The kids were home for Christmas break and one son in particular was being more than a handful.  This was very uncharacteristic for him.  The first day we thought it was simply childhood Christmas excitement.  By the second day, we were beginning to lose our patience.  When I arrived home this day my wife was almost at her wits’ end.  Nagging, whining, crying, bugging siblings, arguing, you name it.  But why?  Didn’t he know Christmas was almost here?  Had he forgotten that Santa was “making his list and checking it twice?”  Wasn’t he aware of how much mom and dad had to do in order to get ready for Christmas?  For so many reasons, now was not the time for him to be acting this way.

What I did next doesn’t come naturally to me.  Try as I might to ‘practice what I preach,’ I admit that my default reaction to situations like this is to ‘lay down the law.’  But something told me there was much, much more going on than simply bad behavior.  Call it what you will, I like to think of it as my God-given “adoptive dad instinct.” So I said to my son, “Let’s go for a walk.”  And after a little cajoling, he agreed and so off we went.

We walked for a while engaged in nothing but small talk.  Eventually I changed the subject.  “So what’s going on?” I asked. 

“Nothing,” he answered. 

“Of course,” I thought sarcastically to myself.  But I persisted.

“Mom says you’ve really been acting up the last few days,” I continued.  He nodded in agreement.  “That’s not really like you.  Is something wrong?  Are you worried about something?  Maybe upset about something?”

This time he shrugged his shoulders and just kinda hung his head and shook it side to side, ever so slightly.  I’d seen that look before.  It told me I was on the right track.  And then he gave it away. 

“Do I have to tell you?” he asked.  This is the tell-tale question he always asks when he has something he really needs to talk about, but is a little afraid to bring it up.  More often than not the subject is adoption-related.  So I gave him the response I always give when he asks me this question.  “Of course you don’t have to, but you know I always want to hear what you are thinking – no matter what it is.”

And then he practically blurted it out.  “Dad, Christmas just stinks!” he exclaimed.  “I know I am supposed to love it and be having fun, but I just hate it.  I really do.”

It instantly occurred to me that somehow I managed to have the only elementary school-aged child in all of America who actually hates Christmas.  But I quickly asked the obvious question, “Why?”

“Because it makes me really sad,” he said. “It makes me think about my birthmom and my birth family.  I wonder what they are doing.  Do you think they think about me?”

“I bet they do,” I replied.  “No…I am sure they do.  And did you know something else?  You’re not the only kid that thinks Christmas stinks because of that very same reason.”

“I’m not?” he said, finally slowing down to look directly at me. 

I grabbed his hand and we continued.  “No.  You know Ms. Melanie who was adopted when she was a little girl?” I asked. 

“Yeh,” he replied. 

“She’s told me a million times that lots of special occasions, like Christmas, birthdays, even Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, are really hard for her.  She even has a special name for those times that make her kinda sad and make her think of her birth parents and her birth family.  She calls them ‘trigger moments.’  This happens a lot for people who were adopted, and not just when they are kids.  She says that even though she is an adult, it still happens for her sometimes,” I explained.

I’ve always heard the expression “the weight of the world being lifted off of your shoulders,” but I don’t think I’d ever literally seen it happen until this moment.  It was though he realized in an instant that everything he had been feeling and thinking was not only “ok,” it was also very real and quite normal.  And the fact that I was understanding, even if it could not fully understand – that was all he seemed to need.

Our walk lasted over an hour as we continued talking about what he had been feeling and processing over the past several days.  We talked about how it was “ok” to feel these things, but it wasn’t “ok” to act the way he had been acting.  Instead, he needed to find a way to talk with mom or me about it.  As important, I assured him we would do a better job of being available for him, especially during times like these.

I can’t honestly say that I truly understand all that he must have been feeling or thinking in his little heart and mind.  And frankly, the connection between all of that and his behavior still somewhat alludes me.  But I know that his feelings are very real. 

Amidst all of the tinsel and lights and despite the excitement of being out of school and the anticipation of the gifts and fun of Christmas day, the reality is that my kids – not unlike other kids who were adopted – still have profound losses that cannot be erased and must not be ignored.  And sometimes, even against their own wishes, their past and what they have lost comes crashing in.  Even at happy times like Christmas.

