Six months home and Seth's amazing transformation

Six months ago today, Seth Aleksey Lunnen stepped off the plane in Denver Colorado and with that step, became an American citizen.  As we flew into Spokane later that night, we prepared to meet our family, his family- his six siblings and a grandma and grandpa.  Seth was tired, overwhelmed, disconnected and probably traumatized.  I doubt he remembers that day.  But we do.  Oh, we do.  Because on that day, we knew his new life would begin.  We could forever walk away from his previous life.  Leave it behind.  Discard it and move on.  Seth was no longer an orphan.  Seth was home.  Forever.  Honestly, I can't even type that without crying.  Seth was home forever. 

It's been a busy six months.  A little boy that didn't warrant any attention or medical care in Ukraine, a boy shipped off to the institution to live out the rest of his life, has become a member of a large and loving family. 

When the time was right, we started him in physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy.  He got AFO's, a wheelchair, a gait trainer, then a walker, as he quickly showed us what he had in him and learned to walk at record speed. He went from a gait trainer to a walker in two months flat, astounding me and his PT's. 

First time in the gait trainer in December:

In his walker this past week:

He got glasses and with that, started seeing the world around him in a whole new way.  He became connected to life.  He learned to feed himself finger foods, then started eating with a spoon and now can use a fork.  He went from a full hand grasp to a pincher grasp in six months, fine tuning his fine motor skills.  He's went from wearing a diaper to using the toilet.  He learned to kiss goodnight, play tickle monster, play peek a boo, make and hold eye contact (okay, still not great, but better), and giggle.  Seth has found life. 

At this point, Seth understands most of what we say.  He has a pretty good receptive vocabulary.  We've heard him say about 20 words in English but isn't using them on a consistent basis.  He communicates his wants and needs by showing me, by moving my hand where he wants it to be, or by going to what he wants.  But the other day, I asked him if he was done on the potty and he said "yes", so it's coming.  I think more speech is coming very soon. 

He is a bright boy.  He learns amazingly fast.  He is going to do very well in kindergarten in the fall.  For now, we're making up for lost time.  He likes water, swinging, exploring the house, snuggling, going on walks, going to the park.  Seth likes freedom.  He delights in his freedom, and we understand why.  He loves to explore every square inch of our house.  He is thrilled with the little things in life.  He finds happiness in things that most children take for granted.  Seth is totally content playing in the backyard or taking a bath.  Anytime he wants to.   

Watching Seth grow has been like watching a butterfly emerge.  One little bit at a time.  Ever so deliberatly.  Ever so steadily.  A little bit every single day.  So smoothly, so seamlessly, that Jeremy and I look at each other and say "Did he just....?".  "Did you see him.....?"  We watch as life is breathed back into a little boy who came so very close to losing it all. 

 The first day we met him, on Sept 18:

Seth, this past week doing puzzles:

Painting with Adam: 

Eating with a fork:

At Shriners with one of his PT's, climbing stairs to the slide:

And Seth continues to amaze.  Just today, his physical therapist at Shriners was shaking her head at how fast Seth was moving in his walker.  It had been a week since she'd seen him last and she could not believe how much he'd improved.  She's already talking about a walker with swivel front wheels and when we can move him to canes. 

Love is an amazing thing.  Love heals little boys. 

Happy 6 months home, Seth. 

You are home. Forever.

Guess Who?

Guess who has been home for almost 6 months?  Yep.  Seth.  Four days will mark six months since we got him out of his institution, and on April 28th, he will have been home for 6 months.

Six months is sort of a milestone in the adoption world.  The first six months is traditionally accepted as the hardest.  By the end of that period, you kind of have your child figured out, he's getting settled in, language is coming together, the enormous amounts of doctor appointments are over and the family has molded together again.  I am very, very happy to be done with the first six months. 

It's really pretty hard to believe it's already been that long though.  It's gone so fast, and yet in many ways, it feels like he's always been here.  He fits that well into our family.  Like we always had a spot waiting for him.  We just needed him to arrive. 

I'm planning a blog post about all the changes we've seen in him, the huge amounts of progress he's made.  He has come so far physically and emotionally.  We went into this fully prepared in so many ways.  We knew the risks.  We knew the likely challenges.  We did not expect this to be easy and without bumps.  His transition has been so smooth.  Not that it's always been easy.  It's just always been easy to love him, and for him to love us.  Watching him open up and become the little boy he was always meant to be has been a wonderful joy and very rewarding. 

