Black and White

This morning Cole Patrick and Brendan were bickering about Legos--squabbling as brothers will, when I told Cole Patrick that I was going to sell him to gypsies for 27 cents (a frequent "threat" given to C.P.; no offense intended to any gypsies reading this blog). Cole Patrick gave me an ornery look and said, "You wouldn't do that because I am one of your REAL children."

Cole Patrick knew exactly what he was doing as he looked for my reaction. I know he is testing boundaries in our "new" family. Fortunately, being three, Brendan did not understand what C.P. was saying, but Cole Patrick was clearly advised that such talk would not be tolerated in our home. The vehicle by which our children came to our family does not matter--whether birth or adoption, the end result is the same--they are each equally members of our family.

Cole Patrick has clearly mastered his new role as "middle child". In eight months, we have all quickly shifted roles. We went from what Jason's grandmother calls a "king's family," a boy and a girl, to a transracial adoptive family, complete with a classic middle child. Now I will tell you, I am not much for labels--I don't really like them, but I do understand that people have the need to describe life around them, so, I am not personally offended that to some on our Base we have become, "You know, that white family with the little black boy."

Before I go further into becoming a transracial family, let me say that I do not intend to offend any one--if I do offend you, it is not intentional. Please keep in mind that this is all new to me--these are just my feelings and recently formed opinions. In fact, I would not be surprised if I read this in a year, and felt completely different. Mostly, I am just being honest about how it is right now.

To me being a transracial family feels a bit like standing over a chasm with one foot on each side, and each side hesitating to pull you over. Now I probably feel this way mostly because it is still fresh for me. Living 40 years as a white person, and then becoming mama to a black child has left me feeling a bit unsure of where we fit in. We even struggled with words--is black or African-American more appropriate? At first, Aidan would whisper "black," unsure what to say--we are figuring this out ourselves, and we will stumble. Right now, some people are clearly supportive--and many, I just can't read yet. Fortunately, I have not yet met anyone who was obviously opposed to our choice, but I am aware those folks are out there.

Unlike many adoptive parents, I don't receive many questions--lots of looks, yes, but not questions. I recently mentioned to a friend, who is black, that I am most wary of what blacks think of us. She responded, "You are right to feel that way. That is where you will receive the most criticism." Ugh, I had been hoping my intuition was wrong!

When we began our home study, one of the first sessions felt like a test of character. We were presented a battery of questions to determine match later. Among them, of course, "Would you take a child of another race?" We were always open to a child of any race--that was never a question for us. We read at least as many books about "transracial adoption" as we did about adoption itself. That being said, books only prepare you so much. I have had many people--always whites--say to me, "Times have really changed. Being a different race isn't a big deal anymore." I don't really agree with that. I don't mind people being curious--our family receives looks, we probably always will--but not all the looks are the same.

Going into this I was prepared for the obvious: the hair, the skin, the staring. Thanks to a few awesome black and biracial moms, I believe I have conquered the hair and skin. As for the looks, like I said, the curiosity will always be there--we're different. The area I had not aptly prepared myself for is being a mom to a black male.

The shooting of Trayvon Martin happened here in Florida, just two days after our official adoption of Brendan. I remember late one evening feeling complete shock as I more fully realized the responsibility we had as Bren's parents. Being white, in many ways, I am completely naive; I had not realized how differently people can be treated based on race. I had just read a New York Times article written by a young black student about how he has to dress certain ways when he goes to certain places, and how young black men always receive "the talk" from their parents. I do not mean the birds and the bees talk, but the talk about how to act when stopped by police--and how that can mean the difference between freedom and jail or even life and death. As a white person, I found this infuriating--I mentioned it to a black friend and she matter-of-factly replied, that is just the way it is.

I imagine I will continue to struggle with this--especially as Brendan grows, and we have many more experiences with how the world sees us--both positive and negative. In our own family, I have pretty much reached the point where I look at my babies, and I hardly notice the difference in color--Aidan, Cole Patrick and Brendan are our children--our REAL children. Period.

Journey to Mama

"Mommy! Where are you?" called Brendan as I transferred a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. "Just hang on, Sugar Bear, I'm coming right back upstairs," I replied. But he came down and found me. Many moms may sigh, longing to lose the shadow for a moment. Even I have been known to "hide" in the laundry room for a few moments of serenity. Ah, but not with Brendan--at last he is seeking me out! Praise the Lord!

