Not much needs to be said

Eight months ago today, Seth stepped foot in the Denver Colorado airport, and with that step, became a U.S. citizen.  This is his Ukrainian passport picture, taken a few days before we took him out of his orphanage forever. 

These are pics of him taken today, in our backyard, doing what he loves most. 

Swinging. 

Is that transformation even possible?  Can that even be the same little boy?  It is.

Not much more needs to be said.  The pictures say it all.

Families heal little boys.

It's been eight months today, and without a doubt, I've learned even more than he has. Parenting a post institutional kid with special needs is tough stuff. Watching life get breathed into a child again is a phenominal experience and an incredible blessing. I simply cannot even imagine him sitting in that institution, in that wheelchair, waiting for his turn to die.  I just can't.

In other adoption news, our friends the Jobes are about to travel to go get Josiah!!!  I cannot wait for them to hold that little boy in their arms.  I think I will cry as much as Faith.  Josiah has waited far too long for this day.

Valuable lessons learned the hard way

This post is a long time coming.  It's been a busy month of trying to get Seth back on his feet from a surgery that should have been routine, but ended up with us in the hospital for four days.  While I would have gladly skipped all the pain he had, I am glad for the lessons learned and the emotional progress that was made. 

A month ago, Seth went in to have tubes put in his ears for recurring ear infections, and came out less a set of tonsils and adenoids.  During the surgery, the doctor came out and said his tonsils and adenoids were very enlarged and showed signs of continual infection.  This was no surprise to any of us.  His advice was to go ahead and remove them.  Seth woke up from anesthesia weirdly and wildly, in a complete panic and in huge amounts of pain, striking out, hitting, screaming.  Brutal. They were unable to administer pain medication post surgery because he would have spit it out.  We were told to wait til we got home, in order to let him calm down and to allow the anesthesia to completely wear off.  I had a bad feeling about this.

We got home and he flat out refused to take any pain medication in any form.  We tried liquids (which he's always done in the past).  We tried chewables.  We tried quick dissolves.  Nothing worked.  We resorted to a little bit (okay, a lot) of coersion and that resulted in him spitting it out and hysterics....  on everyone's part.  We tried to hide the medication in his food and drink.  He was on to us and wouldn't eat or drink it.  As he felt more pain, he started to refuse food and drink altogether because to eat or drink would require him to swallow, and that wasn't happening.  By Thursday, he was dehydrated and in a great deal of pain.  We called his doctor who told us to get him to the ER to be admitted. 

We got to the hospital and Seth was a nervous wreck.  Long hallways that resemble institutions do this to him.  He has no frame of reference for the word "hospital" and he didn't want to hear what I had to say anyway.  He just wanted me to hold him and he wanted the pain to go away.  Once they had him back to a room, they needed to draw blood for labs and put in an IV to begin rehydration.  At this point, his tongue was so dry there was no moisture at all on it.  He was beginning to fall apart emotionally.  He didn't know where he was or what was going on and he was in significant pain.  The lab tech came in and wonders upon wonders, she spoke Russian.  I asked her to tell him that he's in a hospital, that we were going to help him feel better and that he would be going home with me when it was over.  You could see him visably relax as she talked to him.  Poor baby.  :( 

Amidst wimpers and pitiful cries, blood was drawn and after two unsuccessful attempts, an IV line was put in.  They ran the bloodwork and learned he was definitely dehydrated and needed to be admitted.  We were taken upstairs to pediatrics for IV pain medication and hydration. 

Over the next 24 hours, he got better.  We were able to go to a playroom and paint, to walk the halls, to play in the play area.  He still wasn't eating or drinking, but because of the IV and good medication, he felt better.  That was Friday morning. 

By Friday afternoon, he was spiraling downhill again.  I told the nurse and we tried to figure out why.  He had no energy and refused everything I tried to give him.  He slept a lot.  He didn't want to leave his room.  He couldn't seem to get past the pain.  We added in morphine and he needed it every two hours, like clockwork.  That's not normal for someone three days post op.  Friday dragged into Saturday with no real change, and then it was Sunday.  They couldn't send us home because he still wouldn't eat, drink or take oral pain medications.  We were stumped.  He just wasn't getting better.

One of the low points for me came as we took a walk together through the halls.  He wouldn't allow me to even put him down, so I carried him in my arms.  We passed by a row of cribs, and Seth absolutely scrambled to get into one.  I allowed him to, partially because I was curious.  Sure enough, he instantly curled into a ball and put his thumb in his mouth.  To him, a crib still represented security.  Break. My. Heart. 