In the face of all this, my job – whether at Christmas, on birthdays, on Father’s Day or whenever – is to always be available for my kids.  To be open and willing to listen and talk, and allow all of who they are to become part of our holidays and special occasions.  As we do this, I realize more and more that rather than taking away from these happy times, embracing them and all of their past allows them to be more fully present – and allows us, as a family, to be more connected as we move forward. 

After learning from my son why Christmas stinks sometimes, I no longer look at Christmas quite the same as I once did.  But of course I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Click here for a PDF of this article published in the December 2011 issue of Adoption Today.

For further reading on this subject (sometimes referred to as “traumaversaries”), read this article — Traumaversaries: Lessening the Impact of Adopted Children’s Annual Triggers.

Watch as Michael Monroe talks about some of his experiences with this, and encourages parents to look beyond the “mad” in order to help their children begin to identify, express and deal with their true feelings of sadness.

Be sure to also read Lisa Qualls’ article, Seeing Beyond Mad to the Real Sad.

In this one hour presentation from the 2010 Tapestry Adoption & Foster Care Conference, Michael & Amy Monroe (leaders of Tapestry) focus on how to communicate effectively and holistically with children about their story and your journey as a family. Specifically, they focus on the importance of nonverbal communication, learning to listen to your child and helping them to find perspective and meaning in your shared journey.

You can also download the slides from this presentation here.

For more Empowered To Connect resources aimed at helping parents discuss and embrace their child’s feelings, click here.

As an adoptive dad, like all adoptive parents, my tendency is to focus on the miracle, blessing and joy of adoption – and rightfully so. These are the undeniably beautiful realities of the adoption journey. But they do not negate the equally unavoidable reality that there is no adoption without loss and pain. Adoption is at the same time born from and a response to hurt, loss and sorrow.

Last night I saw through my son’s tears and heard in his words the deep, heartbreaking grief that lurks in the shadows of adoption. It was an intense sorrow caused by the loss he feels and understands now more than ever before. My son’s grief is for that which never was and for what will never be.

In trying to carefully walk a fine line between honestly telling about our adoption journey and protecting what is, after all, his story to tell, I dare not share the details of what was said. But it was all too clear that he has now come to an age where the facts of his past no longer merely equate to a story that he feels some amount of curiosity, confusion and even sadness about. The books told us this would begin to happen at his age – for some children more than others. And yet, nothing could have fully prepared me for the flood of thoughts and emotions as I saw his grief come crashing in. The loss and pain of his broken past are now more fully his loss and his pain. His heart was breaking and as he cried I felt so helpless – I felt so small. There was nothing I could say and little I could do other than take turns with his mom holding him close and listening, being sure to acknowledge each and every emotion and longing he expressed.

The adoption journey certainly has its share of loss and pain for everyone involved. Our journey to our son has pain and loss, and even grief, but it is not the same as his. In that sense, we share the same adoption with him, albeit from different perspectives, but we do not fully share his same journey. As I held him close I so desperately wanted to tell him that I understood what he was thinking and feeling . . . and God knows I wanted to, but I can’t. Not truly. He knows it and so do I. As a result, all we could offer him was our reassuring presence to help him run toward the loss and pain, not away from it. To help him own the grief that he feels, and to own it redemptively.

As a dad everything in me wants to protect my son from such grief. As an adoptive dad, this grief can appear as an unwelcome intruder seemingly intent on pushing he and I apart – reminding us both of “another” as if to suggest the need for him to make an impossible choice. But I choose to believe that his grief can bring us closer together. By choosing to let go of my desire to hold exclusive claim to my son’s love and loyalty; by choosing to see myself not as an all-sufficient substitute for what he has lost, but rather as an imperfect father dependent on God’s grace to love him well, then, and only then, can I offer my son what he needs most, especially in the midst of his pain and grief.