When we were going through certification to adopt, I often thought it would be so much harder for the parents who were adopting without already having biological children. Afterall, they would have no basis for "normal"? They would constantly wonder whether behavior was "normal". Well, I don't mean to brag, but I am pretty much par for the course in being wrong about adoption...already having children, you know the behavior isn't normal, and as a mama, that can be devastating...not exactly better.

The first day Brendan came to his new home.

Closing in on eight months since Bren joined the Wright clan, and I believe I am just now seeing signs that when he calls me "mommy," he really means "Mommy". Aidan & Cole Patrick nearly cling to me. They are always close, wanting to share, to be touched and held. Sometimes I think if they could, they would climb right back in!

Bren didn't look for me; he didn't reach for my hand; he didn't call out "Mommy." He was independent, but not in a good way...in a way that made my heart ache. He would wander aimlessly through the house, playing by himself and never seeking me out. In the car, he didn't converse with me like Aid and C.P., he stared out the window with a look beyond his almost three years. I already had children, so I knew these behaviors weren't "normal," or at least not for bio kids.

I don't really know any one else who has had a toddler/preschool adoption, so I have no basis for comparison, but I believe adoption at this age is unique because he is at such a key developmental stage. Parents adopting from birth know their children, well, from birth...parents who adopt "older" children can at least (possibly) communicate more effectively with them. Brendan is three--he hasn't developed the capability to commuicate in-depth feelings, and what he does communicate may not be complete reality. He is trying to figure out himself and how he fits into this world. He doesn't totally understand...and either do we. I am trying to walk the fine line of encouraging him to develop the natural independence that comes with being a three-year-old while simultaneously learning to depend on us. If not walked correctly, I know this can be a contradiction. I am desperately trying not to mess up.

I've said it countless times: adoption is a journey. There is no instant gratification--unlike what a part of me expected, rainbows and ponies did NOT come with the adoption decree. Adoption is a slow, hard-earned reward, the kind that you cherish the most. Tonight I tucked Bren in, and he could not sleep. He came down looking for me and asked me to lay in bed with him. He clung to me and caressed the skin on my arm. We're not there yet, but we are miles closer than we were.

Before Being Wright

I am a huge overthinker...and I can overthink ANY THING. Add that to adoption, and you have one of my greatest struggles. I have limitless questions that have impossible answers; it is enough to drive any one crazy, but mix that with an overthinker, and you have the recipe for many sleepless nights.

My questions started even before Brendan was our match. I would endlessly wonder about "nature vs. nuture." I would call my sister, who is a scientist, and pick her brain wanting to know what is pre-determined and what is influenced by how you are raised. Genetics vs. enviroment--you know, light stuff. As you can imagine, I would always end up more lost and confused (she uses REALLY big words)...and of course, these are impossible questions. All the time, I knew I just had to use faith to calm my fears, but sometimes I am more on the way to being that person than I am already that person!

The first photo we ever saw of Brendan

Once we were matched, the overthinking shifted into high gear. Now I had specific questions, fears, thoughts...I know nearly everything that has ever happened to Aidan and Cole Patrick. I know what they like, what they don't like, what scares them, what movies they have seen, what foods they have tried, where they have visited...every thing. I also know what I did and did not do before they were born. I wondered about his birth mom and dad, who we know very little about. What did they look like? Did they still live in this city? Were they still alive?

One of our dogs spent a year as a stray before we adopted her. Sometimes I look at Emma and say, "Emma Bean, what were you doing for a year??" If I am wondering that about our pup, you can imagine the questions pinging through my head about our new son. Beyond the obvious of what do you like and not like. I would wonder about all the unknowns--I would overanalyze everything--I still do. At first he kept confusing our two dogs: Emma is black, and Sophie is brown. I would be perplexed, asking my husband if we should be concerned. He can't tell the dogs apart--is there something wrong with him? He pointed with his middle finger instead of his pointer--why would he do that? He threw a tantrum--is he aggressive? He doesn't know his colors--is he developmentally delayed? It did not help that I couldn't, still haven't fully, conjured up my memories of how Aidan and Cole Patrick were at three-years-old. I suspect that lack of memory about three-year-olds is much like the memory of childbirth, programmed by God to be quickly forgotten so that we will actually reproduce again.