Sunday morning, I asked the doctor to take a look in his throat.  We had avoided it up til that point because we knew his throat was messy due to surgery and we knew it would hurt him to allow us to take a look.  The doctor agreed it was necessary and grabbed a tongue depressor, took a look and announced that on top of everything else, he had strep.  No wonder he wouldn't eat, drink or do anything else that required swallowing.  IV antibiotics were started immediately and by Monday afternoon, he was doing reasonably better, not eating much but drinking steadily.  We began coaxing oral meds down him and while it was met with great resistance, I felt I could handle it.  It was time to go home. 

He recovered fairly quickly once home, adding more food and drink as the infection went away.  Two weeks post op, he was eating his body weight in food and trying hard to make up the FIVE POUNDS he lost in less than a week.  That's a lot of weight when you only weigh 40 pounds to begin with.  After a couple days home, he began to take his medication orally again and now, a month later, has gained a whopping NINE POUNDS! 

Aside from a lot of angst and anxiety, Seth's time in the hospital actually came with some up sides.  He likes me to cuddle and hold him, but on his terms, and because he's a busy 7 year old boy, never for very long.  While in the hospital, he wanted me to lay with him, read to him, and hold him a lot.  He allowed me to comfort him. 

He also learned to communicate pain, something that he's never done before.  He did not know to let us know when he hurts.  Why communicate if no one is listening?  He learned that we are listening and that if he lets us know, we will help him, that I, as well as the scary nurses and doctors, was there to make him better.  He would reach up to me, take my hand and wimper.  When he did that, I knew his pain was getting unbearable. 

For four days, he watched me like a hawk.  If I walked out the door, he had to know I'd come back.  One time, early on, I forgot to tell him where I was going and I could hear him crying down the hall.  From then on, I made sure I told him where I was going and that I'd be right back.  It kept him from crying, but he continued to watch me.  He learned I always come back. 

We made big progress in trust while we were in the hospital.  He had to give up control and rely on me and a team of medical professionals, to help him, in a situation that clearly made him nervous.  He had to let us know what was wrong and trust that we would make it better.  He had to figure out a non verbal way to communicate pain.  He had to set aside his anxiety every time I walked out the door, trusting me to come back.  And I did. 

As the doctor and I talked on Monday and decided that we could go home, the doctor looked over at Seth.  Seth was laying there, listening to every word.  He was delighted to hear the word "home". 

The doctor said Seth is amazing, that he's very smart and that he has a will of iron. 

Tell me something I don't know. 

Seth is stubborn.  Seth is strong.  Seth is resiliant.  Seth is a survivor. 

Seth. Is. Amazing! 

A poem on adoption, to Seth:

I copied this from my friend, Faith Jobes, who is currently in process to bring home Seth's little buddy, Josiah.  I read this before Seth was home and I remember it rang true and helped me understand adoption, helped bring together two sides of conflicting emotions, but when I read it today, it just made me incredibly thankful for her. Today, as I love on my children and consider how blessed I am, I'm also thinking of a woman, half way across the world who gave a little boy life.  Now, he's such a blessing in ours. 

Once there were two women, who never knew each other
 One you do not remember, the other you call Mother
 Two different lives shaped to make you one
 One became your guiding star, the other became your sun
 The first one gave you life, the other taught you to live it
 The first gave you a need for love, the second was there to give it
 One gave you a nationality, the other gave you a name
 One gave you talent, the other gave you aim
 One gave you emotion, the other calmed your fears
 One saw your first sweet smile, the other dried your tears
 One sought for you a home, that she could not provide
 The other prayed for a child, and her hope was not denied
 And now you ask me through your tears,
 The age-old question unanswered through the years
 Heredity or environment, which are you a product of?
 Neither my darling, neither
 Just two different kinds of love.

For those of you who don't know, Seth is currently in the hospital.  He had his tonsils and adenoids taken out and tubes put in on Tuesday.  On Thursday, he was admitted for pain management and hydration.  Now, he has strep throat.  He's in a lot of pain.  Please keep him in your prayers that he will feel better quickly. 

Two roads diverged

Once upon a time, in a country far far away, a little boy was born. The beautiful little boy was of Roma heritage, had huge chocolate brown eyes and dark hair. He also had down syndrome. Through circumstances beyond his control, he soon found himself in the area baby house, being raised by caregivers and wondering what happened to his mama. His name was Josiah.

Ten months later, in that same country, another little boy was born. This little boy had blond hair, gorgeous gray eyes and cerebral palsy. He spent the first two months of his life in the hospital. By that time, his mother had already made the decision to not take him home and so he, too, was taken to the baby house. His name was Seth.

Josiah and Seth lived together for several years inside the baby house. Josiah learned to walk, was potty trained and learned to feed himself. He was allowed to play with toys, to get down on the floor. He was a happy boy, with a huge smile, and he craved love. Everyone who met him commented on his sweet personality, his energy and his obvious need for a mother. He needed more love than any caregiver could ever give him.

