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 2nd 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.