Last night, I was fixing dinner, and Aidan asked me to come in the living room. Brendan was telling her something she didn't understand, and she thought he was saying "mommy." It turned out Brendan was actually talking about the little girl he was raised with from birth. He was talking about her being at "the other house" and some of the things they did there (although he mentioned doing donkey kicks at the other house, and I am a pretty sure the donkey kick IS a Wright signature dance move, so I think some of his memory was him just trying to figure out reality).

Bren has been with us since last October, and this is the most he has ever talked of his foster family. We thought it was odd that he never asked for them (Was there something wrong with him??). Every once in a while he would briefly say something, but it would pass quickly. I was caught off-guard. I had no idea what to say. Along with the foster family, we had decided not to maintain a relationship--once Brendan moved to our house, they were not seen again.

To be honest, Jason and I have just hoped that soon enough he would never remember a time before being part of our family. At first I panicked, my heart was racing, and I was tempted to just ignore it or act like he was crazy...but that wouldn't be right. I am his Mom; I had to acknowlege it and comfort him. He finished talking and gave me a big hug. I explained to him that he was a part of our family and always would be. I don't know what triggered last night's thoughts and memories for him...maybe it was Jason packing to go TDY, maybe he misses his foster family, maybe it is just...normal. Of course, I am overthinking it, but I realize I will never really know what happened before us. With time, the past and even our transition will fade, and we will all struggle to remember a time in our family before Brendan.

The Food War

Before I continue too far, I want to make sure that any one reading this does know I wholeheartedly support adoption: foster care, international, private--whatever it takes! I know at times it may sound like I am negative, but this is not the case...I am honest. I remember during our certification courses, the instructors were painting this vivid, nearly horrifying picture of some of the behaviors we might see in children from foster care, you could feel the tension suffocating the room as we all doubted our path. Jason, always the funny guy, raised his hand and asked, "Do you even want us to adopt?" The class and instructors burst into laughter. Like life, adoption has its ups and downs--to this point in my life, it is the hardest thing I have done, but I do not regret it, and I would do it again.

So, the food war...we are now seven months into Brendan being our son, and the dust from the food war is just starting to settle. I don't want to ruin the ending, but it is important for me to say, "I won." Unfortunately, that is not withstanding some mistakes that may have been made along the way, but I don't think they were "future therapy-level" mistakes.

Here we have Brendan, the almost three-year-old, who loves chicken nuggets, fries and juice, and then you have me, the parent, who doesn't do chicken nuggets, fries and juice. Add in the fact that I don't often bend rules, and Brendan is strong-willed, and each night we would met at the battlefield, er, the dinner table.

Before battle...he definitely has the cute advantage!

Brendan came to us not drinking milk, not eating vegetables and only eating bananas and apples for fruit. The milk and vegetables were not negotiable. I did not lightly go to war over food. I believed two things were happening that could have long-term impact if not swiftly managed. First, I think Brendan had already formed an unhealthy relationship with food. He showed signs that he was eating for reasons other than to fuel his growing body. Secondly, he had unhealthy food habits, including food that lacked proper nourishment for a developing child and portions that were too large for a three-year-old.

Some of the change came pretty smoothly, he asked for juice a lot, and I offered milk or water. Slowly, he started to drink milk and has even come to really like it, and naturally, stopped asking for juice. Vegetables were another story. Each night we would face off over the veggies. For about five months, I literally dreaded dinner--a time that I had previously cherished as we all gathered to give thanks and share the highlights of our day, had become a series of refusals, demands, time-outs and crying...at the lowest point, I believe I ended up under the table in fetal position...but we don't need to go there...

In some ways, sadly, I think that before us, Brendan just sort of existed. He was tolerated and given his way to prevent tantrums. As a parent I have come to strongly believe that children thrive on boundaries--boundaries show that you care enough to say "no" when it would be easier to say "yes". Aidan and Cole Patrick can recite my "I am not your friend" speech by heart..."I am not here to be your friend. My job is to raise you to be kind, responsible citizens who contribute to the greater good of society..."

