The Pattern Trap

Whoops!! I published this to this, my old blog, when I meant to add it to No Hands But Ours, and to my current, active blog: Raising Devils. I hope you'll click through to me there.



I've been re-reading some old blog and journal entries from our first weeks home with Rory. Mostly, I'm seeing how amazingly far we've come (and how painful it was to get there). But then there was this, taken from an incident just two months after we came home from China. (Because of her foster home, Rory spoke some basic English when she first arrived.)

I decided to make Rice Krispie Treats with Wyatt.
I read Rory a book first. When Wy ran to get the cereal, she strode confidently into the kitchen.
“I help too!”
“No, this is Wyatt’s job. You can help with dinner.”
“But I help too! I wan’ do butter!”
“No, Wyatt is going to butter the pan. Wyatt is going to put the marshmallows in. I will give you a marshmallow to taste, but this is Wyatt’s job.”
Rory wasn’t happy. She wasn’t happy while Wyatt dropped butter into the pan to melt. She wasn’t happy when Wyatt added the first bag of marshmallows. She wasn’t happy when he got to hold the wooden spoon, and at that point, I turned her firmly around and walked her out of the kitchen and around to a seat on a barstool.
“You can watch,” I said. “But you have to stop asking to help. This is Wyatt’s time.”
She pulled in a deep breath and I put a hand over her mouth.
“And if you start to cry or scream, you have to go upstairs. This is Wyatt’s time. When we are done, you can help make dinner, and Wyatt won’t help.”
A long moment passed, me with my hand over Rory’s mouth and Rory glaring at me above my fingers. I removed my hand and waited. If she started to scream, Wyatt’s “time” was over: I’d have to drag her upstairs, put her in her room, hold the door shut and go through the entire tantrum ritual. By the time we were done we’d be lucky if I had time to cook dinner, let alone finish the Rice Krispie Treats.
Instead, she nodded. I went back to Wyatt, so happy I handed him six mini marshmallows and gave as many to Rory. We were on! We were making Rice Krispie Treats, just like in the old days! Wyatt began to stir.
“Is I good girl, Mommy?”
“Yes, you’re a very good girl. Wyatt, get the spoon down to—“
“I very patient.”
“Yes, you’re very patient. Get the spoon all the way down to the bottom and—“
“I good patient girl?”
“Yes. Keep stirring, Wyatt.”
“Is you done yet?”
“No. Ok, let’s add the next bag of marshmallows.”
“Is my turn yet?”
“No. Here, let me help with the bag…”
And so on. Yes, she was patient. Yes, she was a good girl. Yes, she would get a turn next. Yes, she would help with dinner. Wyatt never said much at all. I made dinner, with Rory’s “help,” and then I locked myself in the bathroom for half an hour.


I read that with disbelief—because Wyatt and I made Rice Krispie treats yesterday, and—minus the initial teetering on the edge of tantrum—I could have written that fresh today.

Rory and I have fallen into a pattern. One of my favorite writers, Sarah Susanka, says "a conditioned pattern is a set of actions and responses that you've set to replay on automatic because it worked for you once a long time ago ... and you've continued to replay the same pattern every time the circumstances arise ever since." She says these patterns come from our hidden beliefs: in Rory's case, that if I'm not constantly acknowledging her presence, I'll forget her, and in mine, that I need to respect that need of hers even when it's to Wyatt and my detriment.

This isn't our only similar pattern. I've found a couple areas in which Rory and I are still saying—-to the word—-the exact same things we were saying to each other two years ago. I thought we'd come so far--but it one particular area, that of Rory competing for my attention--we're still very much trapped. And it's not good for either of us. I'm getting more and more impatient in my responses, and Rory is getting more and more desperate in her attempts.

And--this is key--I can't change Rory's behavior. I can only change me, and hope that my change helps her change. So, what am I going to do, the next time she goes with her frontal assault on my interactions with a sibling? I have a couple of ideas.

I've tried getting it out in the open (I've been aware of this as an issue, just not how long ago it started and how precisely, eerily similar our conversations are). "I love you so much, Rory," I say, "But I'm reading with Lily now." Or even "I know it's hard for you to see me work with Sam and not you, but I will work with you when I am done—IF you don't say anything else while I work with Sam."

That last one works--sort of. In that circumstance, she'll stand there, as close to us as possible, without speaking. Told to stand somewhere else, she stands on the edge of wherever she's supposed to be. In other words, she does as much as she possibly can of her pattern unless specifically, in so many words, required not to--to the point where giving her the instruction to get her out of the way is as time-consuming and attention-getting as, well, she wants.

