What I wish the world knew about special needs adoption

What I Wish The World Knew About Special Needs Adoption

I’m not even sure our son Levi qualifies as special needs adoption.  His cleft lip and palate have been repaired thanks to an amazing team at Johns Hopkins.  There is nothing wrong now. But for the first 2 years of his life he couldn’t really speak and he couldn’t really hear.  So now he is a spunky 4 year old super hero loving boy who talks all the time but apparently I’m one of the only ones who can decipher his speech.  This makes life difficult.  For him.  And me. 

He is in a 4 year old preschool class and he’s spoiled rotten and he kicked and hit his teacher today.  I am mortified typing these words.  There are no excuses.  There is no denying that he knows better.  It has been a terrible day (for me). 

But when his teacher said that he needed a behavior plan and that they would be monitoring his progress and that she knew being nonverbal was part of the issue, well my eyes filled with tears.  They spilled over.  I, again, was mortified.  He is not this moment.  This is not the truth about my boy.  He is not nonverbal.  I must admit he does kick and hit when frustrated.  So do I. 

I can’t help but think about my friends parenting children with deeper special needs, because we all are special needs if you want to know the truth.  We all have a unique character gifted from our Creator and we all need others to have open hearts and open hands and open minds to who we are.  My boy should not kick and hit his teacher when he doesn’t want to go to circle time.  And I should not feel defensive.  I should not want to justify his behavior, to remind his new teachers that his story is unique.  But I do.  Please, world, please know that my boy doesn’t want to kick and hit and lash out.  He is sweet.  He cuddles.  He is stubborn.  You have no idea what his beginning looked like.  I’m not quite sure you (or I) could stomach it.

 

Here’s the deal, dear world.  When you adopt a child that doesn’t look like you at all people automatically question.  Or they automatically assume that you helped this little life.  Not true.  In my case for sure my babies rescued me.  Infertility is a terrible, horrible, painful, long slow death.  Peering into the eyes of a sweet soul destined to belong to me healed wounds that went deep.  And although my belly never swelled with their heart beating beneath it, they are mine.  Born in my heart.  Birthed in blood, sweat, and tears of despair, hopelessness, and finally , finally light dawning with God’s plan for our “hope and future.” 

So what I want his teachers to know is that if he does it again he won’t get his Ipad.  Shit’s getting real, y’all.  And what I want his teachers to know is that you don’t have to talk louder to Levi.  He can hear you.  He’s doing his best, but using this relatively new gift of a long and smooth palate is tricky for him.  He really wants to please you but he is also a determined son of a gun. How else do you think he survived the indescribable moments of his early childhood?  I want you to know that he is creative and he loves praise and he sings all the time and sometimes or a lot of the time I wish he would stop asking me questions.  And please don’t label him as nonverbal.  Just because you can’t understand him doesn’t mean he isn’t communicating.  And I also know you’re doing the best you can but I still want to make it better for him and for all the others who feel like their kids are problems and who are in IEP meetings and advocating and feeling worn out and it’s only the 2^nd week of school for goodness sake.

Sending love and light to the moms and dads and teachers deep in the trenches—know that you are doing good.  Know that you are important.  Know that no matter what happens with your baby God is holding you close to his heart.