Brendan quickly embraced many boundaries. He loved the no shoes in the house rule and reminds every one that enters our home to remove their shoes. He also likes to ensure that all shoes are safely deposited in the appropriate person's shoe basket, which is awesome because this isn't a strong point for other family members...Brendan reminds all that we pray before dinner, we don't speak with our mouths full, and we keep our elbows off the table. Brendan thrived on having a routine. He quickly came to expect that we take Aidan and Cole Patrick to school, go for a run, have a snack, read books, nap, have lunch and go back to school for pick-up. If I did any thing out of order, he would correct me, and I almost felt him let out a huge sigh that things were falling into place.

I am happy to say now that Brendan readily eats vegetables! He prefers broccoli, but eats sugar snap peas, green beans, peas and even asparagus on a regular basis. He eats strawberries, blueberries, watermelon, blackberries and kiwi. He will now try almost anything and likes most foods he tries. In the end, really, we all won. It was not easy, but Brendan has healthy food habits that will likely serve him for a lifetime. Amen.

Brendan

Before I delve into some of our challenges and rewards and more challenges, let me tell you a bit about our little guy. We learned that we had been matched with Brendan Michael (what we named him) on 12 October 2011. On 18 October we went to diclosure, which is where you read the child's file, including medical history and all known facts surrounding the birth parents and the termination of parental rights. On 22 October 2011, we met Brendan for the first time, and by 25 October, he was staying at our house on a daily basis.

Life was a whirlwind. We basically had two weeks to do what most parents do in nine months. I had to research car seats and strollers, buy clothes and completely rearrange my schedule. Life quickly became an emotional rollercoaster...and then the "transition" period began, and it was more like an emotional tornado.

Returning Brendan to his foster home 10/28/12

In foster care, there is a period where you transition the child from foster home to adoptive home. Under Florida law, once the child is placed, he must live with the adoptive family for a minimum of 90 days before the family can go before court to officially adopt. I am not a "transition" type of girl--I am more of a "rip the bandaid off quickly and let's get on with the healing" type of person. This period, for me, was just awful. It seemed that Brendan didn't really belong to any one.

During the first two weeks, I would drop Aidan and Cole Patrick at school, then drive to the north side of Tampa to pick up Brendan. Then he would spend all day with our family and after dinner and bath, we would return him to the foster home each night. This is when we first learned that we really had to advocate for Bren. It reached the point that he would kick and scream every time I put him in the car seat because he didn't know where he was going. The adoption agency kept telling us that we couldn't "rush" it, that already the adoption was moving faster then most, but we insisted that the back and forth HAD to stop. On 04 November, Brendan spent the night at our house for the first time, and we never took him back to stay at the foster home. By 22 November, he was permanently placed in our custody, which started our 90-day time clock. 

One of my personal beliefs about adoption is that it is the best possible answer to human problems. God intended Brendan to be with his birth mama and daddy, but for whatever reason, when they couldn't answer that call, God called us up to the show. I have no doubt that Brendan's life will be 100 times better because we adopted him, but I do not believe that we "saved" him or that he was originally intended for us. But he IS ours--just as much as Aidan and Cole Patrick. While they came to us by birth, he came to us by adoption, but his adoption is just that, an action of the past--not a definition of who he is. Brendan WAS adopted, and now he IS our son.

I don't know much about Brendan's first 2-1/2 years. I tend to feel that his story before 22 October 2011 is just that--his story, not mine. I believe that as far as coming to adoption, he had one of the best possible scenarios. As best I can tell, his birth parents were largely unselfish--they seemed to recognize their inability to parent quickly, by two weeks he was in foster care and there was not a long drawn out fight to keep parental rights, and a huge factor in adoption: he had been with the same foster family since he was two weeks old, so he had developed healthy bonding and attachment skills.

Once he was living with us full-time, and the honeymoon was starting to fade, it became apparent that his foster family ran their home differently than we do, and the struggles began. I tend to imagine that before us, he spent a lot of time at day care, a lot of time in front of the television, and a lot of time just figuring it out for himself. I don't say that to judge--I don't know their situation, and I haven't walked in their shoes, but I think it is fair to say there were not many boundaries or a great deal of one-on-one interaction. Now break to the Wright Place, which one might call a wee bit structured.