I'm writing those off as failures. Here's my current plan: I'll ask her to do something for me. Something that should take her a long time. Something that should get her brain doing something else during the tough moments when she's not in what she perceives as the inner circle of my attention. But it can't always be the same thing. In other words, this is going to be a pain in my ass for a while. But two years of agreeing that she's a good, patient girl--when really she's NOT--aren't good for either of us. This is a pattern we've got to break free of.

I'm welcoming any other ideas!

Come to Raising Devils!

If you're here, you probably found me through a comment on another blog. That's the Blogger way: no links to outside blogs! But I still blog regularly, just not here--not anymore. Please visit me at RaisingDevils.com, where I blog (and bitch) about family bonds, balance and blend--and, of course, adoption, parenting and all things family.

KJ--aka Lola Granola

Goin' Public (at least for now)

This has been what I thought of as my "non-local" blog--the place I could write things that I might not want read by, say, the other moms in Bart's class.

But things are happening fast, and I'm blogging it all in the same place: Raising Devils. Please meet me there!

Waiting...

Waiting fr our referral. I almost don't want to post, or say or do anything, for fear of jinxing it. And the kids are ALL OVER THIS. They talk all the time about their sister who is coming. They tell friends, which has led to some interesting discussions in odd places, like the changing room at hockey, since although they all know kids who were adopted they just never think about it.

We are learning mandarin at a record pace, and if asking "what color is that?" "What is your name?" or What animal is that?" will help in China, we are all set. We can also tell people they have cute hats. In fact, if the hats are red, blue, green, yellow, orange or purple, we can tell them they have a cute ___ hat. I have a feeling that unless they speak very slowly, or are a panda bear hand puppet, we will not be able to understand anyone else at all.

1-171 Thingy

Obnoxious--we sent in our Homestudy, and five days later (including a weekend) we had our approval. After all the reading of timelines and the 1-800a process, I was expecting a three month wait. But happily, the I-600 still seems to be rolling along.

Our preliminary papers head off to China to be matched with a referral in the next few..weeks? months? Who knows. All depends on who waits in those orphanages. 6 more just got added to our program, so I envision lots of kids, waiting--like a store with Cabbage Patch Dolls that didn't open until hours after all the other stores had been cleared out or something. I envisioned the two initial orphanages as getting rather cleaned out. I know that's not true, but it does seem like youngish girls with mostly minor needs (we have a few slightly biggy-er ones we can deal with) go like hotcakes. Everybody wants a girl? Why is that? For me, it's A) because Gertie needs a sister and won't let me pick out her clothes and B) a Chinese girl is only half different from me.

Adoption Week (OK, Adoption Hoop Week)

For me, this is the week of adoption hoops. Tomorrow: Doctor's appointment. Friday: social worker. Saturday (supposed to be a BEAUTIFUL day): adoption education, 9-5. I mean, I would normally kind of enjoy that, but we don't get THAT many beautiful Saturdays. But okay.

And those are pretty much my hoops. After that I'm good--have to notorize a couple of letters and do the home meeting, but generally, nothing big left. Kind of amazing, that.

We have told my parents, and another set of friends--one is a pediatric plastic surgeon, so he knows his stuff on clefts and of course, that's a possibility, so we had to get the scoop. 

But that's what's up! My enthusiasm level is back, too. I'm in for the ride now.

I Should Be Really Excited

We commited. We're in, to the tune of about five grand. Agency fees and home study fees.

And we're kind of avoiding the subject. I sent perky little emails to the home study social worker and the agency people, all about fingerprinting and yes, limb differences are ok as long as it's not legs...Oh great.

What are we doing? Have we lost our minds? Is life not hard enough with three little kids that we feel compelled to add a toddler with some kind of issue who doesn't speak the language and has been raised in a Chinese orphanage and will probably hate us for weeks and then need all kinds of special this and that and the other--speech therapy, ESL, who knows what? Beau will bite her and Gertie will push her off of things and Bart will just moulder away from neglect.

Part of me says this is the same stuff I would think if I were pregnant. Well, except for the whole Chinese thing, but you know what I mean--the this is going to be a disaster of enormous porportions thing. Ginormous, even.

But we could turn back. Five grand is nothing if this is really the wrong decision...even as I type that I know that's not what I want either. But I don't feel like I thought I'd feel.

Probably only the beginning.