After what seemed a very long time, we finally loaded him into our borrowed car seat so we could grab dinner on the way to the hotel for our first night as a family of five. There was no turning back because he was here and we had paid and signed the papers.
|Our first moments in the car...just pulling away.|
Despite the fact that I asked the foster family every question I could think of at the time, I had a dozen more before we hit the drive-thru. I didn't know what to order for him, I didn't know what he would eat, and they hadn't told me that he thought his ear-splitting screech was tremendously funny. Add to that, every time I looked into the backseat, there was a third person there. Not a baby who only has a few basic needs but a screeching, hurting, adorable, 35 pound, well-muscled toddler who could almost outrun all of us. (Read your What to Expect the 2nd Year book...it says toddlers LEARN to run around 18 months. Our little guys was already quite adept at running.)
Honestly, that first night was not glorious. It was hard as we remembered how to diaper a wiggly child, discovered he didn't want to eat any of the food we bought, and cried himself to sleep not wanting any comfort at all from us.
The next day we headed to a borrowed condo about an hour away. It was the absolute worst place for a busy toddler being filled with breakables and floor to ceiling mirrors but it was free and right on the beach. There was no way to try and establish a routine that first day so we concentrated on fun and love. We moved in, pulled out toys, visited the beach, and did some shopping after he cried himself to sleep again.
The next day we were scheduled to visit his birth mother at a restaurant of her choosing. She wanted to see him with us, wanted to meet us. We didn't think it was a good idea. Not good for our son. But the agency insisted that it had to be that way. So we relented.
|Exhausted after the meeting with his birth mother.|
The day after that meeting was mother's day. The absolute hardest day of my life. Ever. We had been cooped up in the car all the day before so I told my family I would happily put our son down for his nap and my husband could take the girls to the beach for a few hours. I would have a chance to relax while he slept, I thought. But about the time the door clicked shut our previously calm boy began to rage.
I dropped to the floor, holding on as best I could so he wouldn't smash his head on the tile if his attempt to launch out of my arms succeeded. What followed was three and a half exhausting hours. I sang, I prayed, I held, I let go and stayed close. I cried and talked softly and lovingly. I prayed some more. I sat silent. All the while, he screamed and pushed and kicked and worked to get far away from me. After over an hour, I finally put him in the pack-n-play to give my body a rest and keep him from hurting himself as he writhed around. But I stayed and tried to touch and talk and sing and comfort. When Paul finally returned, I calmly handed our son to him saying he hadn't slept and wouldn't eat but was probably hungry. Then I returned to the bedroom to cry again. I was hurt, overwhelmed, and a little terrified.
Then God spoke to me and reminded me of all the families I had walked through adoption journeys with. They shared stories of their adopted toddlers pushing away one of the parents for a time. But eventually love won out. And in that remembering I was comforted and strengthened for the task ahead.
Read part 3 here.