I am what many would call a "rule-follower" and with that, our home has a variety of family rules. On top of the rules, I am also a bit strict about food. So take Bren, who we have determined did not have boundaries and calls pretty much every thing either juice, chicken nuggets or fries, add him to our equation, and we were about to begin what consumed much of our first six months together: a period that I call "The Food War."

Putting it in Perspective



Big shoes to fill

Memorial Day. As a proud Army family, this day holds extraordinary significance. This day is a sobering reminder of what our lives are a part of, and the mission that is so much bigger than any of us.

We began today with a run in honor of a fallen friend. I was proud that all three children happily accompanied us on the trail, understanding as much as each of them could that we ran so that those who protect our freedom will never be forgotten.

Future Cadets

Little Airborne

Being a military family is the greatest honor. We thank those who have made the greatest sacrifice so that we may live free. We honor those who we are honored to live and serve alongside. Ours is truly a life of blessings. Thank you to all who serve this one nation under God. Hooah!





Our Hero

Krazy

We have what many would consider a unique story. We are a military family with two biological children and seven months post adopting from the U.S. foster care system. This also puts us seven months into our lifelong journey of being identified as a transracial family, which honestly, still seems weird to say.

I am really not sure where our story begins. Many people in the adoptive community can eloquently recite how they were led to adoption. I am not one of those people. Looking back, we are certain we were led by God and that He definitely guided us, but at the time it felt like we were often, at best, just treading water.

Jason and I have been married 13 years. Jason is an Army officer, and we have two biological children: a daughter, Aidan, age 10, and a son, Cole Patrick, age 8. Like many people, we always viewed adoption as something we'd like to do. But the journey between saying "We' think we'd like to adopt" and ACTUALLY adopting is long, and well,...unexpected.

We took our first step while stationed at Fort Lewis, Washington, in early 2009. We started looking at an international adoption from Korea. After going to our first meeting and reviewing all the paperwork, we decided it wasn't the right time. Jason was preparing for a year-long deployment to Iraq, and quite frankly, the cost overwhelmed us. Discouraged, we placed it on the back burner. While Jason was in Iraq, a friend casually said to me, "Have you ever considered adopting from foster care?" Well, no, not at all...in fact, I don't know why, but the thought had never occured to either of us.

At that time, we knew once Jason returned, we would next be assigned to MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. I also knew that Jason would be home for a while--long enough to adopt--we had a window. So, I did my research on adopting from foster care in Florida.

By the time we reached Florida in the summer of 2010, we were ready to go! We signed up for the first information session available in September 2010, and shortly thereafter began the classes necessary to become certified to adopt from foster care in Florida. The ten-weeks of classes were definitely aimed at weeding out the people who weren't serious, ready or otherwise not likely to succeed at adoption. I can't honestly say that the classes prepared us to adopt, but I don't know that anything can prepare you for adoption. Every story is individual and unique, and ours is not any different.

Nearly nine months after our home study was completed, we were losing hope that adoption was in His plan for us. In fact, just as we started to accept this, we received a call from our Family Adoption Specialist. A two-year-old boy was available and ready to go to match, were we interested? Within ten days, we were matched, had gone to disclosure and met our new son. Our heads were spinning!

Seven months later, the spinning is just starting to slow down...or I am just becoming accustomed to it! Recently, I felt bold enough to say, "Hey, I think others might benefit from our story." There are lots of adoption stories blogged, and they are all unique--when I have searched to find someone else with a similar journey, I have come up empty-handed. It is my hope that through this blog we can reach the one other family like us...! ;-)

A friend suggested the name, "Down Wright Crazy." I loved the play on words of our last name and decided not to wonder if she really thinks we are crazy...?! As we start to lay out and design the blog site, we were discussing the look, and Aidan piped in with the streaming enthusiam that only a 10-year-old girl can truly give justice, "Are you spelling "crazy" with a "K"? You should spell "crazy" with a "K" because any time I am trying to emphasis "crazy", I spell it with a "K" because that is just crazy...!" Or, rather, krazy. With this conversation (which I probably should be ashamed to admit, did go on for some time), I realized, "Yep, we're crazy"...or krazy...