Seth learned to sit up and pull to a stand, but didn't learn to walk. He was potty trained but was never allowed to feed himself because it would have taken too long. He spent his days in a play pen or in a stroller. He entertained himself by pulling himself up and over the bars of the play pen, getting in and out, over and over, all day long. He was not allowed on the floor, as the floor was dirty for kids who couldn't walk, and they didn't want him to get sick. People who visited him said he was sweet, bright and sought out interaction.

Both Josiah and Seth were housed together in the special needs groupa, located upstairs, away from visitors.  Seth never, ever went outside to play.  He never left their floor. Josiah was able to go out a couple times a week, but only if one particular caregiver could take him.  They'd climb the long skinny spiral staircase down to the door on the bottom floor.  Located on their own floor was a therapy room, a massage room and eventually, a water therapy room. That was their whole world. Their entire existence. For six whole years.

Life in the baby house was generally okay, as far as baby houses went. There was enough food to eat, not enough caregivers, lots of children running around. The director knew each child and made sure they received the care they required. She would not have stood for abuse or obvious mistreatment, but there were never enough caregivers to go around and the kids were largely left to themselves, to entertain any way they could.

One day in October, it was decided that the older children needed to be moved out of the baby house. Those over six years of age would be transferred. That included Josiah, Seth, Liam, Aaron, and Kristina, among others. Several from the special needs groupa. Because they could walk, Kristina, Liam, Aaron and Josiah were sent to a nearby Children's Home, a step down from a baby house, but a huge step up from an institution. The director, knowing Seth's fate because he couldn't walk, asked to keep Seth for a while longer to try to get him walking.

The next eight months were eventful at the Children's Home. Kristina was adopted by Sara Beamish. Liam was adopted by an Italian couple. Aaron was adopted by a Spanish family. Josiah wasn't adopted at all. He waited. At the Children's Home, there was less structure, bigger groupas, less food (although still enough) and poorer quality food. Children adopted from there were known to have regressed because of the lack of general care they were given. Outside, there was old decrepit play equipment to play on. Josiah was allowed out but couldn't leave the caregivers side to play with the other children. His caregivers didn't know how to contain his energy or his spirit. They kept him right beside them.  He stood there and watched the children run around and play. An adopting family said they were worried about Josiah. He had lost considerable weight, looked sad and a little lost, and was absolutely starved for any kind of love and affection. He needed a family to come quickly. Josiah continued to wait.

June came, and time was up for Seth. If he could walk independently, he'd join Josiah and his other friends at the Children's Home. If he couldn't walk, he'd go to the nearest mental institution. Seth still wasn't walking. He arrived at the institution in June. His baby house director said she didn't want to send him there because children go there to die. She said she loved Seth, that everyone loved Seth, because he was such a smart, happy boy and very sweet. That must have been a long, confusing car ride for him. I try not to think about it too much.

He arrived and found out his new home spoke a different language- Romanian. He lost the little verbal skills he had and went non verbal. Because he couldn't get himself to the bathroom, they put him back in diapers. Because he was in a wheelchair, they wouldn't take him into the dining area to eat, and instead insisted on cramming food down his throat and holding his cup while he drank. He was reduced back to a baby. At the institution, there were virtually no toys, no books. Not even a TV in the room where he was. Very few young children and the children who were there were non verbal, communicating mostly in grunts and moans. None of the adults talked to him and even if they had, it was an unknown language anyway. Seth sat in a wheelchair for three months and slowly fell apart. He didn't know it yet, but his family was on their way.

His family arrived in September to find a ghost of a little boy, a child who bore only a slight resemblance to the pictures and description we had. In fact, when we walked in, I had to ask the director which child was Seth. And for several days, it crossed my mind that they had switched children on us. The child in front of us was vacant, disconnected and without hope. I will admit that we were very scared. We committed to him and moved forward, visiting him every day, and seeing small successes and progress being made every time we came to see him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he was coming back.

Then one day in October, Jeremy looked over at one of the outdoor swings. He came over to me and whispered in my ear "That's Josiah". I looked over and sure enough, sitting on the swing was Josiah. He was happy, glad to be outside on a little adventure, happy to feel the sun on his face. He had no idea what was about to happen. But I did. I walked around the building as Josiah suddenly came running by me, running for the car that had brought him. I watched, partially hidden by the building, as Josiah's director from the Children's Home got in the car. Josiah was panicked. He ran to the car and tried to pull the door open, trying to get in, as the car slowly pulled away. Josiah struggled. He wanted in. Where was his director going? Remember, Josiah knew transfer. He had done this once before. But before, he had several friends with him. A few familiar faces. This time, he was alone. Or so he thought.

