eyelids, my nose and mouth. 

Sometimes, even when we were out walking somewhere, Ben would tap me, and say, “Mama.”  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

“Yes.” I would respond.

“Mama.” Another tap.

“Yes.” I would respond.  Ben would repeat this 4 or 5 times.

 Then, emphatically:  “MY Mama.”   

(Yes, I carried tissue with me all over China.) 

            And so, seven years later, my sweet Ben is 10 years old and heading into the 5^th grade.  I have marveled at how life brought us together, from opposite points on the globe.  I am ever grateful to his birth mom for making a decision that likely saved his life.  Cleft babies do not live long without the necessary surgeries.

            In China, there is the Red Thread legend: The two people connected by an invisible red thread are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break.   It seems that Ben (Zhengzhi) and I, were linked by this mystical red thread. 

            We did not know it at the time, but that thread was twined around a third person…  On June 5^th, 2009, the 3^rd anniversary of the exact day that I signed papers to adopt Ben, hundreds of miles away, in Zhengzhou, a finding ad appeared in a local newspaper.

             A finding ad is the mandatory ad the Chinese government posts when a child is abandoned.  The ad posts a picture of the child and details of where he or she is found.  This is just in case a family member might see the ad and come forth to claim the child.  That almost never happens.  The child is then remanded to the Social Welfare Institutes – the orphanages. 

            In the ad, was a sad, lost-looking 3 year old, deaf boy.  No one came forth. He entered Xin Xiang Orphanage, where he slowly adjusted and lived for the next 3 years. He was given the name Shi Ke Ran.  (This name means “overcame slowly.”)  On July 3^rd, 2012, when I met Evan, I was given a copy of that ad.  It breaks my heart to look at it. 

            And so, on this 7^th anniversary week of Ben’s adoption, we celebrate as a family this magical red thread.  In one month, we will also be celebrating Evan’s first anniversary.  Life is full of wonderful surprises and adventures.  You never know what wondrous things may come.  

Above are the pictures of Ben I had for over a year on my refrigerator before meeting him.

Adoption Day 6/5/2006.

In praise of Evan's teachers...

(I wrote this a while ago, and did not post it. Evan has awesome teachers. They, too, are in awe of his progress.) 

“Miracles at Marshpoint”

            Last week, my son Evan came home from Kindergarten at Marshpoint Elementary School very excited about the field trip they had taken on that day to Oatland Island.   He was very animated – no pun intended – telling us all about the animals he had seen.  Evan explained that you have to walk on the trails, not run.  I asked him, “Did you walk?”  With an impish grin, he responded, “No, I ran.”  Then he went on to explain that he was selected to have the honor of feeding the pigs.  He was beaming! 

            The above scenario probably happened in every Marshpoint Kindergartener’s house that very same evening. In our house, however, it was like watching a miracle unfold before your eyes.  Why was this so remarkable?  Just three school-quarters ago, in August 2012, Evan entered Marshpoint Elementary - a boy without words. 

            I adopted Evan from Xin Xiang, China on July 3^rd, 2012.  He was 6 years old and profoundly deaf.  My first son Ben and I took a weekly sign language class for a year prior to meeting Evan.  Learning American Sign Language is indeed every bit as complex as learning any other foreign language.  Anyone who has taken one year of French or Spanish can understand the very low level of functionality that one year of instruction will provide.  We were still ahead of Evan, though.  He had not learned any sign language at all. 

            Prior to leaving for China, I had notified the Special Education department that they would have a new deaf kindergarten student coming.  When we finally arrived home, I called again and confirmed that Evan was here.  Lynne Phillips, the wonderful Principal of Marshpoint, somehow instantly coordinated a meeting with about ten of the people who would be involved in planning for Evan’s success. 

            I vividly remember sitting at the conference table as everyone introduced themselves.  I laid out the challenge ahead:

             “I adopted Evan from China.  He has spent the last three years in an impoverished orphanage.  He is profoundly deaf.  He does not speak.  He has only used informal gesturing to communicate.  He only knows a few signs I have taught him.  Evan probably lip reads Mandarin Chinese, so all of your mouths will be moving the wrong way.  Evan seems extraordinarily bright.  He had never seen the alphabet before, but he is already able to identify some letters after just a short time of doing flash cards.”   Stares from around the table.   Then discussion.  Questions.  More discussion.  Heads shaking. Strategies.  How do you teach a boy without words?

            I showed the group Evan’s notebooks from China.  In his little class in the orphanage, they were trying to teach him to write in Mandarin.  Tiny, intricate, Mandarin characters filled row after row of small squares in the notebook.  They were in awe; as was I.  Evan’s fine motor skills were certainly developed beyond our typical Kindergarten student.  If Evan could achieve this in an orphanage setting, what could he do with all the resources here?

              I left the group that day hopeful.  Evan would have an ASL interpreter and a Deaf/HOH teacher.  He would be in an inclusion room with other children.  The beginning would be difficult not only because of the speech and language deficits, but because Evan was somewhat used to being on his own.  The primary goal for the year was to give Evan words – a language; while simultaneously teaching him the Kindergarten curriculum and socializing him to follow rules and use manners. We were getting ready to climb a mountain.  Everyone at that conference table had years of experience.  No one had ever dealt with a case like Evan before.

            Evan has spent the past three-quarters in Aida Avendano’s Kindergarten class.  Mr. Schvarcz is the indispensible para-professional in Ms. Avendano’s room. Debbie Barefield is Evan’s interpreter, and Claire Rogers is Evan’s Deaf/ HH teacher.  Mrs. Powell also spent weeks with Evan this year, filling Claire’s shoes when she took maternity leave.  Cindy Robinson is the school audiologist who has been a tremendous resource also.   Fran Huneke is the Speech Pathologist who works with Evan.  I am sure there are many more people I should mention and thank, so I will extend my gratitude to the entire Marshpoint community for welcoming and working with Evan this year.

            Evan can now identify all of his letters.  He is reading small sight word books.  His ASL vocabulary has surpassed mine. Evan comes home and teaches us signs! Evan comes home most days with a “happy face” for good behavior. He participated in the Kindergarten Christmas show, signing the songs as his class sang.  He recently came home with a paper with sentences he wrote.  

            Evan is no longer a boy without words.  He described his Oatland Island experience as well as any other kindergarten student that day.  As I watched him sign about the different animals, Evan had a big smile.  I had a bigger one.  Ben and I understood what Evan was telling us.  More importantly, Evan was confident that we understood him.  In that moment, it was clear how far this little boy had come.  Yes, Evan has a long way to go.  Academically, it will be an uphill climb to help him become fully literate.  But, the team at Marshpoint has helped us scale this first peak.  This is my love letter to them.  I am forever grateful.  I am in awe.