I find that there is beauty in the pain and I know there is meaning in the grief. As a result, we will do our best to weave this pain and grief into the story that we tell and re-tell, being sure not to miss the beauty or overlook the meaning. But last night as I fought against my instinct to try to make the pain and grief go away, all I could do was hold my son in my arms and reassure him that I love him – all of him. This includes his pain and grief. There was no nice and neat resolution to our time together, no magic words that I was able to speak to make everything better. Instead, as he cried himself to sleep in my arms all I could do was hold him, with his grief, tightly, and remind him that we are both in the arms of another.

This article appeared in the April 2010 issue of Adoption Today.  Click here to download and print the article.

Read the entire article Becoming More Real to My Kids . . .

This talk, entitled Not Your Everyday Conversation: Talking With Children About the Difficult Realities of Adoption and Foster Care, was presented by Michael and Amy Monroe at the 2009 Tapestry Adoption & Foster Care Conference.  The talk focuses on these and other issues in an open and honest way, and provides specific tools to help parents effectively communicate with their children about the difficult realities of their past in order to help prepare them for their future. 

audio recording of this presentation (mp3 file)

You can also download the handouts for this presentation.

We were sitting on the couch just before bed time and I was reading to Grant.  He was only days away from his sixth birthday.

Grant has never been much into ruminating or talking about things connected to his adoption.  He is fairly reliable for a glancing question or parting comment here and there, but in terms of “parking” on the subject, it just never seems to hold his interest.

As we finished up with the story – I think it was one about Jackie Robinson, from a book about heroes – I asked Grant a question I had asked hundreds of times before.  “Anything you wanna talk about?”  This question is typically met with any number of responses.  Sometimes I get “no, but can I play for about 10 minutes before I go to bed” or “can we read one more book instead?”  At other times he will throw me a disjointed question about something that happened earlier in the day at kindergarten, assuming all the while that I was there with him and am fully up-to-speed on all of the background and details necessary to have the slightest clue what he is asking about.  And every once in a while he will pitch me a curveball – some deep, metaphysical question about God or a fanciful question about heaven.

But instead, this night he bent his head back and looked up at me revealing large tears forming in his little brown eyes.  As his lip curled down and the tears began to roll down his cheek he exclaimed as he exhaled “I miss my birthmommy.”

That was certainly not what I was expecting in response to my routine question, but looking back I am reminded that being an adoptive parent is often anything but routine.  Trying to hide my surprise – after all he rarely seemed interested in chatting about adoption and certainly had never shown any emotion about the subject – I switched gears to try to meet this important and special moment with the degree of empathy and careful thought it most certainly deserved. 

I quickly prayed silently that God would give me the right words to say and then replied, “Grant, tell me what you mean.”  As he began to talk about some of the thoughts and emotions that had clearly been knocking around in his head and heart, it became crystal clear to me what I already knew – all kids who were adopted have questions from time to time.  Not some, all.

As we continued to talk the questions came fast and furious.  It was as though he had determined to unleash all the ‘zingers’ he could in a single moment – as if to see whether I had been reading up and preparing to rise to such an occasion.  “Do you think she misses me?”  “Why didn’t she keep me?”  “Do you think she loved me?”  “What did she look like?”  “Does she have other children?”  “What do you know about my birthfather?”  “Will I ever get to see her again?” And on and on.

We chatted for more than 30 minutes, and yet, far from being scary or intimidating, it was one of the most beautiful moments Grant and I have ever shared in our journey as father and son.  Measuring my words carefully so as not to minimize or maximize his history and being careful to be honest about what little I know and the much more that I don’t, I met each question Grant had as an opportunity to both inform and empower him with what is, after all, his story.  At the conclusion of this truly special chat his tears had receded and mine were now flowing. 

As for the details of my answers, you are free to ask Grant but he may or may not tell you.  The details of Grant’s story are for him to tell if and when he wants to – that is if you can pull him away from the computer or coax him back inside from playing in the backyard.  Chances are if you ask he may not be very interested in chatting with you about it.  It just doesn’t seem to be on his mind all of the time.  But make no mistake, he does think about it – and next time he does I pray that he is more confident than ever before that his dad loves him and loves chatting with him about his incredible story.

For more thoughts on the special moments dads can share chatting with their kids about adoption, read Chatting With Kids About Adoption.