The new caregivers came over as Josiah started crying and screaming. They peeled him from the car, escorted him away, gave him a cookie and tried to appease him. He shook with sobs and I sobbed with him. It was probably one of the most traumatic things I have ever witnessed. The loss, the fear, the absolute chaos that happens in a child's mind when they are transferred. I cried and fought the urge to go scoop him up and hold him in my arms. I hurt for that little boy. I hurt for him now. That is a loss that no child should ever have to suffer, and he's suffered it three different times- at birth, at transfer from his baby house, and at transfer from the children's home. Witnessing a transfer changed me more than probably any other aspect of our adoption, because now I fully comprehend what that does to a child.  It's not good.

As soon as I could, I found Josiah. It was the next day. He was adjusting reasonably well but looked in shock. He liked being outdoors, a novelty for him. He liked the swing, although they kept him on it more than he wanted. They assigned him an older boy to keep track of him and we'd see them walking around and around the building. The caregivers were patient with him. We noticed they let him feed himself, and so he'd go to the big room to eat with most of the other boys. We also noticed that after a few days, he was back in diapers. One day, I was upstairs using the restroom and I poked my head into the room where I knew Josiah was. There were about ten boys in there, watching a tiny little TV screen attached to the wall. There were no toys or books. Just mats and some benches. Josiah and one other boy were off in the corner, sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, back and forth, staring at the wall....

About this time, Evan and Faith Jobes stepped forward and said they wanted to come get Josiah. Josiah finally had a family! I ached to tell him that, but knew that he'd never understand and even if he did, it would feel like forever to him. I, however, took heart in knowing his time there would be short. Faith and I figured it out and felt like she could be there by February. Only four months. I took pics of Josiah whenever I could, took notes on him for Faith, pushed him and Seth on the swing, wiped his little nose and shared cookies with him. I remember pushing him and another little boy on the swing and every time they'd swing forward, I'd grab Josiah's foot and push to make them go back, and he'd squeal in laughter. He would drink in any amount of attention and love. His big, dark, soulful eyes, gazing intently into mine and I ached because I knew what he needed and I knew she was on the way, but I couldn't tell him. I wanted to say "Hang on Josiah. Mamas coming. Mama will be here soon. Hang on to your sanity. Don't give up. Please Josiah. Don't give up." But I couldn't say that. So I just pushed him on the swing and shared our cookies. And felt hopelessly inadequate and useless.

Josiah and Seth. Two little boys, born just 10 months apart. Together for six years. Separated and brought back together again a year later, in what was probably the most traumatizing event in their lives. Two little boys who took different paths to get there, but both ending up at the same institution. Two little boys with a past. Two little boys with a future.

And then, Seth left....

Seth came home on October 28. He's been home six months now. Josiah still. isn't. home. February came and went. Josiah is still there. Rocking and rocking and hanging on. Josiah's family has hit one snag after another in an effort to get to their boy. They are so close. Agonizingly close. They expect to travel in the next month or two. Josiah is coming home. Were there ever sweeter words spoken?

Josiah's story will have a happy ending. Josiah will have a family. Could you be a part of Josiah's story? Could you donate to help Faith bring Josiah home? They are lacking just a little bit of the funds they need. An anonymous donor has stepped forward and pledged to match donations up to $2500 on any amount now through Sunday. Any amount will help. I don't have anything fancy to offer, because frankly, I stink at fundraising. All I have is Josiah's sad story and how it entertwined with Seth's story in a journey that inevitably saved them both. Was it coincidence that we were there when Josiah got transferred in? Was it coincidence that we witnessed that horrific day? I don't believe in coincidences. I don't believe that's how Heavenly Father works. I believe Seth was where he was and we were where we were so that we would see when Josiah arrived, because Josiah needed it that badly. When Josiah arrived, I contacted Reeces Rainbow, the advocacy group that advocated for Seth and advocated for Josiah. It was shouted from the rooftops, facebooked, and blogged. People who had long loved Josiah from afar screamed for that little boy. That day marked the final hurdle in prompting a family to come forward for a little boy who has always wanted and always craved a mama. The day that Faith wraps her arms around Josiah will be among the happiest days of my life. Josiah has had a long treacherous journey. More than any child deserves. He needs to feel a mama's love. He needs to come home quickly. We've been where he is.  Every day counts. 

Please help Josiah get to his family. All donations are tax deductible and all will make you feel good. You don't have to adopt to help an orphan. You can donate to help other families adopt. If you are here, reading this, it's because you've followed Seth's amazing journey home. You know the difference a family can make for a child. You've witnessed that. Please help Josiah receive that same blessing, the blessing that all children are meant to have- a family.

http://reecesrainbow.org/26162/sponsorjobes-2

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.