We feel so very blessed to have him in our family.  He is a sweet, sweet boy.  He brought with him so much energy, so much determination and so much personality.  He fills that little hole we didn't even know we had. 

Happy "Almost Six Months Home" Seth.....

Healing Seth

This week has been a rough week for Seth, emotionally.  Consequently, it's been a rough week for me too.  Institutionalization damages children.  That's probably news to no one, except perhaps me.  I knew it wasn't good.  I had no idea how bad, because really, I never gave it much thought.  Not because I didn't care, but because it hurts to think of those kids.  It's easier to pretend it isn't happening.  Enter Seth. 

Well, I can attest now that it is happening, and the damage is extensive.  It is expensive to get a child out of an institution and work to give them a better life.  Expensive not just in dollars, but in emotions.  It's hard to watch a child struggle to come to terms with a life that should have been his all along, with blessings that were rightfully his from the beginning, except that everyone who was put in his path to protect him, failed to do so.  And so now, we are putting back together the life of a little boy who is damaged in many ways.  Not damaged beyond repair.  But damaged, nonetheless.

Seth is sweet.  He doesn't tantrum.  Doesn't have food issues.  Doesn't have sleep issues.  He's happy and doesn't require a lot of attention (although he gets it).  He's really very happy with any attention we throw his way, because it's more than he's ever gotten before.  But Seth's whole world existed within the confines of four walls.  If it wasn't in there, it didn't exist.  Imagine the shock to the system when you go from that to a life full of busy siblings, therapy appts, doctor appts, visits to the park, church, library, grocery stores, and walks around the neighborhood.  Anxiety.  Any new situation will produce anxiety in him, until we've "initiated" him into it and he can add it to his list of "experiences".  In Seth's world, anxiety = self stimming.  This week has brought about several new experiences- an ENT appt, walks through the neighborhood (yeah for spring weather) and watching a sister's soccer game.  Each experience is met with the only coping mechanism he has- stimming.  It's hard to watch, because I know it's not based in anything other than a previous lack of exposure to things that are completely commonplace in our everyday lives.  But it wigs him out. 

Wednesday was a particularly hard day because of an ENT appointment.  New building, new doctor and a hearing test.  New experiences.  We took the next day off.  We spent the day doing relaxing things, things we knew Seth happened to enjoy.  He gradually calmed down and felt safe again.  Felt in control again.  I went over to snuggle with him, and like a little gift from God, when I went to kiss him, he puckered his lips and for the first time, kissed me back.  And then he giggled, put his hands on my face, pulled my face to his and kissed me again.  As I sniffed back some tears, I thought about all that was wrapped up in those kisses, what he was telling me, thoughts he cannot yet express with words.  "Mommy, I love you, and I know this is hard.  I'm trying Mommy.  I'm trying so hard to trust you.  This is all so new to me and I'm scared.  I get scared at new experiences.  In some ways, I'm like a baby, just learning.  Please be patient with me.  Keep believing in me.  Don't give up on me, even when you wonder if it's ever going to get better." 

Today was another hard day.  His first soccer game.  As he stimmed, I got the looks.  The looks of pity from adults.  The smirks from snotty kids who have no idea what he's been through.  I wanted to yell: "Don't look at us like that.  You don't know anything about this child.  Don't pity him now.  He has everything he could ever need.  And he's healing.  He's getting stronger and healthier every day.  Pity where he's been.  Pity the children still over there, living in that hell he came out of.  Pity them enough to help them".  That's what I'd say if I could.  Instead, I just tried to keep him from stimming.  And I prayed for the game to end quickly so we could get him home to where he felt safe.  Next game will be better for him.  And every game after that, will be even better.  He will add it to his list of experiences and he will know he can do a soccer game, be safe, and come back home when it's over. 

Security.  Something every child has a right to.  "Mommy, will you love me if I stim?  Will you love me if I do things in public that make you uncomfortable and make people stare?  Will you love me if I'm easily overwhelmed and get scared?  Will you love me if I never walk on my own?  Will you love me if I never talk?  Are you willing to teach me table manners, dress me, help me on and off the potty, possibly for the rest of my life?  Because I'm afraid you won't.  I've had loss before.  Loss of the worst kind.  It's scary to trust again.  Will you love me even if I'm hurting and broken? Will you keep me safe?  Will you keep me?". 

Yes, Seth.  I will.  We will.  We love you.  You, my son, are safe. 

And now, an amazingly awesome picture of an amazingly awesome Seth. 

Happy, loved and healing.